Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  After all the well wishes had been passed around, the Hands departed to spread the word among the others. Delia paused to touch Kathryn’s arm.

  “I will pass on your greetings to my father.”

  “Please do.”

  Liannora waited at the door, plainly wishing to speak with Delia. If there were any match for that woman, it was Delia. Kathryn waited until the room was empty to step out into the hall.

  She found a welcome figure waiting, leaned against a wall. Another of their dejected party. Master Hesharian had had her friend officially sanctioned for his participation in the subterfuge atop Stormwatch. She was surprised to find him here.

  “Gerrod?”

  He straightened and fell in step beside her. “I heard word of the ploy being set up here. Master Hesharian was never one to keep silent with his gossip-especially if it involved the humiliation of another. And I still have secret allies among his inner circle. Oh, you should have heard what was said when it was discovered that not only had Tylar escaped but he had taken their only weapon against seersong.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Gerrod accompanied her toward the stair. She could hear the smile hidden behind his helmet. “Master Orquell came near to throttling his benefactor when he heard about the skull vanishing with Tylar.”

  “We had no choice,” Kathryn mumbled, suddenly tired. It was a long climb back up to her hermitage.

  With his usual acuity, Gerrod sensed her exhaustion and grew silent, offering her nothing more than his company as they climbed together. She appreciated it.

  Still, as she wound her way up, her worries mounted with each step, stacked one atop the other. Eventually they toppled out. “What if he can’t find the rogues? Maybe it was a mistake…?”

  “Hush. Such thoughts will only drive you into a state of inaction. We did what was necessary. If Tylar escaped the storm, word of our plight has spread. We must do our best to maintain here.”

  “So we wait, hoping for rescue.” She shook her head. “I still wish there was something beyond our defenses we could bolster.”

  “Keeping alive may prove fight enough from here. Our best offense was in breaking Tylar free to seek the rogues.”

  Kathryn was reassured by his confidence in their decision, but little settled. Perhaps her dissatisfaction had more to do with being banished from the inner council of Tashijan. At least a small victory had been won this morning. With Delia admitted to the fieldroom, Kathryn would be kept better abreast of Argent’s plans and defenses.

  At last, they reached the level of her hermitage. She would break her fast with Gerrod, then proceed with her day.

  As she pushed into the hermitage, her maid Penni greeted her in her usual flustered manner. She had the hearth glowing with low flames. A small table had been spread with marbled breads, hard cheeses, and jams. Kathryn thanked the maid, then dismissed her. She knew that Gerrod preferred to keep his countenance hidden in his bronze armor unless alone with her.

  Once Penni vanished down the back door, Kathryn turned to find Gerrod standing, almost shyly, only a few steps from the door.

  “We won’t be disturbed,” she assured him and waved to the low table with the morning fare.

  One arm slowly raised. His voice echoed hollowly out of his helmet. “Kathryn…”

  Gerrod’s arm stiffened with a grinding creak. She stepped toward him.

  “Can’t move…” he said, strained. “Mekanicals freezing up.”

  She remembered when his armor had last grown sluggish. When he’d been exposed to the sapping of the storm, the Grace drained from his armor’s alchemies.

  She heard a scratching behind her.

  Twisting around, she drew her sword and pointed it toward the far drapes. The flames in the hearth damped to embers, then even the red coals dimmed. Cold spread across the room.

  A long, skittering scrape sounded against the windows, dry branches on glass.

  Gerrod groaned behind her, stiff in his armor. “Run…”

  Laurelle wrinkled her nose. She found that Kytt carried a distinct odor about him. A musk, like a boy after a heavy run, only cleaner, with a slightly woody scent. She stood beside the young wyld tracker as he listened at the door. They were holed up in Brant’s room, listening for noises out in the hallway.

  Kytt had taken to sleeping here, watching over the cubbies.

  Barrin lolled beside the hearth, all but blocking the glow with his bulk. The two wolfkits wrestled across the breadth of his form, worming under legs, over haunches, growling and nipping at each other. They still used a pair of the giant’s boots as dens at night and had shredded one of Brant’s shirts as bedding.

  They had seemed to settle well into the space.

  But that was about to change.

  Laurelle had come every morning and night for the past three days, slipping out of her halls and down to where the Oldenbrook retinue made their home. As the towers grew more crowded, this level was also shared by the four men from Akkabak Harbor, home of the Gray Traders. Freck-twist, the god of that realm, tolerated only men as his Hands. He had little regard for women in his realm, seeing them as little more than broodmares. His Hands also gleaned that same sentiment, as if burnt into them by his Grace.

  She heard them pass by the door, grumbling under their breath. She heard Delia’s name, but she could make out little else. Then they were gone. Laurelle suspected Kytt heard every word as clear as if they were in the room.

  “Is it safe?” Laurelle asked.

  Kytt held up a hand. She noted that his fingernails were short, but filed to clawed points. In fact, Kytt seemed all sharp edges: tips of ears that poked slightly through his dark hair, the pointed squint of his eyes, even the hint of wolfish teeth when he allowed a shadow of a shy smile to form.

  Then Laurelle heard it, too. The approach of two others. She was able to make out their words, spoken with little regard to who might hear, so confident in their positions that they did not bother to blunt their rudeness.

  “I can’t believe the regent’s sellwench squirmed her way into my shadow,” Liannora hissed. “She’s certain to be favored by the warden, what with her being Fields’s daughter. I’ll be ignored.”

  Her companion consoled her. “Who can ignore you? You shine brighter than the sun when you enter a room.”

  “Oh, Sten, you can be so simple sometimes. I see how the warden watches her when that grubbing Hand isn’t looking. There’s no outshining family.” Liannora sniffed with disdain. “If only she stepped down or was made to step down…”

  Sten’s voice lowered to a whisper, but by now they were passing the door to Brant’s room. “Missteps do happen. It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.”

  Liannora responded in equally low tones, but by then they had moved on down the hall. A bit of laughter carried back, then after another moment, silence.

  Laurelle pulled her ear from the door. “Kytt, did you hear what that ice queen said? Were they merely speaking tall or were they serious?”

  Kytt shook his head. “Even my ears are only so sharp. Her lips must have been at his ear.”

  “I must find Delia.”

  “What about the cubbies?” he asked.

  She nodded. “We’ll move them first. Like we were planning. Then I’ll seek out Delia and warn her.”

  Kytt strode toward the cubbies, sensing her urgency. “You take the boy. I’ll take the girl.”

  Laurelle nodded. They had a pair of roughspun carryalls, meant to sling babies across a woman’s chest. They would each take one whelping. The plan was to abscond with the wolf cubbies and carry them up to Lorr’s abandoned rooms. Kytt had heard talk among the Oldenbrook guards that some harm was intended them, and as the wyld tracker was not of their realm, he had no real authority to stop them. The wolves remained the retinue’s property.

  So the plan was to get them somewhere safe.

  But thievery was beyond either of their skills. They didn’t know how anyone
from Oldenbrook might respond, so they intended to make the move without any eyes about. The cubbies had escaped once already. It would be easy to explain away another disappearance.

  Laurelle gathered up her carryall and lured the smaller of the two cubbies, the boy, notable for the extra white on the tips of his black ears, with a piece of dried mutton. She had the cubbie quickly bundled and contentedly chewing the salted meat. A low growling flowed as she slung the carryall over one shoulder and cradled the wolf across her chest.

  Kytt had his cubbie, too. He held her back from the door, leaned his ear, listened for another couple of breaths, then nodded.

  Barrin was already on his paws, ready to follow.

  Kytt opened the door and led the way out. Laurelle followed. The bullhound padded after them.

  The hallway was empty, except for one of the knights at the level’s landing. They moved quickly. A door opened behind them. Voices carried. Guards.

  Ducking down, hidden by the bulk of the bullhound, Laurelle heard Sten, captain of the guard, call brusquely toward them. “Who goes there?”

  Kytt shrugged off his carryall and slid it over to Laurelle. He motioned for her to continue. Barrin’s form filled the hall. With care, she should be able to reach the stairs without the guards seeing her.

  She squeezed Kytt’s hand, then sidled low to the floor, close to one wall. Kytt straightened behind her, edged past Barrin, and signaled by hand for the bullhound to keep his place.

  The wyld tracker called to the guards. “It is only I,” he said, though surely the guards knew Kytt. Who else traveled with a bullhound? Plainly they only sought amusement by hassling the young tracker.

  Laurelle reached the stairs, laden with two squirming cubbies, both arguing in low growls through the roughspun at one another. She thanked the gods of the aether that neither of the two barked. The knight at the landing glanced to her above his masklin. She nodded and slipped around to the stairs.

  Behind her, Kytt spoke with exaggerated loudness. “I was just seeing to the cubbies. Making sure they had fresh milk and feed.”

  “A duty you won’t need much longer,” one of the guards said.

  Laughter followed Laurelle out to the stair.

  “Especially with the regent turning arse-end and running,” another said. “No need any longer for two cubbies.”

  “And Liannora definitely could use a warm muff to match her new cloak.”

  “Now that’s a muff I wouldn’t mind slippin’ a hand into,” one whispered.

  “Don’t let Sten hear you say that.”

  More rough laughter chased Laurelle round the stairs. She climbed, her heart thumping and a fire building in her chest.

  “Off with you, then,” the guards barked to Kytt. “Before that dog of yours shites all over our hall.”

  “Or he does!” his companion said. “Look at that nose on the boy. I wonder if trackers use it to sniff each other’s arses.”

  Kytt appeared below, rounding up with Barrin. His face blushed through his tanned skin. He quickly joined her and accepted his burden back. Together, they climbed the seven levels to the floor where Lorr kept his rooms.

  In short order, they had the cubbies behind doors and a fire burning in the cold hearth, and Barrin was again sprawled and already snoring.

  “I should be returning to my rooms.” Laurelle rose from where she had been scratching one of the whelpings on the belly.

  “They are calm with you,” Kytt said, nodding to the cubbie.

  She warmed more than she should have at his generous word. “Dribbling milk over my fingers for the past three mornings and nights was what truly won them over. We had a houndskeep back…back home in Weldon Springs. That’s off near Chagda Falls.”

  “I know where Weldon Springs lies,” he mumbled.

  “Of course you do.” She shook her head at herself. Kytt’s own realm, Idlewyld, lay on the opposite coast of the Fifth Land from Weldon.

  “Rich country,” he said. “Well-forested.”

  “My father owns a thousand tracks. He baited bears and boars with the hounds. I used to sneak off to play with their cubbies.”

  Laurelle shied away from that memory. She had mostly snuck off silently to the cubbies when her father had been beating her mother. Her family did not speak of such matters. Bruises and welts were hid under powder or behind lace.

  Laurelle brushed a hand through her hair. “I should find Delia. Real or not, she should know of the threat we overheard.”

  Kytt stepped to the door. “I will accompany you back to your floor.”

  “I know my way.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, mimicking back her own words from a moment ago.

  She glanced to him and noted a ghost of a smile. She returned the same. It was rare to hear any ribbing from the young man.

  “Best you have an escort.” He grumbled a bit, glancing away as shyness overcame him again. “Barrin can watch over the little ones.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  Laurelle gathered her things and the two set out. Lorr’s floor was only two above hers. The walk was shorter than she would have preferred. She even found her steps slowing. Too soon, they reached the level that housed Chrismferry’s Hands.

  The hall was empty, all locked away or about their own concerns. The diminutive Master Munchcryden, the regent’s Hand of yellow bile, had a preference for wagered games, whether played with die or board, while the shaven-headed twins, Master Tre and his sister Fairland, seldom left their rooms, preferring the company of books and private reflection.

  But such privacies were harder to come by now.

  The warden could not indulge an entire floor for the regent’s company any longer. Especially with Tylar fled. The vacant rooms had been filled with a goodly number of the masters who had been chased out of their subterranean levels. The halls now reeked of strange alchemies, and the occasional muffled blast would echo down the hall from some combination gone bad.

  Laurelle led the way. Her room was not far off the landing. It was a small blessing, as the deeper halls were clogged even heavier with alchemical vapors, but it meant stepping away from Kytt sooner than she would have liked.

  “I’ll see you at the seventh evening bell,” Laurelle said as they neared her door.

  “The whelpings always enjoy your visits.”

  “Just the whelpings?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  Kytt shuffled his feet-but he was saved from answering by a sharp outburst off by the stairs.

  “The skull is gone! Why do you harp so on the matter?”

  It was Master Hesharian.

  Laurelle quickly freed her key and unlocked her door. Kytt stared back at the stairs. Once her door was open, she tugged the tracker inside with her. She leaned the door closed, but she kept a crack open to peer out.

  Master Hesharian entered the hall with his usual dog in tow, the milky-eyed ancient master.

  “Leave it go, Orquell,” the head of the Council groused. “My midmorning meal awaits, and I’d prefer my breads were still warm.”

  A reedy voice argued. “But I spoke with Master Rothkild. He related how he had cored samples from the skull. Even a tooth. He had them stored within glass flutes in alchemical baths.”

  “And I heard the same. He insists the mixtures had rendered any Grace down to dregs. Nothing that could prove useful.”

  “Master Rothkild does not have my experience with Dark Grace. There is much I can discern if I could retrieve those bits of bone.”

  “The warden will not allow another trip down to the Masterlevels. Whatever lurks below remains quiet, and he wisely does not wish to stir it anew. With the regent gone, there may be a chance the storm will blow away and afterward our levels could be cleansed with fire. Then you can collect those bits of skull.” Hesharian sniffed. “So let the matter die for now. I’ve my meal to attend and am near to famished.”

  The pair passed Laurelle’s room. Master Orquell glanced in their direction a
s he passed. She and Kytt pulled back. Neither wanted that gaze to discover them hiding and spying.

  “Then I’ll leave you to your meal,” Orquell said. “There is a matter I wish to attend anyway.”

  “Very good. You attend. I’ll see you in the fieldroom at the next bell.”

  They continued down the hall.

  Laurelle met Kytt’s eye. “Can you track that one?”

  “Who?”

  “Master Orquell. I’d like to see what he’s about when he’s not in Hesharian’s shadow. It is seldom the two are apart. This may be our only opportunity.”

  Kytt looked hesitant.

  Laurelle pulled her door wider. “It will not take long. You heard. No more than a bell. Then Orquell will need to return to the maps and plottings in the fieldroom, falling once again into Hesharian’s shadow. As privy as that new master is to what is discussed in that room, I’d like to see what matters he attends when alone.”

  Kytt nodded reluctantly.

  Laurelle waited until the two masters were out of sight, then led Kytt back into the hall. Together they headed off after their prey. With Kytt’s keen senses, they could keep well back. They passed Hesharian’s room. His voice carried out, haranguing some scullery about the state of his jam.

  They continued past.

  At a crossing of passageways, Kytt stopped and sniffed. Laurelle did the same, but all she smelled was burnt alchemies. They stung her nose, and she felt sorry for Kytt.

  But he did not complain-though his eyes watered slightly. He pointed the correct path, and they continued their hunt.

  Master Orquell’s pace was surprisingly fast for one of his age and thinness of limb. He led them on a crisscrossing trail into the dustier regions of the level. The ceiling lowered and bits of fractured stone littered the floor. As this level had been intended only for Tylar’s retinue, the underfolk had not cleared these back spaces very well.

  Laurelle began to grow concerned as the path grew more abandoned. Rooms here were not habitable without the shoring of rafters. The path grew darker, lined by doors rotted and crooked-hinged. Off in corners, she caught glimpses of tiny red eyes and heard the telltale scurry of small claws.