Margaret let out a heavy breath as she reached down to pat her sweating mount. “Good boy,” she murmured.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked sharply.
She turned to look at him. He carried his sword high. Blood dripped from it like thick red ink. There was a large rent in his caped coat, one eye was swollen and blood ran down his face from a cut across his cheek.
Margaret took stock of herself. Her throat would be bruised from where the bastard had grabbed her, and there were three deeply grooved scratches across the back of her left hand. Other than that, she was unhurt.
“Fine,” she said and slid down to the ground. She set her bloody knife on the ground and ran her hands over her mount, looking for wounds. He had a cut in his left shoulder and another on his fetlock, but was otherwise sound. When she turned back to Nicholas, she found him doing the same, though he had not let go of his rapier.
“What now?” he asked when he saw her looking at him.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“A friend.” She nodded at the sylveth knob on top of the post. “That signaled him. In the meantime, we can water the horses.” She went to the pump that stood beside a deep stone basin in the center of the courtyard. She cleaned out the leaf debris at the bottom and pumped the handle vigorously. After a minute, water began to flow into the basin. Her gray gelding nosed her in the back and then rubbed his head up and down against her. She stumbled to the side with a laugh and pushed him away.
“Patience, sweetheart,” she told him, rubbing behind his ear.
Nicholas came to stand on the other side of the gray. He rested his sword against the basin, point down, giving Margaret a frowning look, as if she confused him. Next he unbuckled the horse’s bridle and slid it over his ears. The gelding gave a moaning rumble of satisfaction and buried his nose in the water. Behind them a rumbling whinny reminded them of the bay. Nicholas gave a lop-sided grin and retreated to remove the animal’s bridle to allow him to drink.
The grin disturbed Margaret. There was no doubt that Nicholas Weverton was a charming man. Like her, he wore his affability and charismatic roguishness like a mask. It set people at ease and deflected their suspicion from what they each really were—treacherous.
She did not know how long it would be before Keros could answer the signal, so she unbuckled the cinches on the saddle and pulled it off, tipping it up against the wall. Nicholas had already begun to do the same and swiftly settled his tack beside hers. He grabbed the corner of his greatcoat and began rubbing the animal down. Margaret did the same, first dipping her cloak into the water to dab at the gelding’s wounds. Keros would heal them when he got there.
“They are remarkably steady in a fight,” she said.
“It seemed advisable,” he replied. “One never knows, after all.”
Margaret nodded sober agreement.
Silence fell then as they worked. When they were done, Margaret felt warm. She glanced again at Nicholas. The blood on his face had dried. She looked up in vague surprise. When had the rain stopped?
“Come here,” she said and pointed to the water basin. She dug in her pockets and found her black hood. Before she could tear it apart, he pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it in the water. He squeezed it and dabbed at his cheek and winced.
“Let me,” she said, taking the handkerchief. She dampened it again and deftly cleaned the wound. He flinched away and she reached up to hold him firmly. He stiffened, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. It was uncomfortably intimate.
“There,” she said when she was through. She stepped back and rinsed the square of linen in the basin, then handed it back. Before she could turn away, he gripped her hand.
“Your turn,” he said.
He dipped her scratched hand in the water and then scrubbed it gently with his handkerchief. His skin was warm, his hands calloused. Margaret’s cheeks flushed and she barely resisted the urge to yank away. At last he let go and reached for his rapier. Using his handkerchief, he cleaned the length of it. Margaret retrieved her knife and rinsed it in the water. She dried it on her cloak and returned it to its sheath, then strode away to a square corner on the opposite side of the courtyard where she pushed open a narrow door.
“There’s no room for the horses inside, but they should be safe enough out here,” she told him.
Inside was a small room with a woodstove in the corner, a long table with twenty chairs, and a set of shelves loaded with food, weapons, clothing, candles, and a vast number of other supplies. A door on the opposite wall led into a dormitory containing two dozen bunk beds lining either side of the walls. They were made of wood and rope and topped with straw-filled mattresses. The place had been prepared not only as a safe house for Ramplings escaping the regent’s hunt, but also as a staging area as they gathered for the resistance. It was one of several in the Riddles. There were a dozen scattered throughout Sylmont.
She went to a shelf, pulled down a wax-sealed jar and handed it to Nicholas, then reached for several more. She pushed aside the sacks of rice and beans and found a plump dried sausage. Nicholas had set the jars on the table and had found two metal trenchers. He dug away the wax on the first jar with the point of his knife. It contained preserved peaches in thick syrup. He speared one on his knife and slurped it down, even as his stomach growled loudly in the silence.
Margaret sawed off a hunk of the sausage and peeled away the casing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast—almost a full day ago. She was famished. She pulled out a chair and sat down. Nicholas pulled out the chair beside her.
They polished off another jar of peaches and one of cherries and the rest of the sausage. Exhaustion weighed on Margaret. She yawned and shook her head to wake herself up and wished for a pot of strong tea. She looked up and found Nicholas watching her. He looked worried and tense. All of his wealth and he still couldn’t keep his son safe. It had to be tearing him apart.
“You astonish me,” he said quietly.
“Do I, now?” Margaret drawled, the corner of her mouth quirking up.
He flushed slightly and gave a little shrug. “My sources of information are generally thorough. Still, I had no idea of what you are.”
She rubbed her finger on the table, tracing the grain of the wood. “And what am I?” she murmured. Just at the moment she wasn’t sure. Neither Ryland nor Vaughn would forgive her for going to Nicholas; they would never trust her again. Still, she couldn’t regret it. She was doing something at last, and it could even turn the tide in the battle for Crosspointe. Nicholas reached out and captured her hand in his. She looked at him, startled. He bent forward, his gaze locked with hers. “Thank you. I owe you.”
She felt her cheeks heating and her stomach curled as his touch sent sparks tumbling through her veins. No, no, no! She would not be attracted to Nicholas Weverton of all people.
She pulled away, balling her hand into a fist. “Then when we get Carston back, you can help pry Truehelm out of the castle and put a Rampling back on the throne,” she said sharply, then stood. “I’m going to rest. Wake me when someone comes.”
She strode away into the dormitory, but the heat from his touch did not fade. She swore.
Chapter 5
Keros didn’t return to the Riddles until well after dawn. He had walked from the headland back to Helmsdale through the raging storm and finally located a hack to carry him into Sylmont. It had taken him as far as the edge of the Riddles, but no hack was willing to cross inside without hefty monetary motivation, something Keros was ill prepared to provide. He paid the woman and got out and started for his home. The rain had subsided and the wind had died sometime in the early morning hours. Lucy’s warnings tumbled in his mind, cutting and gouging like shards of glass.
He stumbled over a pile of broken bricks and tangled weeds, biting back his annoyance. Close by, a girl laughed and a chip of stone bounced off his chest. He growled and stalked away.
His house looked like it was about to collapse.
Trash and debris were piled up all around it, and a fetid mix of water and human waste trickled in a steady runnel in front of his front door. The shutters hung drunkenly or were gone altogether, and several of the top-story windows gaped like empty mouths. The door was a collection of planks tacked together by odd-sized strips of wood hammered crosswise. It looked like a gust of wind would knock it down.
Keros crossed to it and brushed his hand over the locking ward. It felt rubbery and weak, but opened for him.
He pulled the door just wide enough to squeeze inside and shut it tightly behind him. He leaned back, his head resting on the polished oak. The exterior of his home was a reality supported by illusion. Inside was cozy and well-cared for, with warm colors and the scent of herbs and spices. He drew a deep breath and let it out, then stripped off his wet clothes. Goose pimples rose on his flesh and his teeth chattered as he shivered. He left the wet things on the tile floor and dashed through the kitchen and up the stairs.
In his room he ran a bath, hoping the majick that kept his boiler piping hot had not failed. It hadn’t. He climbed in the tub gratefully, letting the heat seep through his cold muscles. It was only then that he noticed the slow pulse of light throbbing in his illidre. He sat up sharply and water sloshed over the rim of the tub.
His illidre was not like those of most master majicars. It served as a focus for majick, and while most majicars carefully crafted theirs into artistic shapes and colors, Keros’s was a misshapen blob, looking very much like a shattered rainbow that he’d squeezed with his fist. He’d been angry when he formed it and had left it that way as a reminder to himself that he was an outsider to majick. He’d not asked for the gift and it had cost him far more than anyone should ever have to pay.
The pulse inside it told him that someone was waiting for him at one of the safe houses. Only Margaret, Ryland, and Vaughn could activate the summons and Vaughn was on the other side of Crosspointe. That meant that one of the others was in trouble, or they’d never have risked activating the summoning ward. He thrust himself out of the tub, toweling off vigorously. The fluctuations in majick made the safe houses a lot more vulnerable than their name implied. Not only that, but with so many majicars in the city, someone might have sensed the spike of majick from the signal and followed it back to its source.
He dressed and was out the door in less than five minutes, taking the time to make a sandwich from stale bread and sharp cheese, biting into it as he ran out the door.
The signal pulled at him, drawing him toward the southwest and he realized that the Lily house had been activated—each safe house was named for a flower. He strode through the gray morning and soon a drizzle began again, the breeze picking up. Keros pulled his hood up and snarled up at the pewter clouds. Damnable weather.
He wove through the nonsensical sprawl of buildings that made up the Riddles. He came to Ashford Avenue and halted in the shadows, glancing up and down. The avenue was the one place in the Riddles where law and order reigned. Here ornate expensive gaming houses crowded each other. Though illegal in Crosspointe, gambling was permitted in the Riddles. Or rather, the Crown elected to ignore it. Too many influential and wealthy men and women—including Ramplings—frequented these establishments. Raiding them would only embarrass important friends and strain alliances.
The street was full of workers raking away leaf debris, mule manure left behind by hacks, and whatever other random bits of flotsam and jetsam had accumulated during the day. Most were wearing only ragged trousers and shirts and no shoes; iron collars circled every neck. Their hands were red and chapped, their faces splotched with bruises. Most were thin nearly to the point of emaciation. The heavy rains had damaged crops and imported food was too expensive to waste on slaves. The various crews were made up of mostly men and boys and guarded by footmen and women carrying cudgels and short, stiff leather whips. Girls were kept for the scullery and the brothels.
Keros’s lip curled in a snarl and his fingers hooked into claws. Damn the regent! Damn every soul who bought slaves or stood by while others did! He swallowed, hot fury burning through his chest and turning his stomach. Bile flooded his tongue. He was one of the latter, his hands tied by Ryland and Vaughn’s orders. He’d promised to support them, never realizing that he’d have to stand by and watch people be dragged from their homes and sold like livestock. He gave a negative shake of his head. No—livestock was worth taking care of; these people were rags, to be used up and then tossed away.
Three loud cracks sounded in quick succession. A man crumpled to his hands and knees. Above him, a woman in pale orange and blue livery shouted at him, her whip cocked back over her head. She swung again and then two other servants joined her, one in matching livery, the other wearing cream and tan, and together they began to shout and kick the now-prone man. Keros sucked in a ragged breath and jolted forward. The rest of the slaves had cowed away, while more liveried overseers joined the attack. In front of the ornate building facades, men and women of the Blackwatch, Eyes, and Howlers watched the fracas impassively. They were paid to keep the peace for the owners, nothing more.
Keros stopped short, helplessness swallowing him. What could he really do? Even if he killed every mother-cracking bully bastard, he’d probably also kill their victim and likely a good number of the other slaves. But he couldn’t do nothing; he was tired to death of just watching helpless people being tortured. Looking down at the magic snapping and flashing around his hands like blue fire, he clenched them into fists, his body shaking with indecision. But then the decision was taken from him.
“Hey! Get on with you!” A hand struck him sharply in the middle of the back and sent him sprawling. “Move along. Your kind don’t belong here.”
Keros rolled to his feet, his jaw jutting. Majick sizzled through him. He spun and found himself facing the points of four halberds. On the other end were four determined Howlers in dark blue uniforms with high collars, shining black boots, and caped greatcoats. They glowered at him and, as one, they stepped forward, prodding the air before him with their weapons. He was suddenly aware of the scruffiness of his appearance—his long hair, tangled by the wind and weather; his untrimmed beard; his muddy cloak and battered boots. He was not the sort of man who frequented the businesses on Ashford Avenue, nor was he the sort who worked in them.
With instinct born of a life of wariness, he yanked back hard on his majick and pulled his hands up inside the sleeve of his cloak. He ducked his head. “Yessir. Just watchin’ th’ show.”
Someone spat and it hit Keros’s boot. “It’s not a show, wick-licker. It’s a cracking nightmare. Now get outta here before I shorten you by about a head.”
Keros bobbed a swift bow and jogged away in the other direction, his chest tight, still hearing the thumping of boots on flesh. His mouth twisted. He’d done nothing. Again. He was a coward. He turned a corner and stopped, leaning against a wall and breathing slowly, pulling his emotions and majick under control. Next time. He would not let it pass next time, and to the depths with the consequences.
As his breathing steadied, he suddenly became aware that majick hung thick in the air. It swirled about in sticky, spiny swirls and sank beneath Keros’s clothing, stroking painfully across his skin and making him shudder. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t describe. But its touch sent his heart racing like a hunted animal. He swallowed and felt the majick pulsing from the buildings lining the avenue. They were smothered in majick—wards of protection against weather, fire, and attacks; wards of strengthening and comfort; and more to keep out bugs and dust. But their majick was . . . if not quite fraying, then softening. It felt to Keros like thick honey that had been warmed and had begun to run. Soon the wards would start to break apart and that could be disastrous. For they wouldn’t just dissolve and disappear. No, their majickal fragments would combine and transform into something else. Or they would smash against each other and explode wildly. This part of the Riddles could be leveled.
Keros swallowed, his mouth dry. So f
ar things were holding, but that could change at any moment. How long could this wrongness last? He thought of the Pale and Lucy’s warnings. Too long.
He was about to set off across the avenue when something stopped him. It’s wasn’t precisely a sound; it was more the impression that there ought to have been sound. He turned his head, trying to hear.
A fine molten threading spiderwebbed across the inside of his skull. It burned like venom and made him reel. He staggered back against a tree and clutched the rough bark with clawed fingers. It was a spell—or rather, the side effect of one. Using majick always caused a ripple effect that disrupted other spells, unless contained within a smother room. It was like a ghost of the original spell, but unpredictable both in the form it would take and what it could do, especially if it insinuated bits away from other spells or collided with other ghost spells. Careful majicars planned for the ripple effect and found ways to harness or contain it. Sometimes it wasn’t possible.
This one was strong—violent even. His knees sagged as pain ripped through him. He clenched his teeth, heat enveloping him in a smothering fist. What was this?
He yanked at the laces of his shirt and freed his illidre , grasping it tightly and invoking its powerful shield spell. Instantly the pain faded, the majick curling away like burnt hair. He sucked in a harsh breath and straightened, his legs trembling. His skin was feverish and his entire body felt desiccated.
The majick continued to bombard him. It came in steady waves and there was no dodging it—there was simply too much and it expanded as it gnawed away bits of majick from every spell it passed. Each time a wave rolled over him, Keros’s illidre pushed it away. But he could feel the ghost majick eroding the shield, nibbling away at the structure of it. He reached in and strengthened it, then began to trail the majick back to its source. He had no other choice.
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 7
