Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  ‘Excuse me? Miss?’

  She froze – and then, to her relief, she heard Caraway’s voice.

  ‘Ah, two more of Darkhaven’s finest! Good day to you both!’

  He was playing the drunk again, and she had to admit it was very convincing. If she hadn’t heard him speak with sober intensity just a moment ago, she’d have believed it herself. She kept moving, but more slowly, anxious to hear the outcome of the conversation.

  ‘Breakblade?’ That was the man on the driver’s box, a sharp edge to his voice. ‘What’s going on? What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Your esteemed colleagues sent me out,’ Caraway slurred. ‘They wanted a lil’ bit of time alone with Ayla Nightshade. Teach her a lesson’s what they said.’

  The driver swore. ‘They’re not supposed to be doing that. Captain Travers doesn’t want her hurt.’

  That was news to Ayla. She didn’t dare glance back the way she had come, but she heard a creak and then the impact of two feet hitting the ground. The driver must have jumped down from the carriage.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the other Helmsman asked.

  ‘I’m going to tell those two to bloody well stop amusing themselves and bring the girl out here. The sooner we get her back to Darkhaven, the better.’

  Ayla bit her lip: that wasn’t good. If he went inside, he’d find the two injured men and raise the alarm. Caraway obviously realised it too, because a note of urgency crept into his voice.

  ‘Well, now, hold on just a moment. There’s somethin’ I need to tell you first. A message they sent for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The driver sounded suspicious. ‘And what’s that?’

  Ayla couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned to see what was happening, just as Caraway straightened up from his conspiratorial incline towards the other man and felled him with a precise kick to the side of the knee that left him writhing on the ground in agony. The Helmsman who had been leaning against the carriage started forward, sword in hand; Caraway took a wary step backwards.

  ‘This really isn’t going to do you any good, Tomas,’ the Helmsman said, continuing to advance. Caraway shrugged.

  ‘What have I got to lose?’

  ‘Your life, for a start.’

  ‘To be honest, I won’t miss it all that much,’ Caraway said. His gaze met Ayla’s over the Helmsman’s shoulder, and she could see the message in his eyes: Run. Instead, she took a deep breath and spoke as loudly as she could.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’

  Reflexively, the Helmsman’s head turned part of the way in her direction. As she’d hoped, the moment’s distraction was all the opening Caraway required. The knife flashed in his hand; the Helmsman folded like a punctured balloon, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched at the blood that was spilling through his fingers. Straight away Caraway set off at a sprint, grabbing Ayla’s wrist as he passed her and pulling her along after him. He didn’t stop until they’d turned the corner at the end of the street and were some way down the road. Then he jerked her to an abrupt halt, facing her with fury in his eyes.

  ‘You were supposed to run!’

  She couldn’t bear to tell him that she’d wanted to see if he would be all right, so she just lifted a dismissive shoulder. ‘I helped, though, didn’t I?’

  ‘I mean it, Ayla!’ His hands clamped down on her shoulders, giving her a little shake. ‘If you’re not going to take my advice on these things, then –’

  ‘I told you never to touch me.’ She put all the ice she could into her voice, and it worked; he snatched his hands away as though she had stung him. Ignoring a sneaking feeling of guilt – the man had just saved her from a fate worse than death – she folded her arms and scowled at him. ‘What’s your problem, anyway?’

  He sighed, all his anger burnt out in an instant: a swift, hot flame that had consumed itself and then died. ‘That Helmsman, the one I stabbed … he was my friend, once. We trained together in the fifth ring. He learned the same thing I did: if your opponent has a sword and you don’t, your only hope is to disable him fast and thoroughly enough that he doesn’t get the chance to use it. But I just …’ He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and finished in a low voice, ‘I just hope he’s all right. That I haven’t killed him.’

  Oh. For the second time that afternoon, Ayla wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. After a moment Caraway let out another long breath, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and turned away from her.

  ‘All right, Lady Ayla. Let’s go and find a new place to stay.’

  EIGHTEEN

  From his seat in the musty darkness of the Nightshade carriage, Myrren listened to the wheels rattling and creaking over the paved streets of the fourth ring, and hoped the whole thing wouldn’t fall apart before it reached its destination. His father had never set foot in it, or any other method of transport for that matter, preferring to travel to even the most formal state occasions in his Firedrake shape. Many a time he had landed outside some great house or governor’s palace, Changing with a swirl of black dust into his human form in full view of everyone before striding up the steps with no care for his nakedness, swinging the embroidered robe he had carried with him around his shoulders. Keeps them on their toes, he used to say with a ferocious smile. Lets them know what they’re dealing with. Myrren also suspected that Florentyn had simply enjoyed the thrill of it. Why chug along in a slow, ponderous airship, surrounded by the noise of the engine and the stench of burning coal, when you could have the freedom of the empty air and your own swift wings?

  With a sigh, Myrren looked at Serenna, who was sitting opposite. She was peeking through the curtains that covered the window, perhaps reacquainting herself with the streets she had grown up in. Her veil was heavier today, as befitted such a public excursion, but she had swept it back from her face in order to see better; a lock of flame-bright hair had escaped from its confines and was brushing her cheek. Idly he imagined pulling the veil off her head altogether and burying his fingers in that glorious hair, letting it fall free as it had last night in the library … which of course led to tightening his grip and tilting her face upwards, the better to access the soft curve of her mouth …

  As if she could hear what he was thinking, she turned away from the window, her grey eyes searching his face. To cover his confusion, he hurried into speech.

  ‘I must apologise for the state of this carriage, Sister Serenna.’ Using her title calmed him: it reminded him that she was a priestess and therefore untouchable. ‘As you can probably tell, it is little used.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s nice not to have to walk. And this way they won’t see us coming.’

  ‘You don’t think the carriage is too conspicuous?’ Myrren pressed on, fully aware that he was recrossing old ground, but still trying to distract himself. Without a hint of impatience, Serenna gave him the same answer as before.

  ‘Plenty of people in the fourth ring have private carriages, Lord Myrren. And since you’ve covered the crest on the door of this one, there isn’t any way it can be recognised.’ She frowned at him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ He looked away, satisfying himself again that he had everything he might need: a length of thin, strong rope in case they found the rogue Changer and needed to restrain him to get him back to Darkhaven; a hood to cover the Changer’s head and conceal that distinctive colouring from the curious eyes of the neighbourhood; his own sword, in case he needed to defend himself. Though, rationally, he would prefer it not to come to fighting, a small part of him hoped it might. It would be the perfect way to work out some of his frustration.

  ‘Probably won’t find anything,’ he muttered, and didn’t even realise he’d spoken aloud until he heard Serenna’s reply.

  ‘Have faith, my lord. I’m sure we will discover something useful, even if it’s not what we’re expecting.’

  Looking up, he gave her a rueful smile. ‘I wish I had your optimism. I almost don’t want to get there, in case
it turns out to be a dead end.’

  As if to flout his wishes, a few moments later the carriage came to a jerky stop: they had reached the Avenue of Rowans. Obeying Myrren’s earlier instructions, the driver didn’t get down to open the door as he normally would; instead Myrren let himself out, then turned to help Serenna down after him. The two of them stood on the street, scanning the buildings in front of them. Number 45 was an imposing four-storey house in a terraced row of similar houses, their well-kept facades and neatly curtained windows giving an impression of restrained wealth. Myrren was conscious of a nervous ache in the pit of his stomach, but he suppressed it sternly.

  ‘Please stay behind me, Sister Serenna,’ he said, trying to project an aura of composed control. ‘Unless you’d rather wait in the carriage –?’

  ‘I won’t do much good there.’ Serenna had pulled the veil back over her face, and her voice was muffled through the thick fabric, but even so he could tell she was amused. ‘And I hardly think the creature will attack us in broad daylight.’

  Resisting the impulse to order her to keep out of harm’s way, Myrren nodded. They approached the front door together, but before he could knock Serenna reached out and turned the handle. The door swung open, revealing a hallway that led to another door on the ground floor and a staircase leading upwards.

  ‘Divided into apartments,’ Serenna said. ‘Probably one on each floor.’ She took a step towards the closed door ahead of them, glancing over her shoulder at Myrren. ‘If you start at the top and work down, my lord, I’ll start here and meet you halfway. It takes me longer to climb stairs than it used to.’

  ‘You think we should just knock on each door in turn?’ Myrren asked. ‘What will you say when someone answers?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll lie my way in. And if they won’t let me in, it may mean they’re hiding something.’ That tone entered her voice again, the light-tinted one that meant her lips were curving upwards. ‘Don’t tell me – I have some interesting ideas, for a priestess.’

  ‘Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re a priestess at all,’ he said, and she laughed.

  ‘Of course, you won’t need to do anything other than show them that well-known Nightshade countenance. If they turn pale and run, that’s a good sign we’ve got our man.’

  ‘Right.’ Myrren wanted to tell her to be careful, but in the end he just said, ‘Shout if you need me.’

  Before he could change his mind, he took the first flight of stairs two at a time. The landing above was exactly the same as the hall below; it reminded him of a nightmare he’d once had in which he was trying to escape from something, but no matter how fast he ran he always ended up back where he’d started. Shaking off the uneasy thought, he kept going up the next flight and the next, and was relieved to find that he had definitely reached the top of the building. The door that confronted him was identical to the other three he’d passed, save only for the design painted on the jamb around the ornate number ‘4’. At the sight of that design, Myrren’s focus tightened. To most people it would look like an abstract pattern, but he was familiar enough with the Helm’s system of coded symbols to recognise it as something more. There were two codewords in the design, one that meant a building to be guarded – that one usually referred to Darkhaven – and another that meant something like safety or protection. A safe house. This must be the right place.

  Breathing deeply to slow his racing pulse, Myrren knocked and then waited, one hand ready near the hilt of his sword, the other fiddling with the length of thin rope in his pocket. After a while he raised his sword hand to knock again, but the door jerked open abruptly even as his knuckles grazed the wood. On the other side was a woman with short blonde hair, who fixed him with a flat, narrow-eyed look. And beyond her – Myrren’s chest tightened. Ayla. He’d found her. He took a half-step forward, opening his mouth to say something without really knowing what, but then the girl backed away into a bright beam of daylight and he realised it wasn’t Ayla after all. It was a stranger, a dark-haired blue-eyed woman a few years older than him. His father’s secret daughter. So Serenna had been right about everything.

  ‘You know who I am, I take it,’ he said to the Changer girl over the blonde woman’s shoulder. ‘In which case, you know why I’m here. I’m looking for a child of Florentyn Nightshade.’

  In the silence that followed, as the rush of discovery faded, Myrren became aware of two things that perhaps should have been obvious before.

  One, the dark-haired girl who was staring at him with blind terror in her eyes was clearly and heavily pregnant.

  Two, the blonde-haired woman who stood between them had a weapon pressed against his stomach, and unless he was much mistaken it was a Kardise pistol.

  ‘We both know who you are, Lord Myrren,’ the blonde said. ‘So unless you want to be laid up for months, recovering from a painful injury your physicians don’t know how to treat, I suggest you turn around and go back where you came from.’

  Myrren had never used a pistol, but he’d seen one once before – the Helm had brought it up to Darkhaven after it was confiscated from a weapons dealer. It had punched a hole in a plate of armour. He wasn’t sure exactly what would happen to him if the trigger were pulled, but it wasn’t an experiment he was keen to try.

  ‘I don’t mean either of you any harm,’ he said, making no move that could be interpreted as threatening, but standing his ground. ‘I just need to know the truth.’

  In response the pistol drew back a short way, enough so it was no longer digging into him. That was a good start.

  ‘I need you to accompany me to Darkhaven.’ Again he spoke directly to the girl who, unbelievable as it seemed, must be his half-sister – and a murderer to boot. ‘I have some questions I want to ask you.’

  ‘Don’t ignore me, my lord.’ The blonde woman’s voice was as intent as a whetted blade; the pistol jabbed at his guts. ‘I’m her protector, and she doesn’t go anywhere without my say-so.’

  Myrren gave her a conciliatory nod, though frustration was boiling up inside him. It was becoming increasingly apparent how impossible it was, as an ordinary man, to get anything done. His father had possessed both the Nightshade gift and the backing of the Helm; Myrren had neither. Without the ability to Change or the power of well-trained soldiers behind him, he had no way of coercing this woman into obedience.

  He sighed, shifting his stance. A headache was beginning behind his eyes, reminding him uncomfortably of the nightmares he had been suffering from these past few days. He blinked a couple of times, trying to will it away, but an insidious dizziness was creeping up on him –

  ‘What’s going on?’ With startling suddenness, Serenna arrived in the doorway beside him. He hadn’t heard her footsteps on the stairs, and it seemed that neither had the blonde woman; eyebrows lifting a fraction in surprise, she moved the pistol in Serenna’s direction. Next moment she had corrected herself, and was returning it to point at Myrren, but the fleeting waver was enough. Brushing aside his instant of weakness, Myrren caught her wrists, trying to angle the weapon away from himself, and Serenna, and the pregnant girl who was still watching with wide eyes from deeper inside the apartment – angle it, in fact, so that it couldn’t do any harm to anyone.

  ‘Stay back, Serenna!’ he snapped over his shoulder, and felt rather than saw her retreat around the corner of the doorframe. The blonde woman moved sharply backwards, trying to yank her wrists out of his grasp; he went with her, refusing to let go, one hand moving up to prise her fingers open. He’d expected it to be easy enough – she was both smaller and lighter than him – but she was surprisingly strong. Locked together, they staggered down the hallway, slamming against the walls as they strove to break each other’s hold. Then Myrren stumbled into a small table, reducing an ornamental bowl to a shower of broken glass, and his grip loosened temporarily. Taking immediate advantage of the situation, the woman forced the pistol down until it was pointing into his face. He heard the click as she prepared to fire.
>
  ‘Give it up, my lord.’ She sounded out of breath – that was something, at least. ‘Let go or I pull the trigger.’

  ‘If you were going to kill me you would have done it already.’ Myrren watched her eyes as he said the words, reading the flicker in them that confirmed he was telling the truth. Despite everything, he was still a Nightshade and overlord of Darkhaven; it would take a rare kind of mad courage to attempt to kill him, especially with other people watching. Even by threatening him, this woman was asking for severe punishment.

  Then he remembered it must have taken that same mad courage to kill his father, and wrenched the pistol upwards with all his strength as her finger tightened on the trigger. There was a bang that reverberated off the walls, and flakes of plaster rained down on their heads like a localised snowstorm. Letting the weapon slip from her grasp, the blonde woman backed away through the haze of smoke. She was saying something, but Myrren couldn’t make it out through the ringing in his ears. Then she drew one of her swords.

  Anger washed through Myrren in a hot rush and then drained away, leaving him calm and detached. He’d given her every chance to end this without violence. She had no respect for him or his position. She’d tried to kill him. And now she’d see exactly what she was dealing with.

  Drawing his own sword, he advanced on her. She grinned at him, bringing her blade round in the classic Breeze over Water opening: the sort of move a weaponmaster would use on the training ground to test the abilities of a new recruit. Myrren countered with the Mountain guard, then turned it into a sweeping Cascade of Ice. The blonde woman skipped nimbly back, her widening eyes the only sign of her shock. Her smile gone, she gave him the nod of one equal to another before snatching the second sword from her back and dropping into a defensive stance. Myrren eyed the twin blades, rapidly reformulating his plan of attack. Facing two swords required a different set of moves, but it wasn’t beyond his capabilities.