by Stina Leicht
“I think so.” Wouldn’t leaving me here alone break regulation again? Caius bit back the question lest he antagonize his superior once more.
Valarius nodded. “All right. Blow an alarm if anything seems out of place. You hear? I’d rather lose the reward than a cadet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Caius?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Inform Tavian he’s been issued a verbal caution.”
“What for?”
Valarius pointed to the puddle of vomit. “Loyalty to one’s field partner is admirable, but do it again and you’ll both go on report, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Caius said. “How did you know it wasn’t me?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Valarius said, “Patrol Wardens survive on their ability to observe details. And I have been in the field for twenty years, Cadet.”
BLACKTHORNE
NOVUS SALERNUM
THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA
MIDNIGHT
28 AUGUST
THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS
Stylish lamps corralled the Commons park in a ring of protective light. Blackthorne hazarded yet another glimpse at the time, cupping his pocket watch in both hands before releasing the catch. He tilted the black enamel face to better read its mother-of-pearl hash marks and then wiped fingerprints from the cover on a worn sleeve before returning the timepiece to his breeches pocket.
A quarter to eleven. The Lucrosa was late for her appointment. Again.
Watchmen will make their rounds soon, he thought.
A cool breeze tugged at his greatcoat, causing it to flap around his knees. He made no move to pull it closed. Instead, he shut his eyes and breathed in, savoring the dusty scent of dead leaves. Behind the pleasant odor he detected the gritty specter of coal smoke and river fog. Thunder rolled in the distance. The storm it announced might pass to the south or north. He hoped for the south. If it was headed northward, the bad weather would add complications.
He used a passage from the Retainer’s Code to calm his nerves. The ideal Retainer lives in the present. The present is where control lies. The past is of no consequence, and the future does not exist.
When he was a Cadet Warden, he’d volunteered for evening patrols. His partner had thought him mad. Most preferred to make their rounds during the day, expending a great deal of money and influence to do so. It was but one of the many differences between him and the rest of the Brotherhood.
That life is finished. And you would not want to go back, even if you could. As was too often the case lately, he couldn’t decide whether it was reassurance or justification. The past is of no consequence. The future does not exist. The greatcoat pulled tight across his shoulder blades. He stopped stretching to avoid ripping the back seam. It wouldn’t withstand yet another round of his inexpert stitching, and it needed to last him through the winter.
The insects abruptly stopped their singing. The stench of grave dust deposited the taste of tin in the back of his throat. He knew the creature—the malorum—was there without hearing or seeing it. He always did. He tried hard not to consider why. It was a useful skill. One he told no one about, because doing so would endanger his life.
The monster risked a full moon? Is it because there’s a storm coming? There was no knowing why, really. Malorum were unfathomable.
Holding his breath, Blackthorne concentrated on blending in with his surroundings. His stomach tensed, and a tingling sensation crawled over his scalp. Discarded leaves strewn on the grass snapped into sharper focus. Behind and to the right, he sensed the malorum relax. Using gradual movements as he’d been trained to do at the Warden’s Academy, Blackthorne settled a shoulder against the trunk of a large oak tree and laid a hand on the hilt of his knife. At the edge of his vision, a spindly form ventured from the shadows. Dressed in rags and a floppy hat, it toed moonlight like a reluctant swimmer testing the water. The outstretched foot was misshapen and coated in spiny fur. Lurching on two crooked legs, the creature limped closer. Then it passed behind a cluster of trees. The metallic taste flooded Blackthorne’s mouth, and he fought an urge to spit. Inching his dagger free of its sheath, he listened to the stealthy crunch of its offbeat step until it reemerged a few paces away.
It drew in a sharp breath when it spied him.
He launched himself at it with his knife drawn, driving it to the ground. The thing’s hat fell off, and a patch of moonlight hit the malorum full in the face. Its nose slits snapped shut, and the too-wide mouth tightened in pain. The creature’s visage blurred, and an old Eledorean male with pale hair struggled beneath him in the grass. For a moment, Blackthorne couldn’t breathe.
Oh, Mithras. It’s Esa.
“Have mercy.” The words rasped through too many teeth.
When Blackthorne didn’t react, the creature let out a piercing discordant cry. Blackthorne trapped its howl with his forearm. The malorum bit down, and a bolt of pain shot up Blackthorne’s left arm. The malorum struggled, and a muffled scream pressed against Blackthorne’s skin. He rammed the silver-laced blade under the creature’s chin. Its hide resisted the knife for an instant before the blade sank home. Elph-black eyes bulged. Blackthorne gagged on both the stench of the malorum and the horror of what he’d done. Cold blood spurted from the wound, soaking his clothes.
In Mithras’s name, why did the thing have to choose Esa?
Drunken singing echoed off the ancient city wall and down the street—rich toughs staggering their way to a fashionably coarse alehouse or salon.
Swiving hells. That’s all I need. Fighting revulsion, Blackthorne trapped the malorum with his body until the creature finally stopped twitching. Then he rolled off and crawled back to the oak tree. Resting his back against its trunk, he sat between the roots and attempted to get control of himself. His arm was agony. A deep voice called out.
“You there! You are in violation of Senatorial Safety Edict number three seven five. Please return to your homes at once or face arrest for curfew violation.”
Curious, Blackthorne peered around the base of the oak for a view of the street. The drunken rowdies had halted, and a woman dressed in loose black clothing had positioned herself between her charges and the Watchmen. There was no need to look for the black fur trim on her coat. Her air of lethal expertise was enough. Someone within the group could afford to employ a titled Retainer.
The Watchman with the lamp gave her proffered identification a bored glance. The Retainer tilted her head down by way of a curt bow. Blackthorne knew she would’ve kept her eyes on the Watchman. No well-trained Retainer would do otherwise.
“My patron appreciates your concern for his safety and would like to express his gratitude with this donation.” She tossed the Watchman a small cloth bag that clinked on the paving stones.
Silver. Not paper or pewter, I’ll bet. Blackthorne’s estimate of the group’s worth increased.
The Watchman bent to retrieve the bag, and the exchange reached its standard conclusion. The two Watchmen continued their rounds. With the exception of the Retainer, who scanned the Commons for potential trouble before proceeding. No one had so much as glanced in Blackthorne’s direction during the entire transaction. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. When he returned his attention to the malorum, he saw it had resumed its original form.
Esa is dead, Blackthorne thought. Malorum steal images from the minds of those nearest. Images with strong emotional resonance. You know this.
He waited until his hands had stopped shaking before cleaning and sheathing his blade. Checking the wound, he saw the left arm of his greatcoat had been shredded, but not so badly that it couldn’t be patched. The bite burned and throbbed up to the elbow. Blood oozed down his arm, tickling as it went. He felt above the wrist and found a broken tooth lodged in the bite. He shoved up the tattered sleeve and pinched the fang out of his own flesh with stiff fingers. Then he retrieved the Acrasian soldier’s pack he’d left at the base of the oa
k and searched for the vial of antivenom he’d mixed himself. As he stooped to open the pack, he felt cold wind toy with the fresh rip in the back of his coat.
He sighed and in resigned frustration applied the medicine to the wound. He waited until he felt the concoction begin its icy work. Then he returned to his pack for a bandage. With his coat in rags and the Eledorean wastelands in his near future, there was nothing he could spare. So, he resorted to cutting his shirttail. Once the bandage was secure, he hid the dead malorum under a pile of damp leaves. He purposely avoided looking at its face during the process. Straightening, he wiped his hands on the grass and then checked the time. A quarter past twelve.
It was obvious the Lucrosa wouldn’t keep her appointment. He’d have to remain in Novus Salernum until another meeting could be arranged. It would be a great risk, but his orders were explicit. For reasons he wasn’t significant enough to know, the Eledorean boy named Tobias Freeson was important. Unfortunately, the barkeep at the coaching inn had begun to ask uncomfortable questions. Blackthorne didn’t have any coin to spare for a bribe. That meant that soon the landlord would report him, and Blackthorne’s forged identification papers weren’t going to hold up to an official inspection. The way the situation was going, Freeson would cost contacts it had taken him months to cultivate.
Blackthorne bit back his frustration and forced himself to settle once more in his chosen waiting place. Calm yourself. You cannot afford mistakes. He would remain for an hour and then return to the coaching inn.
It wasn’t long before he heard two sets of footsteps echoing down the street. He paused, focusing on the sounds. With a sick twist in his gut came the knowledge that Lucrosa Aurelia was one of the two who approached. He shouldered his pack and skirted the edge of the clearing in the middle of the Commons park until he came to a more advantageous position.
“He’s not here. I told you we shouldn’t have waited to say goodbye to your sister.” Lucrosa Aurelia’s aristocratic voice came from the trees to Blackthorne’s left.
“Shhh,” Tobias said. “Get out of the light. If there’s a Warden near, he’ll see us.”
Blackthorne waited a count of one hundred. When it was clear no one followed, he shifted to a place where he could observe the pair. Aurelia, he knew. This Tobias Freeson, however, was another matter. He’d never met the boy before.
Freeson removed his tricorne hat, dropped his heavy pack and then scanned the clearing with a worried look. The angular marks of elpharmaceutria ancestry were plain in his face. However, that was where the influence of his lineage ended. He was broad-shouldered and solidly muscled. Pure nonhumans were becoming a rarity in the city, but Blackthorne had been told to expect a full-blooded elph, not a quadrane or a semivir, and he’d made his plans accordingly.
Mentally, he cursed his superior, the Lucrosa, and every Eledorean god he could name—which, all told, wasn’t that many, since Eledoreans kept such things secret.
“You’re late,” Blackthorne said in a quiet voice frosted with irritation. He reached into his greatcoat for the established token—a signed letter outlining their agreement. Most of it was a lie designed to deal with questions no one actually wanted answered.
The Lucrosa paused, staring at what was in his hands before she retrieved the document. Again Blackthorne waited while she examined the letter with some difficulty in the dim light. Then she returned it without touching him. If she could’ve managed it, he knew she’d have looked down her nose. He understood her attitude for what it was—a futile attempt to assume authority in an uncertain situation. He had done it himself often enough when younger. As if that was all that long ago.
A lot can change in a year, he thought. And it had.
“What assurance can you give that Tobias will be safe?” She exaggerated the tones of Regent Street in her voice.
Blackthorne remained unimpressed. “None. You’ll have to trust me.”
She sniffed as if she smelled something unpleasant. Given that his clothes were stained with malorum blood, he was relatively certain she did.
“I don’t like you,” she said. “How do I know you didn’t steal that letter? Who’s to say you won’t hand him over to the Brotherhood?”
Tobias raised a hand. “Aurelia, don’t.” He measured Blackthorne with his elph-black eyes.
Blackthorne knew what Tobias would see—a human face with the coloring of Gens Aureus. Skin somewhat darker than that storied gens tended to favor, but passable nonetheless. Grey eyes, small scar in the right eyebrow, black hair tied back with a ribbon, angular features shielded by a mustache and goatee. He was only nineteen, but the beard did a good job of hiding Blackthorne’s age. All in all, he would appear respectable, if a bit rough. Tobias would accept the exterior without question. Everyone did. And then Blackthorne’s confidence in his disguise was abruptly shattered by a tingling sensation so powerful that not only did it make his skin crawl but his stomach tried to heave itself up his throat as well.
Magic. He fought panic. This Tobias Freeson has magic.
Tobias gasped. “You’re not human.”
Struggling to keep his face blank, Blackthorne swallowed. Only noble elpharmaceutria wield domination magic. There’s nothing to fear. This one is only a peasant.
And what if he isn’t? Are you willing to take the risk?
Is this why Slate wants Freeson?
“What are you?” Openly curious, Tobias took a step closer.
“Late.” Blackthorne stood his ground, using impatience to bolster his courage and deflect the question. “Can we start? I would rather not miss breakfast in addition to supper.”
Aurelia’s brows pushed together. “Wait one—”
“It’s all right,” Tobias said. “I’ll go with him. He can’t possibly be a Warden. He’s one of us.”
Blackthorne bit down a denial.
“But how will I know you’re all right?” she asked.
Tobias shrugged. “I’ll send you a message as soon as I can. I promise.” He paused and fidgeted with the hat in his hands. “I guess this is it.”
Blackthorne watched the two stand in awkward silence before Aurelia disrupted it.
“I hate this. Who am I going to get into trouble with when you’re gone? I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish I could go with you.”
Tobias nodded in misery and stared at the pewter buckles on his shoes.
“It’s not fair.” She started to weep.
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Tobias pulled out a handkerchief. “Shhh. It’s okay. Once I get to Eledore, I’ll send for you.”
“The Haunted Lands.” She sniffed and accepted the cotton square from Tobias. Wiping her eyes, she smiled through the tears. “What an adventure! Wouldn’t that make Father furious?” She laughed and hugged Tobias. When she stepped back and blew her nose, a shadow from a tree branch made a blindfold over her light-colored eyes.
Blackthorne surveyed the woods while Aurelia and Tobias finished their parting words. When they were done, Aurelia handed a folio of sterling notes to Blackthorne with a forlorn hiccup.
Tobias stooped to grab his pack.
“Leave it,” Blackthorne said.
Tobias gaped. “But … I can’t.”
“We had an agreement, and the agreement stated there was to be no baggage,” Blackthorne said. In his anger, Regent’s Street slipped into his voice.
Aurelia tilted her head as if noting it.
“You have a pack; why shouldn’t I?” Tobias asked. “I won’t leave without my books. I haven’t finished researching—”
“I thought you were a journeyman blacksmith,” Blackthorne said, not quite making it a question.
“I’m to be a gunsmith,” Tobias said. “Well … I will be. Once I’m out of Acrasia.”
An elph with such knowledge would be considered a great danger to the Regnum—one who wields magic even more so. Slate’s orders and choice of courier suddenly made terrible sense. Anyone found in possession of Tobias and those books would no
t merely be punished for attempting to smuggle a registered nonhuman outside of Acrasian borders—they’d die a traitor’s death. Blackthorne hid his shock at Slate’s ruthlessness by turning his face away. He tucked the money folio inside his greatcoat and fought a sense of betrayal. Who else can Slate afford to lose? Who else can he trust to withstand any amount of torture?
The reply that Blackthorne forced up his throat was terse. “You carry them. I won’t.”
Tobias hesitated before giving Aurelia’s cheek a bashful peck. She gasped and then impulsively returned the kiss full on the lips. Blackthorne walked away, trusting Tobias would follow.
A freezing wind poured down the street, carrying old paper in its wake. Blackthorne shivered. One corner of a seditious one-sheet pasted on a wall fluttered and flashed its bold and hopeless declarations at the empty street. It was the same call to action Blackthorne had spied in various places across the city. Its twin was hidden deep inside his pack, an added offering for his superior. He walked the cobblestone street with bold purpose. It was an old burglar’s trick—a Warden wouldn’t fall for the pretense, but a casual observer might. Tobias caught up with him. Unfortunately, it became apparent that he wasn’t following Blackthorne’s example. He skulked from shadow to shadow, exuding terror with every movement.
When Blackthorne reached the corner, he whirled, grabbing Tobias’s arm and yanking him into the moonlight. “Walk as I do, or I’ll put a collar on you.”
“I’m a freeman. Who do you think you are?”
“The man who was paid to get you out of Acrasia. I have no preference as to how.”
