“My price,” Jack said, his voice gaining a businesslike quality, “is merely a holder.”
“A holder?” Haake began to laugh. “Just a holder? For all that?” He watched as a sparrow with three eyes and four wings fluttered down toward him. He imagined grabbing that bird…how it would feel in his hands. He could feel the softness of its feathers and the rapid staccato of its tiny little heart as he crushed the life out of it between his palms. The thought made him laugh harder.
“Just a holder,” Jack affirmed, seemingly unperturbed by Haake’s mirth.
Imagine that? A family—a whole family—for a pittance? The man was mad, surely. Still, though, what if he wasn’t? And could Haake really throw stones in that particular glass house? He thought not.
Haake fished around in his pocket, sure that what money he might’ve had would’ve been lost ages ago and was surprised when he pulled out a fat gold coin.
He held it up before his eyes, studying the image of the decapitated mermaid that was embossed upon it. Wasn’t there something he was supposed to be remembering? Something about mermaids?
“Just a holder,” Jack coaxed, and Haake forgot about whatever it was he’d been trying to remember. He held the coin out to the old man, who took it.
“Thank you, Mr. Haake,” he said reverently. He pulled open his coat to drop the coin into an inside pocket, and as he did, Haake caught just the faintest glimpse of something glowing red within the dark depths of the man’s clothes, as if he had a piece of burning coal tucked away in there. Of course, that was ridiculous.
And then it was gone; Jack was gone, and Haake was lying alone in the branches of the tree.
Something twitched in his hands, and he looked down to find that they were wet and red with blood. The crushed and mangled remains of a three-eyed sparrow fell from them to land on the ground below with a very small, very pathetic thud.
Marcom
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marcom glowered down at the white blossoms where they lay, gathered together with gold ribbons in fastidious bundles, on the sitting room’s one tiny table. It was blasphemy, he thought, that these flowers with their beautiful, fragile petals should be laid out with such care and attention during these times of death and disaster. It was indecent. Worse, it was cruel.
The air was thick with their perfume, and he already wished this meeting was over. He felt uncomfortable and awkward clad in his heavy armor and seated on the delicate finery of the divan. Why the deuce did the mistress always insist upon meeting with him in this room of all places? He hated every inch of it, from its fine furnishings to the pervasive aura of wealth and vitality that permeated every lavishly adorned corner. There had been a time when he hadn’t minded it all so very much; there’d been a time when he hadn’t even noticed it, come to that. Now, he found it all distasteful and oppressive.
The door swung open, and he heard the swish of Marianne’s skirt and the gentle tread of her feet upon the floor before he saw the woman herself.
Her attire was more subdued today than he’d seen it in years. Her blouse and skirts were made of heavy linens that had been dyed with complex patterns of dark earth tones, accented here and there with deep shades of muted reds and oranges. She seemed tired—almost frail—as if she hadn’t been sleeping well of late. Perhaps she hadn’t. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and lines stretched across her face where Marcom had never noticed them before.
She swept across the room and perched on the edge of the armchair beside the divan, clasping her hands in her lap and leaning toward Marcom with the same unsettling intensity she always had.
“Progress?” she asked, dispensing with any pleasantries, though her voice was as melodious as it had ever been, even speaking that single word. He was accustomed to its music, but it never failed to move him.
Marcom shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and dropped his gaze to his knees.
“It’s slow, my lady. We’re chipping the glass off as fast as we can; blasted stuff shines like the bleeding sun during the day, though, so the men have to go slow. It’s damn near blinding if they stare at it too long.”
He hesitated, but Marianne was silent, so he went on.
“Even when we do get it all off,” he said slowly, “the image is still going to be etched into the wall, my lady. There isn’t a damn thing we’re going to be able to do to hide it, short of tearing down the whole bleedin’ thing and building a new one.”
He raised his head to look at her again and caught the flash of anger in her eyes.
“That is not acceptable, Captain.”
Marcom stiffened. “It may not be acceptable, but with all due respect, my lady, those are the facts. I don’t like them much myself, but I’m not in the habit of lying.”
For a moment, Marcom feared he’d gone too far. Marianne’s face paled visibly, and he could see her knuckles turning white as she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap.
But then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and seemed to compose herself. Her shoulders relaxed, and some color returned to her face.
“What of the butcher?” she asked, and though she was outwardly calm, Marcom noted the frostiness creeping into her tone. “Has he been able to provide an account of that morning yet?”
“No. The healer says he hasn’t said a bleedin’ word since he was taken from the street. He’s still alive, and they’ve gotten him to drink some brandy, so I suppose they may have even gotten him to eat a little…” Marcom shuddered involuntarily as his imagination, of its own accord, provided him with an image of the butcher trying to chew food from within the confines of his burnt and mangled face.
“He will speak,” Marianne said fiercely, “and when he does, I want you to find out as much as you can about what he saw.”
Marcom nodded, though he knew Marianne would be losing her interest in that bit of information shortly. He knew better than to try to steer the conversation in any particular direction. And so, he waited.
“What of the reserve forces? Have you summoned them back to Seven Skies?”
“I have,” he said, relieved to be able to give some good news. “The closest regiments should start arriving tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Once you have sufficient numbers, I want you to lead the force into Coalhaven. We will flush out whatever is left of the Dragon’s Brood there and see that they answer for their crimes.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Fine. That is all, then.”
She rose to leave, but Marcom raised a hand to forestall her before realizing what he was doing. He masked the movement by adjusting the patch he wore over the empty socket of his missing eye, cursing himself silently for being so careless.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but there is one more thing.”
It was the first time he’d ever prolonged one of their meetings—the first time he’d ever needed to—and he wasn’t at all sure how she would react.
For a moment, she didn’t react at all but simply stared back at him in surprise. It was, Marcom mused with mild interest, perhaps the most genuine expression he’d ever seen on her lovely, if inscrutable, features. It stripped away some of her enigmatic majesty and transformed her into something more human.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Powerful she may be—a sorceress for certain—but she was as human as he was.
Marianne sank slowly into the armchair and waited for him to go on without comment.
“There was another attack,” Marcom said. “Early this morning. I only just got back from dealing with it.”
Still Marianne said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes. Marcom shifted on the divan, and its old frame creaked ominously beneath his weight.
“We’ve hushed it up pretty well, but people are already asking questions. Rumors are bound to start—”
Marianne cut him off. “What happened?” she whispered, and now there was far less that Marcom could identify as human in her voice.
“Lord Kyran’s daughter
,” Marcom said. “It was hard to get much sense from her, but she was apparently…uh…well, sneaking off to meet a friend this morning…”
In truth, Marcom was fairly certain the girl had been sneaking off to meet a lover, but he wasn’t going to be the one to start that particular bit of gossip. Coira had been through enough for one day. He wouldn’t allow gossip to tarnish her reputation further—not on his watch.
“Likely nonsense,” Marianne said dismissively. “Kyran’s daughter has been telling tall tales since she was old enough to wag her tongue. Doubtless, she was caught—”
“Begging your pardon again, my lady, but she’s not telling tales—not in that way, anyhow. She’s hysterical, but she’s told us enough to be getting on with. The healer’s looking after her now, and he thinks she’ll be able to tell us more once she’s calmed down and the shock has worn away a bit, but he doesn’t think she’s ever going to see again. The bastard used some kind of blue fire to cook her eyes right there in their sockets, and I’d bet my last holder it was the same stuff that roasted most of Tawny’s face away.”
There was a long silence as Marianne digested all of this, and Marcom let her take her time, afraid of pushing his luck any further than he already had. He’d already interrupted her, nearly reached out to keep her from leaving, and contradicted her at least once. He knew from long acquaintance that her patience for such things was limited, but, damn it, these were extraordinary times, and he needed to make her understand. It was his duty; it was what was expected of him as captain of the guard.
“I see,” she said at last, and Marcom breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Coira says that the man leapt down from atop a tall building. She didn’t say which, but judging by where she was found, I think it was the old watchtower.” He paused again, letting that sink in, too. The watchtower was a good eighty feet high, overlooking the ocean near the south end of town. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could be capable of surviving a jump from such a height, but it did tally with the goddamned mural burned into the solid stone outside Seven Skies.
“I see,” Marianne said again.
“My lady,” Marcom said quickly, gathering his courage, “I have to ask. Do you really think this is the Dragon’s Brood? I mean, who in Christ’s name is over there that can wield that much power and leap like he’s got the very devil at his heels? This ain’t no common flyer folk we’re talking about.”
“Oh, it’s them,” Marianne spat. “Them and him.”
Marcom waited, wondering if she’d explain, but she didn’t.
“Is there anything else?” she asked abruptly, her tone almost daring him.
“No, my lady.”
“Carry on, then. You have your instructions. Question the girl when she comes to her senses. Bring any other details she offers to me, and ready yourself to travel to Coalhaven.”
“Yes, my lady.” Marcom rose, grateful to escape the cloying scent of the flowers and the claustrophobic confines of this little room.
Stiffly, he bowed to his mistress and made his way to the door.
His hand was on the handle when Marianne’s voice stopped him.
“Oh, and Captain?”
He looked uneasily back at her over his shoulder.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Coira will be sufficient. Tell the healer he should…” she paused, apparently searching for the word she wanted, “…dispatch the butcher.”
Marcom nodded, and when he was certain she was through, he left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Not on my watch, my lady, he thought grimly as he made his way down the deserted corridor.
Not on my watch.
***
Lord Kyran, despite his reputation, was not a cruel or unjust man. In fact, the most unjust thing about him was simply the way he’d acquired his reputation—by inheriting it, along with his title and wealth, from his father.
Marcom had never known the senior Lord Kyran, but he’d long liked and respected his son, and he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man who led him through the deathly still halls of his lavish home now.
Kyran looked old this afternoon, far older than his sixty years. His fine iron-gray hair—or what was left of it—stuck out in every direction. The lines of his face were deep, and the shadow of beard that darkened his usually meticulously shaven face only served to emphasize his exhaustion, rather than disguise it.
“Thank you for coming, Captain,” Kyran rambled on, turning down a short corridor and starting up a flight of stairs. “I knew you’d want to speak with Coira as soon as she was recovered enough. The healer has given her something for the pain, so she is rather drowsy, but I’m certain she’s well enough to speak with you for a few minutes.”
Kyran stopped on the landing and turned to face Marcom, reaching out and clasping the taller man’s shoulder as if it were the bit of driftwood that would keep him from drowning.
“You must find the man who did it to her,” he said, his face flushing. “This cannot stand. It simply cannot stand.” His eyes, wide and bloodshot, seemed to grow wilder as his voice rose in both pitch and volume. Marcom suppressed the urge to pull away as the man’s fingers dug painfully into his flesh.
“I will find him,” Marcom said with more calm and certainty than he felt, “and finding him starts with talking to Coira.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Kyran seemed to regain his composure and, a little deflated, turned to continue up the next flight, leaning heavily on the rail.
The lord was too old for this, Marcom mused as he followed him up the stairs. It was a wonder that he was coping as well as he was.
They made their way down a short corridor, and then a plain wooden door swung open to admit him. There was no more time to think of pitiable old men and their frailties.
Coira’s chamber was far more spartan than Marcom had expected, judging by the rest of the house. The walls and floor were bare, and the bed clothes were plain affairs that bore no needlework of any kind.
The only color in the room came from a small workbench and easel set up in one corner. A partially completed canvas, displaying a dark purple sky over the rolling waves of the ocean, was propped against it. Was Coira studying painting? If so, he’d had no idea.
The healer, a gaunt and elderly man in robes, nodded to them as they entered and silently slipped past, leaving them without a word.
Coira lay atop the bed coverings, clad in a thin white gown that clung to her small, sweaty form. Thick linens had been wrapped around her head, covering her damaged eyes like a mask. The rest of her face, with its doll-like features, was flushed with fever and framed with what was left of her singed and blackened hair.
“Father?” she slurred dreamily. “Is that you?”
“Yes, my dear. I’m here.”
“The healer left, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Good.” She shifted on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. “I don’t like him.”
“Coira, the captain is here. He’d like to speak to you about…about what happened.”
A small frown of annoyance darkened her visible features, but it quickly faded away.
“Yes. All right,” she sighed, and some of the dreaminess faded from her words. She scooted up higher in the bed, pushing the pillows into a pile and half lying, half sitting against them.
“Hello, Coira,” Marcom said, stepping forward to stand beside her. “Is it all right that we talk? I can come back another time if you’re not ready.”
Marcom wasn’t at all sure he could come back, and whatever he said to comfort her, he really didn’t have the option of leaving until this was done, but he wanted her to feel at ease with him. She’d been through far too much for one day, and now he was tasked with making her relive it all again.
“It’s fine.” She patted the edge of the bed beside her. “Sit here. Sit beside me.”
Marcom did as she asked, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed and feeling
every bit as out of place as he had on Marianne’s goddamned divan.
Coira reached out and found his arm, placing a hand on it. It was such a tiny thing, that hand, and Marcom was surprised by the heat he felt baking off of it and the strength he sensed in her touch. It was a strangely intimate gesture, as if this wasn’t the first time they’d ever spoken.
“I was going out to watch the sunrise,” she said. “I do that sometimes. Sunrises are some of my favorite things to paint, you see. Sometimes, Katherine and the other girls tease me. They say I’m going out to meet a secret love. I don’t tell them they’re wrong, because it’s true. I love the sunrise, and the sky, and the ocean.”
“I understand,” Marcom murmured. His gaze flicked back to the unfinished painting on the easel. The detail was remarkable, from the delicate foam that crowned the waves to the far distant speck of a vessel that rode them.
“I was going to the old watchtower,” Coira went on. “No one goes there anymore. I can climb to the top and look a long way out over the water.”
She hesitated, as though listening to a voice only she could hear.
“It isn’t used anymore,” she repeated, a note of defensiveness in her tone.
“I know, Coira. It’s fine.” Marcom patted her hand where it rested on his arm. She turned it over, her fingers grasping his and squeezing.
“He jumped,” she whispered.
“Who jumped, Coira?”
“The man…I thought he would kill himself. I saw him do it. He jumped from the very top of the tower, from right where I sit sometimes and watch the sunrise.” Her hand tightened on his. “He wasn’t a flyer; they jump sometimes. He was just a man. And I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. It was like I hadn’t any breath. I watched him fall.”
Near the door, Kyran turned away. He stood with his shoulders hunched, facing the wall, and Marcom suspected the man had succumbed to tears.
Haven Divided (The Dragon's Brood Cycle Book 2) Page 9
