The Twisting

by Laurel Wanrow

  Annmar described his Knack and the actions he used the best she could. “He said his talent only worked on human Knack-bearers, but it didn’t work on me. My threads kept his from entering my skin, which I think is why I felt so confused. He can’t tell if it works, because when I pretended it did, he believed me. He also complained Basin dwellers don’t try new things. That’s not what I’m seeing at Wellspring.”

  “It’s true for most of the Basin,” Mary Clare said. “Remember I told you the old Creator chapels that grew into marketplaces are the most progressive?”

  “Then Mr. Shearing isn’t from one of them”—she drew a breath—“because he hates ’cambires.”

  Mary Clare’s eyes widened. “He said that?”

  “Well, he said the wildlife are holding back progress. The way he said it made it clear how he feels about them.”

  “Oh.” Mary Clare bit her lip. “You got that right. Calling ’cambires wildlife is the worst sort of insult. It’s like calling them dumb animals or brainless.” Mary Clare tapped her head. “I can’t remember where those pockets of ’cambire haters are, but my granny tells stories of their attacks. Do you suppose he hates ’cambires because his Knack doesn’t work on them?”

  Annmar raised a finger. “I bet you’re right. I wonder what makes them different.”

  Mary Clare snorted. “Practically everything? I can’t believe you’re asking that. You’re human and his Knack didn’t work on you, and neither could you fully use your Knack on him.”

  “Not until I used this.” Annmar pulled the glove from her left hand and pointed to the knuckle of her middle finger. “You can’t see it, but wound around this finger is a fungus fiber from a rock I found when Old Terry took us to the tunnel.”

  Mary Clare’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Like the ones she bound you with?”

  “The same. With some experimenting, this one bound Mr. Shearing into sleep so I could leave his side and dress.”

  They grinned at each other. “Good trick,” Mary Clare said, “but why is it on your finger again? What’s holding Mr. Shearing there now?”

  Annmar shrugged. “Modesty. I sent his clothes out to be cleaned. All his clothes.”

  Mary Clare gave a wicked laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t just leave him bound.”

  “I didn’t know how I’d release him if I wasn’t there to collect the thread. The constable might have tracked me down if they found him comatose.”

  Mary Clare nodded slowly. Annmar replaced her glove. “We’ll be at the station in a few minutes. Hopefully, that other freight isn’t there.”

  “Our machines will get on, Annmar, one way or another. Things always work out, my ma says.”

  Annmar looked out the window to again assure herself Mr. Shearing wasn’t following. “How was your visit with Mary Alice?”

  Mary Clare grinned. “She took me to one of their clock client’s houses. I have a job in the woman’s kitchen for this winter, after the assistant cook has her baby.”

  * * *

  Derby

  Daeryn cinched the tie-down strap over the speeder’s frame, glad the task kept him turned away from the mice scurrying under Derby’s platform in the faint early light. A snack would fill his yawning belly, but even without Mr. Yates’ warning he couldn’t risk changing here. The city unsettled him. Tall buildings. Too much strange machinery. Barely a tree, rock outcrop or patch of soil in sight. Worst were the smells—the same city taint Annmar had arrived with covered everything.

  Metal clanged in the distance, and his hackles rose again. Damn, the noises were increasing. Daeryn forced his body to stay human and fingered the paper in his pocket with the name of Mary Alice’s street. In minutes they’d be free to search for Annmar across this waking city—

  “That’ll do,” Rivley called across the flatbed, and came around the end with the railroad worker who was helping them load the speeder for return to Mr. Yates.

  “It’s a beaut,” the man said, sounding a bit envious.

  “So are those,” Rivley replied, pointing to Master Brightwell’s two Harvesters sitting on a flatbed.

  Along with the rail worker, Daeryn turned to the Harvesters. He hadn’t wanted to draw attention by asking about the two machines on the adjacent track. Trust Rivley to come up with a way to do it naturally. Of course, the avian wasn’t lacking for sleep. Not that Daeryn would have slept anyway, but being hungry and tired on top of his overloaded sense of smell made his ’cambire side harder to control.

  The man snorted. “Now there’s a case of misconceived appearances. Word around town is them ain’t worth a fig, yet some lady paid cash to have them hauled here. And for what, I ask you?”’

  No, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Annmar came to Derby and some lady was shipping the Harvesters.

  “Huh,” Rivley answered as expected. “What?”

  “To pay more good money to haul them clear out to Gapton. Immediately, she wants them. Ain’t no room for a good day, though they didn’t bother telling her that when they took her money. We got bets going for which train they’ll be on.”

  “Which is paying the highest stakes?”

  “Five thirty. Forty minutes from now. You want in?”

  Rivley pulled out his cash.

  Daeryn turned away to hide his smile. Smooth. Rivley placed a wager, then upped it, opening the flood of information: The stationmaster was a stickler for protocol, but the lady had already arrived to wear him down. “The others are listening in over yonder, some to guard their bets, others all ears for clues how to work him for future needs.”

  Annmar is here. Thank the Creator, this couldn’t be easier.

  The rail worker waved to the platform. Daeryn headed for the group at one end while Rivley thanked the man.

  A feminine voice filtered past the other travelers arriving and purchasing tickets. “And if there’s no sign of the booked transport?”

  That lady trying to get her freight on board wasn’t Annmar. This woman sounded confident. In charge. Dammit, they would have to look for her after all. Daeryn turned to tell Rivley as much just as he caught up.

  “How do you suppose Annmar paid for the shipping?” Rivley whispered.

  Ahead of them, an exasperated man said, “Ma’am, they aren’t due for another half hour.”

  “I’ll increase my compensation fee for that booking to take a later train.” The lady’s tone was refined and firm…and Annmar’s.

  Daeryn wanted to smack himself. He craned to see around the capped heads, listening intently. He couldn’t match his sense of her with this voice of a mature Annmar Masterson, a woman who didn’t hesitate to tell these people what their course of action should be.

  Did she have two forms, like a ’cambire?

  “We absolutely cannot do that to our best customer,” the stationmaster said to her. “Regardless of the cash you offer, his crates will be loaded.”

  “Blasted things,” muttered a loitering worker. “Best I can say about those animals is they don’t stink.” Another grumbled his agreement, waving a bandaged hand.

  “If this…stock gives you problems, why not accept an easier shipment?” Again, her voice conveyed the assurance that she offered a logical solution.

  “Because I don’t pay attention to the complaints of workers who drop a client’s goods.” The stationmaster gestured to a broken crate tossed off to the side with other rubbish. “What I do is make adjustments to meet the needs of all parties. Since a man was bitten, we don’t allow them to bring the crates until a quarter hour before departure. I am trying my best to satisfy your request…”

  Daeryn let the stationmaster’s droning appeasement slide off, as his damned alpha ’cambire urged him to run to Annmar’s side. His need to protect her warred with his acute awareness of the strange surroundings. Not just Outside, but a city. With city rules, not Basin rules. He had to follow those rules to keep all of them safe. Besides, he was no more in charge of Annmar than he was Rivley. She was doing fine taking
care of herself.

  So he waited, making a study of the broken crate that contained animals. The slats had been gnawed. Like the vegetable stalks at Wellspring. He stepped closer and sniffed. These animals have no smell, and they bite. It didn’t take a genius like Master Brightwell to put this one together.

  “Gobblers,” Daeryn practically shouted, drawing looks from those nearby.

  Annmar whirled. Their gazes met and her eyes lit up. A spark of excitement ran through him. It was good to see her, safe and well. But her familiar face was the only part of her resembling the girl he’d escorted to Market Day twenty-four hours ago. The rest looked better. Too much better. With his nose unable to provide that usual sense of her, Daeryn’s gaze skimmed the tendrils of brown hair curling from under her hat, her creamy cheeks, the swell of her bosom, her narrow waist and flare of blue-green skirt hiding her legs, then returned to those lush curves before meeting her blue eyes.

  The desperate urge of wanting coursed through him just as a kind of mask slid over her face, like it’d done when she’d seen him with Maraquin. He’d lost her.

  She turned back to the freight window. “Please remember, my machines are here,” she said. “I have paid and am willing to tack on a compensation fee in addition to a handsome tip when my machines are loaded.”

  Annmar knew what she was doing, fitting far better into these city environs than she had in Blighted Basin. Clearly, she belonged here. Still, Daeryn didn’t move while she thanked the man and turned again, presenting a stunning figure in those clothes. Whatever punishment she had decided to dole out to Shearing must have worked. Instead of looking like she needed help, Annmar seemed confident. A farm guard could never ask her to return to Blighted Basin with him. Yet this woman was looking his way while speaking with Mary Clare, whom he hadn’t noticed at the edge of the dispersing group.

  Rivley must have seen her, too, because clicking slipped from his throat.

  Daeryn elbowed him, and the telltale ’cambire sounds stopped, but Rivley shoved him a few feet toward the building with a muttered, “Come on.”

  “Where are we going? I want to talk to her.”

  “I bet on the Harvesters shipping out on the five-thirty train. If these workers see us with Mary Clare and Annmar, they might think we’re cohorts.” The avian ducked around the corner of the station.

  “Of all the…fine.” Daeryn managed to catch Mary Clare’s eye and jerked his head toward where Rivley hid, then joined Riv on the deserted side of the station.

  Daeryn tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, sure as anything in his life that he better not touch Annmar. Not here in the city, even dressed in his cream shirt, best trousers with the matching waistcoat and borrowed cap that supposedly everyone must wear. It wasn’t Mr. Yates’ warning—enough of the workers and travelers had brown skin for him to mix in—but Annmar just didn’t seem the same here.

  He resisted peeking around the corner and listened instead to their advancing footsteps. Slow down. Think through your words. And though he’d told himself he would start with a nice greeting—like, How are you?—when she rounded the corner, his heart jumped and what came out was, “What are you doing here?”

  Annmar swallowed and gave a slight shake of her head.

  Her scent wafted to him, her earthiness, the dye of the new clothing and…something else he’d smelled before. But rather than spend time trying to identify the scent, he had to sort if he’d been dismissed.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mary Clare. “She’s making me leave. Just as the visit was getting started.” She sounded wistful.

  “It can’t be over soon enough for me,” muttered Rivley from beneath his lowered cap.

  Mary Clare was leaving, but what about Annmar? Daeryn wanted to demand—no, ask for—an explanation from her, but just as he got the wording right, Mary Clare sidled closer to Rivley.

  “Riv? How are you? Recovered from the tunnel?” She trailed her fingers down his arm, tender concern written across her brow.

  How the hell Riv thought the two of them were done was beyond Daeryn’s understanding.

  Rivley nodded…and didn’t brush away Mary Clare’s hand.

  “We came to get help for Mistress Gere. We’ve halfway succeeded.” She nodded to the Harvesters. “You can fix them, can’t you, Rivley?”

  “If we can manage to ship them back.” Annmar sighed.

  “Yes—well, we’ll try. Even if it’s too late for our harvest, someone south can use them.”

  Daeryn snorted. “Damned cheerful way to put that,” he said. Annmar must have made some sort of deal, but not necessarily with Shearing. How she’d managed to obtain the money to ship the machines wasn’t as important as getting them on the train. He stepped closer to her and dropped his voice. “We overheard there’s some conflict with loading because of stock shipments. That crate”—he nodded to the rubbish, one broken slat showing a black stenciled G. S. G. in a sheep drawing—“wasn’t broken, but gnawed. Like our crops. Our pests are coming from here.”

  Annmar covered her gaping mouth. “Someone is purposefully transporting them?”

  “We’ve got to stop them,” whispered Mary Clare. “But how?”

  “First, we stop this shipment,” Daeryn said. “If we can find it.”

  “The warehouses are along the river.” Annmar pointed. “I can’t be sure that’s where the delivery will come from, but it’s as good a guess as any.”

  “I’ll find it,” Rivley said from behind them. He whirled and stormed off to where they’d loaded the speeder.

  chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  Annmar stared after Rivley. He’d gone the opposite direction from the warehouses she’d pointed to… “He’s going to fly, isn’t he? I’m not sure that’s safe here.” The men carried guns, but she didn’t want to say that aloud.

  “Nothing is safe here,” Daeryn muttered. “For us. I can’t tell Riv what to do, but I’ll fetch his clothes, just in case. Meet me in the direction of those warehouses.”

  Mary Clare threw up a hand. “Not Annmar. She’ll draw attention walking down those crummy little streets dressed like that. I don’t think we want people to take notice of us.”

  “True,” Annmar said. “I’ll wait here.” She gestured to a bench tucked against the station wall.

  Daeryn searched her face. He opened his mouth, but then pressed his lips together.

  Between them, Mary Clare chewed her lip. “Should I go with Daeryn?”

  Annmar waved them off. “I’m fine here. I’ll keep a watch for those crates. If you miss them, I’ll delay them in some way.”

  “I think you’ve done all you can with your fancy gown and money.” Mary Clare shrugged. “Nice, but neither impressed the stationmaster.”

  Annmar glanced down. Alone, it’d taken her forever to fasten the line of pearl buttons the jacket mostly hid. And for what? “You’re right. Physically stopping that delivery is our only chance now.”

  Mary Clare tucked her arm into Daeryn’s as if she’d been doing it all her life. Annmar swallowed. She wished she was the one holding his arm. Daeryn shot a look at her, his mouth opening and closing again, and finally gave her a nod. He pivoted Mary Clare, and they walked off the platform.

  Annmar sighed. He wasn’t acting the same toward her as he had in the Basin. Was it the gown, or could he smell she’d been with Mr. Shearing? Her heart ached, but soon she’d know if he was willing to hear her out. And if he was, would the forthright Daeryn accept her reasons for the sneaky exploits?

  She watched until they disappeared toward the industrial district. Then Annmar found the ladies’ convenience and began to struggle out of the wretched clothing.

  * * *

  It’d been harder than Daeryn believed possible to leave Annmar alone on that platform, but he wasn’t her alpha, or her mate. He had no right to make decisions for this city woman. Besides, Rivley breaking Mr. Yates’ rules was enough worry. But it had to be done to protect Wellspring.

  He tightened his arm a
round Rivley’s shirt and trousers. “We have to hope Riv spots it.”

  Just minutes down the street, a sparrowhawk’s repeating call sounded overhead. Mary Clare squealed and waved.

  “Less than two blocks,” Daeryn said. “That’s close.”

  Rivley swooped before them and landed in a doorway.

  Thank the Creator that at this early hour the street was deserted, so only he and Mary Clare witnessed Rivley’s change.

  “There’s a steam cart next street over.” Rivley yanked on his trousers, grabbed his shirt and pulled it on while leading them at a run up an alley. At the corner, he took his boots and shoved in his feet while Daeryn peered around the brick edge.

  The cart was moving slowly, but almost upon them. “Blast it. We have only minutes to stop it.”

  “I can do that,” Mary Clare said. “Missing cat. Works every time. Then will you hit him?”

  “What? No. I-I…I’ll fool him like I did with Mr. Shearing. Riv, help me find a stick.”

  By the time they had one, Mary Clare had the operator off and peering beneath the undercarriage with her. Daeryn poked the bit of wood to the man’s back and marched him up an alley.

  Mary Clare brought a rope that had tied down the crates. “On your knees,” she ordered, and when the man hesitated, she added, “Damn it, now.”

  To Daeryn’s surprise, she did a decent job tying and gagging the man.

  “The swearing was a nice touch,” he told her as they returned to the cart and Rivley.

  “Just getting into character.”

  “Where did you learn the knots?”

  She sniffed. “My pa.”

  “And how to gag someone?”

  She eyed him. “Don’t ask. And if you dare to mention this to my ma, you’re dead meat, Daeryn Darkcoat.”

  He raised the stick of wood. “Are you kidding? I’m in way over my head by myself.”

  Rivley had the cart’s engine shut off and the housing open. Without the hiss of the steam, a loud snapping and snarling issued from the dozen long, low crates stenciled with G. S. G.