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Hinterland g-2

Page 14

by James Clemens


  “My sister’s son,” Lorr said. “Kytt.”

  Brant’s nose crinkled even more. Dart suspected that if Brant had had fur, it would be bristling right now.

  Kytt held out a hide flask. “I’ve fetched the musk secretions and had the alchemists dilute it in yellow bile as you ordered, Tracker Lorr.”

  “Piss and musk?” one of the giants mumbled. “Mind me never to share a drink with these two.”

  Lorr accepted the flask. “Musk from a fox will carry a scent far.” He bit the stopper free and decanted the flask’s contents down the hole. “We’ll see where this leads us.”

  He stood up and tilted his head slightly as if testing the air. He remained like that for a long breath, then stirred again.

  Lorr stepped away and waved the younger tracker ahead. “I will let you know what I discover.”

  Brant stepped forward and blocked them. “I would go with you. The Fell wolves were my duty. I will not forsake it.”

  “Too late for that, it seems. Besides, there have been enough mistakes this day. We need no one who smells of the Huntress muddying up the trail with his bumbling.”

  Brant refused to move. Only his shoulders tightened, ready for a fight.

  Dart failed to understand the layers of friction that lay beneath all this posturing. She knew that Brant hailed from Saysh Mal, the cloud forest and god-realm of the Huntress. But what difference did that make to Lorr? She stepped to intervene-and not just to settle a peace between them.

  “I would like to go with you and Kytt,” Dart said. She should be safe with the trackers, and where they’d be searching would surely be away from the more traveled areas of Tashijan. Also, if she wanted to hide, it might be best to keep moving while doing it. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d let Master Brant come with us.”

  Brant nodded to her, but his countenance remained far from grateful. “The whelpings know my scent,” he added. “It will be easier for me to lure them from hiding.”

  Lorr glanced between Dart and Brant. His senses must have been heightened enough to suspect layers of intent beyond Dart’s words.

  The tracker finally shrugged.

  “Then let’s begin this hunt.”

  A RUMOR OF DAEMONS

  “Welcome to Tashijan,” the warden said.

  Tylar gripped Argent’s hand across the threshold to the new accommodations granted him at Tashijan.

  “I assume these rooms will meet with your satisfaction,” Argent ser Fields said. His fingers tightened on Tylar’s, not in a friendly manner.

  Tylar matched his grip and kept his gaze fixed on the warden’s one eye. The plate of bone over the other reflected the firelight from the chamber behind Tylar’s shoulder.

  “You are most generous,” Tylar responded. “Any of the rooms in the knights’ quarters would have sufficed.”

  “Ah, but you come with all your Hands in tow,” Argent said, still holding tight. “It wouldn’t be right to allow someone who arrives like a god to be housed in so low a manner.”

  Tylar’s jaw ached from biting back harsher words. The past bell had been a chaotic flurry of high-blown flattery and barely contained resentment, most of it voiced by the warden himself. But Tylar kept his tongue civil. Especially since beyond the warden stood representatives of all of Tashijan: Master Hesharian of the Council of Masters, various leaders of the shadowknights’ castes, even Keeper Ryngold, who oversaw the house staff and underfolk. They had all escorted Tylar’s party down to their rooms, which took up almost all of this level, an embarrassing generosity in such overcrowded conditions. Tylar was sure the warden had let it be known to all how well the regent was being accommodated.

  “A private feast is scheduled at the next bell,” Argent finished, relinquishing his hand. “After you’ve all had a chance to refresh yourselves, I’ll send my man to escort you and your Hands down to the dining hall.”

  “Most generous again,” Tylar choked out.

  Argent turned with a nod of his head and waved the escort down the hall ahead of him. The remainder of the party from Chrismferry had already retired into their respective rooms. Delia had come close to slamming her door in her haste to escape her father’s stiff and false affection.

  The only one left in the hall was Tylar’s ever-present shadow, the Wyr-mistress Eylan. She stood stoically, almost bored.

  “Keep any ears from this door,” he instructed.

  She gave him a barely perceptible nod.

  Tylar closed the door behind him and leaned against it, glad for a moment’s peace. But he wasn’t alone. He turned to find four people arrayed near the back of the room, three maids and a manservant, resplendent in fine liveries. Their dress was a match to the room itself, as if their clothes had been cut from the heavy draperies. The remainder of the main chamber was equally grand, appointed in rich silks, tapestries, padded chairs, and a hearth tall enough to walk into upright, presently ablaze with a cheery fire.

  The switch-thin servant bowed deeply, then straightened. “Welcome, your lordship. We’ve already discharged your bags. If you’ll show me which dress you’d like to wear to the feast, I shall do my best to freshen and brush them.”

  Tylar waved them off. “That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer a few moments of solitude. If I need anything, I will send for you.”

  “Ser, your bath has not been-”

  “Not necessary,” he said with a bit of a snap. He was immediately ashamed at his harshness. He knew better than to vent his anger upon those who sought only to fulfill their duties. He calmed his voice. “Most welcome, but that will be all.”

  With another bow, the manservant herded the maids amid much curtsying out a narrow door that led down to the staff quarters. A silk-wrapped pull-rope hung beside it, ready to summon assistance when needed. Tylar had no intention of tugging on it while here.

  Once alone, Tylar sighed. Though his empty stomach growled, he had no great desire to attend the feast. His nose, though, did note the platter of hard cheeses and steaming bread set atop a table by the hearth, along with a silver flagon of spiced wine. Maybe there was some small gain in being a visiting regent.

  He stepped toward the platter.

  A knock on the door stopped him. He closed his eyes against yet another interruption. What now? Rubbing at the stubble on his chin, he turned from the hearth and crossed back to the door. Eylan surely would have blocked any stranger from disturbing him. Perhaps it was Delia, reappearing now that her father had vacated the halls.

  He pulled open the door and found himself mistaken.

  A knight in a damp shadowcloak stood at his threshold. “Tylar.”

  He stepped back. “Kathryn.”

  The castellan had been notably missing from the formalized greetings after the hard landing atop Stormwatch. And while Tylar had wondered at her absence, he was pleased at the exasperation it had caused in the warden. He lifted an arm, inviting her inside.

  She brushed through the doorway, barely meeting his eye.

  Tylar closed the door. He studied her as she crossed to the hearth. She looked paler than usual, but maybe it was the cold. She lifted both palms toward the fire. He noted meltwater dripping from the edge of her cloak. A few wet hairs had worked free from her riding braid and were pasted to her cheeks.

  She spoke to the flames. “I have Gerrod and two of his fellow masters examining your flippercraft’s mekanicals. If there was any sabotage or misdeed, they should be able to discern it before you return to Chrismferry.”

  Tylar relaxed the slight stiffness to his shoulders. So that was why she had been missing earlier. He had feared a part of her absence might be some discomfit with his arrival.

  Relieved, he approached her. “The captain believed it was the stress of burning too much blood,” he said. “Or perhaps some weakness in the alchemies. Either way, the failure was most likely happenstance and not anything malicious-but it does warrant investigation.”

  She nodded.

  Tylar reached her side. The he
at of the hearth finally drove her back a step. Or maybe it was his own nearness. She moved to one of the chairs and examined the platter of small fare with a bit too much intensity.

  “Kathryn…?” he started softly.

  She picked up a piece of cheese, then returned it to the plate. “I assume you know Rogger arrived two days ago. With the god’s skull.”

  “I got your raven,” he confirmed, not pressing her. It seemed such topics were easier for the moment.

  “Gerrod’s been examining it in secret and has already come up with some answers.”

  “So soon?”

  Kathryn frowned, as if the question somehow rankled her. “He has a mind like no other.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said softly. “What has he discerned?”

  Kathryn slowly outlined all that the master had discovered, sketching out his speculations. As she continued, Tylar’s interest drew him nearer to her, brows pinched in concern.

  “Seersong?” he asked as she finished.

  Kathryn glanced at him, meeting his eyes for the first time, as if testing an icy stream before jumping in. She spoke with a firmer voice. “That is what Gerrod suspects. An echo of some curse still trapped in the bone.”

  “And Krevan came looking for the skull, too. Strange.”

  “I suspect he’ll be back. But whatever has driven him here, he seemed reluctant to talk openly about it.”

  Tylar shrugged. “Well, Krevan was never known to be garrulous.”

  His words drew the faintest of smiles from her. It always amazed him how her entire face could soften with just the smallest of movements. He found himself staring a bit too long at her lips, reminded of a different life. It was now his turn to glance away.

  “We’ll simply have to outwait Krevan,” he mumbled.

  Remembering his empty stomach, he plucked up a bit of dry hardcrust and chewed an edge.

  Kathryn studied the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Your Hands? They are settled into their rooms?”

  “Indeed. Argent has given practically this entire level to house all of us. Why do you ask?”

  Kathryn waved away his words, a bit brusquely. “No reason. It’s just…I’m sure Dart will be thrilled to see her friend Laurelle again. She’s still your Hand of tears, correct?”

  Tylar nodded. “The girl practically filled the flippercraft’s hold with gifts and sweets for Dart. Insisted that her arrival be a surprise.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Where is the child, by the way? I thought she’d be at your side.”

  “Off to class-though by now she might have returned to her garret off my hermitage. I should be returning to my rooms myself. To change for the feast.” She shook her head sourly and stepped toward the door. “This game we must play…”

  Tylar suspected the game she referred to involved more than just the feast to come. He noted a trace of anger directed at him, but he was unsure how to assuage it. Sometimes women were as impenetrable as the most complex of alchemies.

  Before Kathryn could reach the door, a knock sounded.

  Kathryn glanced at him.

  He shrugged. He was not expecting anyone. “It might just be Delia,” he offered.

  Kathryn’s face closed up, eyes tightening. “Then I’d certainly best be going,” she said stiffly and strode more quickly toward the door.

  Tylar suddenly understood. Kathryn’s discomfort and veiled antagonism-maybe the alchemies involved here weren’t that complex. He recalled her tentative question about the Hands, inquiring about the rooming arrangements. She must have somehow gained word of how close he and Delia had grown over the past year.

  “Kathryn-”

  A gruff voice called through the door. “Is anyone going to open this door or do I have to pound my knuckles raw?”

  It was not Delia.

  “Rogger,” Kathryn said, half-irritated, half-relieved. She stepped to the latch and pulled open the door.

  The thief barged in. He was dressed in a servant’s livery, though it fit poorly, being too large and bagging hugely over his lean form. He must have been in some hurry to wear such a makeshift costume.

  “So you’re both here! If I’d a known that, I could’ve saved a thousand stairs at least.”

  “What’s wrong?” Tylar asked, responding to the man’s anxiety.

  “It’s that godling child!” Rogger practically shouted.

  “Hush,” Tylar said. “Hold your voice.”

  Kathryn touched Rogger’s elbow. “What about Dart?”

  “Maybe the two of you had better stop holing up in here-as it is, people will be chattering about the regent and the castellan. Ballads will be written…odes sung…”

  Tylar felt his cheeks heat up while Kathryn grew even paler.

  “Out with it, Rogger!” he said.

  “What is happening?” Kathryn echoed.

  “The entire Citadel is riled with talk of daemons. Daemons summoned by the castellan’s page. It seems someone has seen Dart’s little bronze friend.”

  “Oh, no,” Kathryn said.

  “Oh, yes,” Rogger said. “The entire Order is being roused to search for her.”

  Kathryn headed toward the door. “I must return to my hermitage.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tylar said.

  “No. Argent will use such talk and rumors to discredit me. He has been seeking some way to shift attention from his own dark deeds with that cursed sword last spring. You must stay clear of all of this. Not just for your sake, but for the peace of Myrillia.”

  Tylar watched her storm from the room.

  Rogger had already discovered the spiced wine and was pouring himself a generous helping.

  “Is there any word where Dart might be?”

  Rogger shrugged. “Vanished. Like her bronze beastie.” He took a deep draught of the wine, then wiped his beard and lips on his sleeve. “But she’d best stay low. Them’s that are looking for her the hardest are those with those handsome crosses stitched on their vests.”

  Argent’s men.

  Tylar paced back to the hearth. “And what am I to do? Just stand here and wait?”

  Rogger lifted an eyebrow. “Best leave the matter to the castellan’s skill. Kathryn has the pace and breadth of the place better than you. And besides, don’t you have a feast to dress for? And you could use a bit of a shave-getting as scraggly as me.”

  Tylar scowled.

  “Or…” Rogger dangled it before Tylar.

  “Or what?”

  “I’m certain your fine feast will be delayed while Argent does his best to bend talk of daemons to his favor. Until then, there was another rumor that was being bantered about before the talk of daemons arose. Something about the storm that blew your flippercraft to port.”

  “What about it?”

  “As the storm struck, it drove all the rats out of the sewers throughout the village surrounding Tashijan. Boiled up, they did. Then they all fled and scurried into our towers and battlements.”

  Tylar shook his head at the strangeness.

  “It is said that beasts of the fields have better senses-if not sense-than any man. Something in that storm set them afoot. And you know what they say about rats. They’re the first to flee a fire.”

  Tylar nodded. “Perhaps such activity might warrant a trip beyond Tashijan’s walls.” And it would be good to be moving…to test the mettle of things here.

  A twinkle shone in the thief’s eye. “I thought you might feel that way.” Rogger tugged up the hem of his baggy shirt and pulled free what was hidden beneath its looseness. He shook out a hooded cloak that had been snugged around his bony waist.

  “You stole someone’s shadowcloak?” Tylar could not keep the shock from his voice.

  “ Borrowed. Besides, you’re getting your own cloak in the morning if all goes well. A cloak to match those triple stripes on your face. In the meantime, a bit of black cloth will turn a god-regent back into a shadowknight. And with all the searching going on for a child and her daemon dog, it should
n’t be hard for a knight and his manservant to slip out the main gates.”

  Tylar pulled the cloak over his shoulders, sensing the Grace flowing through the cloth. “We’d best be quick.”

  Rogger filled his cheeks with bread and mumbled through the mouthful. “Aye to that. The storm grows more fierce as we stand here jawing.”

  Tylar headed toward the door, still ajar after Kathryn’s sudden flight. He wondered how she would fare with the warden-and wondered even more where the godling child had gone to hide. With all of Tashijan alerted, there would be few safe harbors.

  Brant kept to Dart’s shoulder. On her other side, she rested one hand on the haunch of the massive bullhound. The twin giants leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed, exhausted but refusing to turn back until the cubbies were secured.

  They all waited while the two wyld trackers-one young, one old-sniffed through a room thick with dust and rotted furniture, long unswept and forgotten. Brant smelled the musk of rat droppings and heard the skitter of beetles.

  He kept his arms crossed, little satisfied with the pace of the search. So far, they had traversed three levels beneath the houndskeep, trailing the trickle of musky alchemies. Dart had already explained how these subterranean floors were Tashijan’s famed Masterlevels, the domain of the learned alchemists and scholars. But the hole into which the two wolf cubbies had fled apparently emptied into spaces beyond the normal lay of this subterranean warren, into crawlways and tunnels that wormed through these levels, walled away ages ago.

  “Possibly forgotten sections of the original human keep that once stood here,” Dart had explained. “Like the houndskeep itself was once a dungeon.”

  Brant considered that possibility as he waited yet again for the trackers. If Dart’s story were true, what dark purpose might the hole in the wall have once served? Currently it drained away the filth and biles and tiny gnawed bones of the houndskeep’s denizens. But before that? They had all heard tales of the barbarous human kings who had once ruled Myrillia…before the coming of the gods. How much blood had been spilled down that same stone throat from the dungeons, echoing with screams?

 

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