“Come on,” Jerinne said. “Let’s move now.”
They made their way to a door that led outside, with a short stone path to a set of barracks. Beyond that building, there was an open clearing, on the other side of which Jerinne could see backhouses and glimpses of water past the tree line. If any guards were out here, they’d have to just run and hope for the best.
Sister Frienne glanced about, and dashed from the door to the barracks, hiding on the far side of it. She waved for Jerinne to follow.
Jerinne was about to move when she heard the sound of horses and carriage in the other direction. She saw it coming down the drive path, with Quinara at the reins. She stayed crouched in the doorframe, watching as the carriage came to a stop. Quinara hopped down and opened the carriage, where two goons pulled out a couple of men with sacks over their heads. Even with the sacks, Jerinne recognized those two men.
Hemmit and Maresh.
She looked to Sister Frienne, who was desperately waving to her to run.
She shook her head. It was one thing to escape to get more help, but there was no chance she would abandon Hemmit and Maresh to these people. She was a Tarian, and she knew what her duty was.
* * *
After a carriage ride where Hemmit had lost all sense of direction and time, they came to a stop and were pulled out. Hemmit was certain they were out of the city. Dirt under his feet, the sound of singing insects, and they definitely were in the carriage long enough.
The woman barked out a few orders, and rough hands grabbed him and took him inside somewhere.
“Maresh!” he yelled. “You all right?”
“Right here,” Maresh said.
“Shut it,” someone told them. He was forced into a chair, and his hands bound behind him. Once he was secure, the sack was pulled off his head.
His eyes adjusted to the light—sun still streaming in the windows—he saw he was in a large warehouse work floor. The far end of the room had tarps covering large devices and huge wooden planks stacked against the wall. In the center of the floor, five carriages sat without horses, and a series of lockboxes were lined up in front of the carriages. Ten people—bound, gagged, stripped to skivs, and blindfolded—were kneeling on the concrete floor, as a dozen armed men paced around them. It didn’t take long for Hemmit to realize these were the stolen ballots.
Some of their captors stood out. There was the woman with her hatchets, wearing a fur-lined coat that seemed unseasonably warm for this hot summer. There was a man stripped to the waist sitting off to one side, rubbing oil on a leather whip. And oddest of all, a man in a Tarian uniform. Hemmit didn’t recognize him, but given his relaxed ease in this situation, Hemmit quickly decided he was someone he didn’t want to know.
“So these are the journalists,” a voice said behind them. The speaker walked in front of them, an older man whose bedraggled, exhausted appearance and unkempt beard and hair were in sharp contrast to his fine tailored clothes, with matching waistcoat and cravat. His accent was Acoran and educated. “What newssheet are they from, Quinara?”
The axe-woman shrugged and pointed at Hemmit. “Answer him.”
“The Veracity Press,” Hemmit said.
The older man shrugged. “Serviceable enough, I suppose. So I’m told you two will tell our story to the city. That’s just what we need.”
Hemmit glanced over to Maresh, who gave an expression of curiosity. “All right,” Hemmit said. “Who are you and what is this about? I assume you absconded with the Scallic ballots for a reason.”
“We did,” the man said, coming in closer. His breath was heavy with the stench of rotten beer. “Admittedly, it is not in service of our goals, not directly. Which is why we need you to tell our story.”
“And you are?” Maresh asked.
“My name is Mister Valclerk. Until recently, I was the chief of staff for the Honorable Member of Parliament, Erick Parlin. I served in his offices for seventeen years, since he first was elected, and I have been deeply proud of the work we did together. I was . . . we all were . . . deeply troubled by his death. Not only for our own, personal connection, but what it meant for Acora.”
“I’m sure he was a good man,” Hemmit said. In truth, he had found Parlin to be something of a feckless twit—often talking a good game for the Salties, but then being just as much of a pampered dandy as many of the other members of Parliament.
“We lost the true voice of the people. They voted for him, and he was taken from them.”
“All right,” Maresh said. “So how does that connect to the Scallic votes?”
“We were thwarted,” Quinara said. “We just wanted to get the Acoran votes, but those children kept us from them.”
That brought more questions to Hemmit’s mind. “So, why are you so concerned with the Acoran votes?”
“Because they’re illegitimate,” Valclerk said. “I reject the premise that they can elect someone new—most likely a Traditionalist—to take Erick Parlin’s chair, which is his for three more years!”
“But he’s dead,” Hemmit said.
“But what he represented is not! That chair should speak for his views, vote as he would have. And if we had gotten the Acoran votes, we would have been able to stop that before the ballots were tallied and certified. But we failed.”
“So the ballots from Scaloi were our only option,” the Tarian said.
“Wait a minute,” Hemmit said. “You’re Acorans, yes? How does this fit the goals of the Sons of the Six Sisters?”
“The who?” Valclerk asked.
Maresh posed the obvious questions. “Aren’t you the Sons of the Six Sisters?”
“No, we’re not,” Valclerk said. “Why would you think that?”
“We’re the Deep Roots,” the Tarian said.
“They’re Deep Roots,” the man with the whips said. “I just thought the job sounded fun.”
“Then why did the Sons of the Six Sisters warn us that they were attacking the Acoran ballots?”
That silenced the room for a bit.
“What are you talking about?”
“We got a letter from the Sons of the Six Sisters, telling us that they planned to attack the Acoran ballot wagons. We told Dayne, he told the other Tarians, and off they went to stop it.”
That got a reaction. The Tarian screamed, and then stalked off and punched the wall.
“Someone rutting warned them?” Valclerk snarled. “Who the blazes did that?”
“I didn’t do it,” Quinara said.
“None of us did that!”
“Did that rat Pria do it? Never trust a mage for hire, I’m telling you!”
“I don’t know who did it, but—”
“It doesn’t matter!” Valclerk shouted. “It’s done, over. All we can do now is keep moving with our plan. And here’s what’s going to happen.” He walked over to Hemmit and poked him in the chest. “You, young man, are going back to the city, and there you are going to put out our statement. Get it in the hands of your friends in the Tarians and the marshals and whoever else. This one is going to stay here as leverage.”
Hemmit swallowed hard. These people were unhinged, and any wrong word could get him or Maresh hurt. “What’s your statement?”
“We have the Scallic ballots and the authenticators. We will trade them in exchange for the official results of the Acoran election, to not accept whatever pretender has laid claim to Erick Parlin’s seat, and instead name a proper proxy to hold his seat and vote in his name until his chair is properly up for election.”
“And who would this ‘proper proxy’ be? You?”
“If asked I will serve. But I will accept any Acoran who represents the interest of the people and the party.”
“And what happens if they refuse?” Maresh asked.
“At midnight,” Valclerk said, pointing to the ten capt
ives. “They will all be executed, and the ballots burned. We already have them all doused with lamp oil, so it’ll only take a spark to light them up.”
That set off cries and whimpers amongst the captives, who were otherwise unable to articulate their fear.
“Now,” Valclerk said. “It’s already three bells, so we only have nine hours to get you back and—what is that?”
“What?” the Tarian asked, coming over to Hemmit.
“It looks like a . . . thread of light coming out of him,” Valclerk said. He went behind Hemmit. “It is! Very faint, out of his wrist!”
“Magic!” the Tarian shouted.
“That magic-spinning bint!” Quinara shouted. “She must have connected herself to him. She’s tracking him!”
“What do we do?” Valclerk asked.
“I know what to do,” Quinara said, and the sack went back over Hemmit’s head.
* * *
“I lost it!”
Lin had clutched Amaya’s waist so strongly when she shouted that, she almost made her throw up, which was not something she needed when driving her horse at a full gallop down the eastern highway. She pulled the reins and stopped.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, but the tether is gone,” Lin said. She flailed her hand fruitlessly. “Nothing.”
“How could that happen?” Amaya didn’t mean to make that sound like an accusation, but it surely did. She couldn’t help the anxiety in her voice. Jerinne had been taken hours ago, and the best lead to find her just vanished. The girl was her charge, her responsibility, and she wasn’t there for her.
“If they spotted it?” Lin said. “Maybe they could have done something to sever it.”
Dayne had gotten his horse turned back around and reached them. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ve lost the connection to Hemmit. I can’t track my way to him anymore.”
“How could they sever it?” Amaya asked.
Lin was in tears. “I tried to make it as faint as I could, but my skills are all about light . . .”
“They had a mage at the party,” Dayne said. “Perhaps he could have done it.”
Lin nodded. “Possible. There might also be mundane ways. The tether was connected to his wrist, so just—oh dear saints.” She started to gag.
“What?”
“If they cut off his arm!” she said.
“Let’s hope they’re not complete savages,” Amaya said. Dayne got his horse close so he could take Lin’s hand.
“What else?”
“Cover it in iron or some other metal, submerge it in water, maybe something else. I was not a good theory student!”
“All right, all right,” Dayne said. “How close were we to him? Could you feel that? Before you lost it?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Close. Half, quarter of a mile.”
“All right, what’s up this way?” Dayne asked, looking to Amaya. “Some farms, a fishing village, the house of the baron of that village, a sawmill camp, a hunting lodge, a weather post, and then you reach Dondiren . . .”
Amaya thought for a moment and dug into the saddlebag, pulling out the marshal’s file on the Deep Roots. “Maybe we’ve got something here that will help.”
“Hunting lodge?” Lin asked. “I mean, that’d be off the highway a ways, out of sight.”
“Wait, wait,” Amaya said as she thumbed through the marshals’ notes. One name jumped out. “Is that sawmill camp part of the Faltor Wood and Lumber Company?”
“I don’t really know,” Dayne said. “It’s possible.”
She scanned over the page. “The marshals think Curtis Faltor has sympathies with the Deep Roots. They suspect he helps fund them.”
Dayne looked down the road. “Then maybe camp is a safe haven for them.”
“It’s as good a guess as any,” Amaya said. “I think it’s the best chance.”
Dayne nodded. “You’re right.”
“Then let’s ride,” Amaya said. She closed the file and put it back in her saddle bag. There was one other thing that caught her eye before she had put it away. There was a note written on the file—different ink, different handwriting—underlining Curtis Faltor’s name, and then the words “Ask SA about the list.”
Amaya kicked her horse to a gallop, and Dayne did the same with his. Right now, it only mattered to find Jerinne and get her safe. She could worry about Faltor and whoever “SA” was another time.
INTERLUDE: The Mage
SILLA ALTARN RARELY had cause to wear her gray and green Intelligence uniform. It was the sort of thing one only put on for official or ceremonial functions—not daily operations. But today she wore it as a victory banner, with new colonel’s stripes on her collar as proof of her domination. She strode through the halls of the Central Office. After months of organization, of moving pieces around, of favors and promises and agreements, she had won.
She was now the highest ranking mage in Druth Intelligence, and now she had a seat at the Colonel’s Table, the commanding body of Druth Intelligence. She was probably the most powerful woman in the country not to have noble blood in her veins, too.
An impressive feat for a skinny orphan from the impoverished bowels of Marikar, until her innate magical talent plucked her away from a future in gutters, slums, or back alley brothels. Every day she pushed herself throughout her education, mastering her craft and skill in magic. She embraced the debt owed to the Red Wolf Circle, taking thankless assignments in Intelligence and humbly accepting the praise and promotion she was given.
She had embedded herself in all the dark corners of power she could find. The Hierarch of the Brotherhood of the Nine had given her connections and influence like she had never dreamed. Intelligence was foolish enough to give her access to disgraced agents and rogue telepaths, crafting a spiderweb of power centered on her. She heard whispers that the fools calling themselves the Grand Ten needed a Mage, and she provided herself.
Clandestine power, secrets, and collaboration had opened the doors. Legitimate power was now handed to her. The keys to the kingdom, and the purses to match.
“What do you mean reassigned?” she heard shouted from one of the offices as she walked to her new one. “I have evidence that Liora Rand is alive and operating in Maradaine. I have agents in the field. I was barely able to untangle the local election corruption with what I have, stopping those fake ballots for Undenway! And you take my teams away from me?”
Altarn chuckled wryly to herself. Major Grieson was going to be a problem. For a while she had seen him as beautifully corrupt, maybe even a kindred soul. He had made his bones in the Central Office nearly fifteen years ago with the Innetic Project, his operation to keep the Waish throne away from clans opposed to Druth interests. That had made him the golden boy for some time, and he had coasted on that prestige. She had thought he had a certain darkness, a corruption in his spirit she could exploit. But it had become clear that Grieson was actually an idealist at heart, almost as pure as Lady Mirianne’s Tarian lover. So she took a certain childish glee in the fact that her final moves to endgame in the past week had castrated him in here.
Plus she did not need him finding Liora. Her tasks were far too critical to the Brotherhood and the Hierarch. Liora had finished her job with Lord Henterman, like she had with Alderman Strephen, and once she was fully recovered she would move on to the next name on the list. The last thing she needed was Grieson sticking his perfect chin into that business.
As Altarn reached her office, Ebbermin, the young lieutenant assigned as her admin, handed her a file. “Morning, ma’am. For your final approval.”
“Thank you, Ebbermin. Tea with cream and honey, and three pastries, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She sat down at her desk and looked over the folder. This was it, the fruit of her labors. The bud
get, the approvals, the operatives and authority—all of it.
Now she was free to shape Druthal into the magical superpower it was destined to be. Now she could set the pieces for the next game: Ithaniel Senek would be able to finish his twisted experiments, the High Dragon Crenaxin would have his zealots, and Lord Sirath would be made whole again. Soon the Brotherhood would have the knowledge and power they needed.
All of that would come, as her plans entered the second phase. Starting with the Altarn Initiatives.
Chapter 25
THE ROAD TO the logging camp led off toward the river, with enough trees and underbrush to keep the camp hidden from sight from the highway. A good location for a secret base of subversives. Halfway down the road Dayne got all the proof he needed that they were in the right place—two guards with crossbows.
“Hey, you—” one of them said when they approached, but that was all he got out before Amaya charged her horse at him and hammered her shield into his face. The second brought up his weapon and fired at Dayne, but it clanged uselessly off his shield. Amaya threw her shield at him, knocking the man senseless.
“That was a bit aggressive,” Dayne said as she dismounted.
“Can’t have them alerting the camp,” she said, dragging the two men over to the edge of the road. “Do you have a better solution?”
Dayne shook his head, but he didn’t want to do this by smashing in with weapons and maiming people. Dismounting, he said, “We should leave the horses here and scout on foot. Get a feel for what we’re looking at.”
“Probably looking at more than the two of you can handle,” Lin said. “No offense. This is clearly the place.”
“Just the two of us?” Dayne asked. “You can—”
“I’m no good in a fight, Dayne.” Lin started to breathe faster and heavier, holding a hand to her chest.
Shield of the People Page 29
