by Ron Collins
In order to avoid the guard’s most intense scrutiny, Neuma and Quin Sar had entered the manor yard in the dark hours of early morning. They were simply dressed, merely two citizens come to the manor to barter with the blacksmiths, farmers, and tailors within.
Now they stood in a gathering bidding on pigs.
As hands raised and voices called prices, Neuma watched the guard lead Fil to the privy.
With a sideways glance she saw Quin Sar’s eyes glitter and watched a smirk cross his face. That smirk gave Neuma an understanding of something important. Quin Sar hadn’t actually believed Fil would be able to get into position to cast his spell. He hadn’t thought the plan would work.
Neuma’s mind spun.
Quin Sar stood with a steely gaze. Only a few lines marked his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, and only a single brown age mark appeared on his jawline under his left ear, but he was older than his face let on. She had never considered Quin Sar’s story much. He was a given, Ettril’s second, his right hand—a man who had risen to his peak with careful application of loyalty. But this single expression brought her a new insight. If the superior’s second had considered Neuma’s plan a dog, why would he let it go forward without comment? Did Quin Sar have plans that she hadn’t taken into account?
Her veins ran cold. Maybe she should consider alternate plans, maybe send Quin Sar in alone? No. It was too late to swap horses now. Quin Sar may have plans of his own, but Neuma would press on and play whatever angle she was given when the time came.
This clarity calmed her nerves. She could handle anything as long as she had a plan.
Their angle gave Neuma a good view of the stables, good enough to see the boy, Will, anyway.
He was tall for his age, gangly. His body was mostly elbows and knees. He was assigned to the primary stable, and had gone into and out of the hay room several times with pitchforks full of straw. The boy was concerned for something, though. Neuma could tell it by the way his round-eyed gaze kept returning every few minutes to a specific window high up on the manor.
Quin Sar noticed it, too.
Neuma wanted to know what was in that room, but she couldn’t see into it well enough to get any ideas.
In the distance, Fil left the privy.
She looked immediately to the guards who had been seated just inside the stable. Both lay back, heads lolling against the wall in relaxed sleep.
“Come on,” Neuma said, touching Quin Sar on the thigh, feeling the pressure of the wrist sheaths under the sleeves of her shirt. They stepped away from the gathering, and went to the stable.
Now she was concerned only that Hirl-enat’s part went well.
“Thank you,” Fil said to his escort. “I feel much better.”
The guard proffered a plate of tuna and cheese. “I understand completely. If you would like, you can eat this as we walk.”
“That would be excellent,” Fil replied.
The truth was that Fil felt considerably more anxious now.
The spell was cast. Now the rest of his role consisted of waiting and hoping he didn’t hear the excited exclamations that would mean the plan had failed, for if it failed, things would get difficult quickly.
Daventry hated the idea of giving any Koradictine mage access to the kitchen, better yet a plate of tuna. But Ellesadil had been clear about how they were to greet these visitors. He mopped his forehead with a towel, glancing at the doorway the mage and his escorts had just disappeared through. The door still swung on its hinges. This mage was an odd one, as if any of them weren’t. But this one seemed to be particularly on edge. Understandable, he supposed. Walking into an adversary’s city had to be unnerving. But the mage’s gaze was like a water bug, never seeming to stay anywhere for long.
He shook his head. It was not his problem.
His problem had to do with these carrots that were laid out on the chopping table.
“Caro!” he called, snapping out of his cloud of thought and turning to a young woman who was hovering over an oven. “How many times do I have to tell you that I need the carrots sliced lengthwise today!”
She threw her hands up, but agreed to do them afresh. Daventry grumbled. Kitchen workers were easy to find. Kitchen help, on the other hand …
He stepped outside and headed to the privy.
Neuma stepped casually past the sleeping guards, Quin Sar did the same at her side.
The stable was longer than it was wide, the entrance standing at the end of the longer dimension. The building inside was open and airy, though it still smelled of manure and hay. The stalls were made of wooden beams. Leather harnesses and rakes hung from stakes that had been pounded into the walls. Heat from the horses made the place warmly pleasant after the chill of the open manor yard. The roof was open, and buttressed by spans of rough cut lumber that gave the place a simple, yet powerful feeling.
Two stable boys were attending a mare in the far portion of the stable. One boy was a young lad, maybe six or seven by Neuma’s guess.
The other was Will.
Quin Sar raised a hand and twisted his ring finger into his palm. He whispered magic, and the two boys fell unconscious to the ground.
Neuma moved without thinking.
A flick of the wrist and cold steel fell into her hand. The stiletto slid between Quin Sar’s ribs, six inches of blade protruding into the mage’s chest cavity.
Blood seeped.
Quin Sar’s eyes widened, and he gave a pinched, choking sound as he struggled to get away. But Neuma drove him to the ground, silently stabbing again, and again.
When she was done, Quin Sar lay motionless on the ground, and she panted with her exertion.
“I’m sorry, old man. But you were in the way.”
And he had been, too. Neuma could never truly run the order with Quin Sar alive.
She worked quickly from that point, dragging Quin Sar to where the boys lay, and leaving him beside the youngest. She pressed the stiletto into the boy’s hand. Her wrist sheath needed to be wrapped twice around the boy’s thin arm to get it to stay in place.
The sound of footsteps came from around a corner.
She glanced at the area where she and Quin Sar had struggled. There were obvious signs of the skirmish, but she had no time to clean up that evidence.
She grabbed Will under the armpits and lifted.
The boy was heavy, but she could manage.
She dragged him into a stall and hid behind a stack of bundled hay just as the footsteps rounded the corner. Neuma peered around the stack, set gates, and reached for her link to the plane of magic.
Two more kids entered the building—a young boy and a girl, obviously stable hands.
“What’s that?” the girl said. She strode to where the boy and Quin Sar lay. “Dane?” she said.
The boy caught up to her.
“Dane!”
She reached down and touched the sleeping stable boy’s temple, then yanked her hand back with a sick expression as she saw the bloodied blade and realized Quin Sar was dead. She stammered something Neuma couldn’t hear and backed away with a face that grew more ashen every moment.
The boy looked around.
“Will?” he said. “Will?”
The two looked at each other, eyes growing wider.
“Come on,” the boy said as he grabbed the girl’s wrist. “We’ve got to get help.”
They ran out of the stable.
Knowing she had very little time, Neuma grabbed a rake from the wall and raced to remove the evidence of her struggle with Quin Sar. Four strokes removed the marks made by Quin Sar’s heels as she had dragged him along. There was not much to be done for the thin splotches of blood that littered the area. With luck it would appear a result of random splatter rather than a dragging.
Having done the best she could, Neuma tossed the rake against the wall and ran back to Will. She hefted the sleeping body over her shoulder and cast a quick illusion over herself. The image had flaws, but should be good enough to
keep the unprepared from seeing Will. Her vision tunneled, seeing only the door as she struggled toward it. She shouldered the boy’s weight again. Will’s foot crashed against the doorway as she turned the corner a bit too quickly.
Their horses were in the alley across the street.
Neuma couldn’t help holding her breath as she stepped carefully to the animals.
Her shoulder ached, and it was nearly impossible to get the boy slid up over her horse. But she managed. A moment later, she had mounted up and was leading her animal along a direct path out of the city, the boy still hidden in her illusion, and Quin Sar’s horse following beside.
It was done, she thought. They had the boy.
Nothing else mattered.
Not really.
Ettril would succeed or fail.
Either way, she was ready.
And either way, Garrick was sure to follow.
Coming back to the kitchen, Daventry scratched his head in wonder. The privy had smelled something awful, worse than the normal lavatory smell. It was like a meat locker, reeking powerfully of blood. He didn’t know what to think of it.
It was strange. But, what could he say?
Who would care?
Stepping back into the heat of the kitchen, Daventry glanced at the young man who was cleaning the cookware.
“Clay,” he yelled. “You don’t clean wrought iron with water!”
Yes, kitchen workers were everywhere, but kitchen help …
Chapter 16
Darien, Reynard, and Ellesadil had just seen Ettril Dor-Entfar to his carriage.
The conference that had gone as well as Darien could have conceived. The Koradictine leader had been open and direct, almost charming in admitting his order’s errors, and he had promised to make things right with both the people of Dorfort and the Torean Freeborn.
Ellesadil, too, had seemed pleased with the conversation, and had just asked Darien and Reynard to join him for a post-session debrief.
But now voices echoed from down the hallway.
Darien couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious someone was excited.
“What’s that racket?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Ellesadil replied with a grin. “But last time I heard such commotion, one of the chamber maids had just announced her engagement.”
Footsteps pounded in the hallway around the corner. A girl from the stables appeared, her face flush and her hair flying in all directions.
“Please, Lord. Come quick.”
“What’s wrong, girl?” Ellesadil said calmly.
“It’s Dane, sir. He’s kilt someone. And Will’s gone.”
“Will?” Darien said.
“Yes, Lord. He’s been stolen.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Yes, sir.”
A cold curtain of anger closed over Darien.
“We’ve been duped,” he said.
A darkness came over Ellesadil’s face.
“Ettril should die for this, sir,” Reynard said with cool firmness. “He’s set us up, fed us a line, and stolen Will out from under our noses.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Ellesadil said. He looked at the girl. “You said Dane killed someone?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Despite her obvious effort to tell the story appropriately, the girl’s words ran together.
“I was walking to the stable and I saw the body, and Dane laying all passed out, and the blood. Like I told Daventry, I don’t know where he got the knife, but it was right there in his hand.”
Darien’s heart clenched in his chest.
Reynard’s face set. His glance burned with silent accusation. Garrick wouldn’t have let this happen, that glare said.
Ellesadil held up his hand. “Slow down, young one. How about you just lead us to the stables and we’ll see what we can find out.”
“It’s not your fault,” Darien said, laying a hand on Daventry’s shoulder and biting off his desire to yell at him.
The head cook sat on an overturned bucket used for bringing water into the kitchen. His elbows were on his knees, and his head in his hands. He had just described his experience with Fil and his confusion at the odor coming from the privy.
“I should have said something. I knew something was wrong when I came from the privy, but I didn’t say a thing.”
“It’s all right,” Darien said.
“No it’s not,” Reynard said. “He should have said something.”
Darien scowled at his councilman, and Reynard grew silent.
The kitchen crew stood about.
Daventry owned this room. He was constantly telling people what to do here, how to do it, and when it needed to be done. Now he was distraught, and the crew stood in an informal row, staring slack-jawed, shuffling their feet, and generally wondering what was going to happen next.
“Come on, Reynard,” Darien said, deciding to avoid the further discomfort of chastising his subordinate before the staff. “Let’s join Ellesadil.”
He let Reynard go first.
Reynard left in a huff, pulling his cloak over his shoulders to guard against the wind.
They found Ellesadil knelt over the dead body of a nearly bald man, maybe forty years old. He had been stabbed several times. A bloody stiletto lay in the dirt beside him. A younger boy sat on a bare stool against the wall, dabbing a wet cloth over his forehead.
A mare nickered from a stall, impatient to be fed.
“The boy doesn’t know much,” Ellesadil said. “He says he and Will walked into the stable, and the next thing he remembers is waking up beside this man with the knife in his hand and blood all over his shirt.”
“This cannot be the work of a stable boy,” Reynard said.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Ellesadil said.
Darien knelt beside the lord and lifted one of the dead man’s limp arms, bringing the fabric of his tunic to his nose.
“His clothes reek of Koradictine sorcery,” Darien said. “Daventry reported he smelled the same scent before the kidnapping.”
“What happened to the guard?” Reynard asked.
“They, too, apparently fell sleeping,” Ellesadil replied.
“More improbable coincidence,” Darien added.
Ellesadil nodded grimly.
“We’ve been made fools of,” Reynard said. “Someone has to pay for this.”
Darien stood. “We’ll have time later to argue over what happened, who to punish, and how to prevent it in the future. But right now we’ve got to get the boy back.”
“At least we finally agree on something,” Reynard said.
“We’ll need to discuss strategy.”
“I’ve had enough of your strategy, Darien. We’ll follow a course north because that’s the fastest way back to de’Mayer Island.”
“Their camp was to the west.”
Reynard gave an exasperated sigh. “If they didn’t head directly north, that means we’ll get there ahead of them.”
Ellesadil stepped between both men.
“You are in public, gentlemen.”
Both members of the Freeborn glanced around. An audience of guardsmen, stable hands, and kitchen support stood like children caught stealing sweets.
“Take care of this man,” Ellesadil said to the guards.
He turned back to Darien.
Darien’s face burned crimson with embarrassment. He was tired of Reynard’s constant friction. The mage fought him over every word of every policy. It would have to end, that was all there was to it. When Garrick returned from wherever he had run off to, Darien would speak to him about a replacement. There were others who could do the job. Amanda, in particular, had shown she could keep a calm head in difficult moments. But for now, Reynard was all he had to work with.
“Call your mages together to go look for Will,” Ellesadil said. “Since you’re both right, I might suggest you split in two groups.”
“That’s a good idea,” Darien said. “Call the Fre
eborn to my hall, Reynard. We’ll meet in half an hour.”
Reynard’s glare could have set Darien on fire.
“I’ll do that, Commander.”
Ellesadil put one hand on each of their shoulders, and he turned them toward the government center. He walked between them, pushing each along at a rapid clip. Once they were out of earshot, he glanced back and forth between them both.
“Another display like that, and I’ll see to it that the Torean order is removed from the city. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord,” Darien said.
Reynard merely nodded.
Chapter 17
The woman’s name was Pru. She loved words, and music, and poetry. She had been casting those forms of magic since she was a little girl, and could conceive of no other life.
All this Garrick gleaned from her more lucid ramblings as he followed her directions and carried her through Karasacti’s castle, a monstrous construct of crystal, wood, and glass that towered into the purple nighttime sky.
They came to her chambers.
He laid her down on the bed and drained a thin stream of life force over her shoulder that healed her wound. He had no idea how well his ministrations would hold on this plane. The damage had been great, and her body needed time to recuperate, but her life force was strong around the tiny kernel of the child that grew within her.
He took a seat in a recessed window where he could watch her sleep and take in the prismatic colors of nightfall as it crossed Rastella. His body worked to process the foreign life force he had absorbed. It had a similarity to Adruin’s, but felt more caustic. The flow scrubbed his skin from the inside as if fighting to get out.
He looked upon the night.
The sky was purple and midnight blue, streaked with greenish-black clouds that were interlaced with intense pink and lavender. A pair of moons cast arcs of light across the buildings, creating a cross-hatch of shadows that seemed to shift and weave. The wind, which seemed to never stop on this plane, whipped with a strong force.
Dark figures gathered in the streets below, gazing upward and pointing to the suites where he and Pru were now sequestered. They yelled names and curses. They had been horrified as he strode through town with Pru’s limp body in tow. He had seen their kinds of faces before. He had heard the questions they spat at him. Was he a demon? An insane mage? Or was he merely a bloodthirsty monster unleashed through some legendary force of darkness?
