Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  Before she could try him again, he went for her with a Firestorm followed by a Steel Kiss, aiming to nullify the threat of the dual weapon by relieving her of at least one blade. She returned an effective Double Whirlwind, but he saw the narrowing of her eyes as the awkward foot positioning set her momentarily off balance. Before she could recover, he came in with another Firestorm and caught her second sword low on the blade, sending it clattering out of her reach. Pressing home his advantage, he used an unusual twist on the Bird’s Wing attack to drive her across the floor until the backs of her legs hit a low stool. Intent on protecting herself from his bladework, she hadn’t noticed the obstacle: she tripped and fell backwards, her other sword falling from her hand. He followed her, kicking the weapon clear, and menaced her with his own blade as she tried to scramble free. She froze, staring up at him with chest heaving and what appeared to be reluctant admiration in her eyes.

  ‘You’re good at this, my lord.’

  Keeping her in place with the tip of his blade to her throat, Myrren gave her a fierce smile. He might not be able to Change – he might not have the loyalty of the Helm or the respect of his subjects – but he was still a bloody brilliant swordsman. He ought to be. He’d learned from the best weaponmasters the fifth ring had to offer. His muscles tensed as he prepared to drive the blade home.

  ‘Don’t kill her!’ Serenna’s voice recalled him to himself. He looked up: she was standing in the hallway, watching him. He couldn’t see her face behind the veil – couldn’t tell how much of the fight she had witnessed – but of course she was right. He hadn’t come here to kill anyone.

  ‘Turn over,’ he ordered the blonde, accompanying the words with tiny jerks of the blade. Without a word she wriggled onto her front, allowing him to place a knee in the small of her back and tie her wrists and ankles with the rope he’d brought. A clean handkerchief from his pocket served as a gag; she struggled at that, but he pushed his knee harder into her back and she subsided. She should count herself lucky. He would have been within his rights to have her whipped.

  He went to the hall to retrieve the pistol, offering Serenna a reassuring smile on the way, then turned back into the apartment. The Changer girl was still standing in the doorway to an inner room, but now she held a kitchen knife in one white-knuckled hand. The other arm was wrapped protectively around herself, cradling the curve of her pregnant belly. As Myrren’s gaze settled on her, she lifted her chin in a brave attempt at defiance.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  Looking at her, Myrren found it hard to believe she could have Changed into a creature that had killed their father and seriously wounded Travers … but no harder to believe than that Ayla had done it.

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’ He raised the pistol, hoping she wouldn’t know that it was of little use now it had been fired. ‘Please, just come quietly.’

  She scowled, though there was still a quaver in her voice. ‘Ya have ta reload that thing before ya can use it again. D’ya think I don’ know that?’

  They didn’t have time for this. For all Myrren knew, the Helm had already been alerted to his presence here, and he didn’t want to confront Travers or anyone else with this matter until the girl was safely back in Darkhaven. He drew the hood from his inner pocket and walked towards her, ignoring the faltering knife.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he told her. ‘But it can’t be helped.’

  Dodging the ineffectual swipe she made at him, he grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm up behind her back. Instantly her fingers loosened, letting him take the knife from her hand and put it aside. Still holding her in a position just short of painful, he tugged the hood down over her head one-handed. She kicked and swore at him, her voice muffled by the fabric; he pulled her arm up a fraction higher and she fell silent, though the set of her shoulders suggested mutiny.

  Myrren glanced at the glowering blonde woman on the floor. Ideally he’d take her back to the tower as well, find out exactly what she’d been employed to do and by whom. Yet he wasn’t convinced that he and Serenna could manage two rebellious captives by themselves – not without making a scene on the street, at least, which was the one thing he most wanted to avoid – and the Changer girl obviously had to take priority.

  Damn you, Travers. If you’d just do your job properly – but Myrren swallowed his anger. Right now, the need to leave swiftly and without fuss overruled all other considerations.

  ‘If I ever see your face again I’ll have you locked up,’ he told the blonde. Then he picked up her pistol once more – there was no way he was going to leave a weapon like that in her hands – and hustled what he hoped was his father’s murderer out of the room. The sooner they got back to Darkhaven, the better.

  NINETEEN

  By the time he reached the fourth ring, Caraway was exhausted. He hadn’t realised quite how nerve-racking it would be, escorting Ayla Nightshade through Arkannen. He’d been tense the whole way, attempting to keep her from becoming the target of hawkers, pickpockets, conmen and beggars whilst at the same time doing his best to look in multiple directions at once for any sign of the Helm. Ayla herself hadn’t helped; she’d tried to assume an air of unconcern, but the wide-eyed looks she kept throwing at the most everyday things stated more clearly than a written placard that she was new to city life. Her prohibition on being touched meant he’d almost lost her in the second ring, where they’d been separated by two men carrying a vast and intricately shaped glass bottle across the street, and again in the third ring, where they’d got caught in a press of people who had gathered to see the newest airship go up for the first time. By now he was longing to grab her by the elbow and march her straight back the way they’d come. But she’d insisted on accompanying him, and she’d made it clear he had no right to stop her.

  ‘Have you thought what we’ll do when we get to the house?’ she asked now. ‘Surely, if what you say is true, the Helm will have this girl well guarded.’

  Caraway looked sideways at her. She was wearing the blonde wig again; it made her both familiar and strange, like a person in a dream. Beneath it, despite her cautious words, her face was bright with excitement. He knew it had frustrated her, to sit tight whilst he carried out investigations on her behalf – though he suspected a large part of that frustration had sprung from the belief that she could have done the job better herself.

  ‘I don’t think most of the Helm are involved,’ he told her. ‘I think this is Travers’ little secret. Else why hire Sorrow?’

  ‘Mmm. I suppose … And you’re sure the girl you saw was of Nightshade blood?’

  Caraway shrugged. ‘She looked pretty like it. Anyway, it makes sense. This new attack the night before last – your nightmare the same night – all that points to the existence of another Changer in the city.’

  He’d told her what he’d found out and what he suspected the previous evening, once they’d found a new place to stay. Feeling flush with the money he’d earned from selling Ayla’s hair, Caraway had plumped for a two-roomed apartment with a communal kitchen facility and an indoor latrine, paid up for a week in advance. There was a bed and a chaise longue, meaning they both had somewhere to sleep. There was a lock on the door. Best of all, there was a perfectly respectable corn mill outside instead of a tanner’s yard. Ayla had said she supposed it would have to do, but to Caraway it was luxury. Of course, he’d run out of money soon enough, but he hoped by then he would have cleared Ayla’s name. He hadn’t thought much about his future beyond that point.

  ‘I can’t make it fit, though,’ Ayla said now, and he frowned.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t believe my father would have had a child with another woman before he had Myrren. It’s not the Nightshade way. We breed with our own blood, first and foremost, to keep the gift strong.’ Her lips twisted. ‘At least, that’s the theory.’

  The words held a dull resentment that was worse than anger. Caraway had always shied away from wondering what Ayla thought about
being intended for her brother; now, all of a sudden, her feelings were painfully clear. Knowing that curiosity and sympathy would be equally unwelcome, he just nodded.

  ‘I only caught a glimpse of her. She could have been between you and Lord Myrren in age. But I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.’

  This time, now he knew where he was going, he led Ayla along a different route through Ametrine and entered the Avenue of Rowans from the other end, avoiding the crime scene. As he’d hoped, that meant they didn’t run into any Helmsmen; he didn’t know if they’d still be congregating down there, but it was best not to take any chances. Yet as he and Ayla got closer to the house where he’d seen the dark-haired girl, he realised there was a carriage waiting outside it. Had the girl told Travers or Sorrow that she’d noticed someone watching the house? Were the Helm moving her to a new location?

  He felt Ayla stiffen beside him, and glanced at her. She was staring at the house, surprise in every line of her body.

  ‘That’s Myrren,’ she whispered.

  Caraway squinted back down the street, and saw she was right: Myrren and a woman in a veil had just emerged through the front door. Between them was another woman who walked along with her hands locked around her pregnant belly, her bowed head covered with a black hood. The three of them moved at a brisk pace to the carriage. When they reached it, Myrren handed the veiled woman into the carriage and helped the pregnant woman in after her. Then he called an instruction to the driver, before leaping into the carriage himself and swinging the door shut behind them. It had all happened in the space of a few moments.

  The driver urged his horses into a trot, starting the carriage swaying down the street towards Caraway and Ayla. To his horror, Caraway saw Ayla begin to step out into its path as though she intended to flag it down. He caught her wrist, yanking her against him; one hand went instinctively to the back of her head, hiding her face against his shoulder. To the occupants of the carriage, they would look like a couple enjoying an embrace at the side of the road. He held her like that until the carriage reached the end of the street and turned in the direction of the fifth gate. Then he allowed her to pull back and deal him a ringing slap across the face.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ she demanded, fury sparking in her eyes. Caraway rubbed his cheek and looked at her ruefully.

  ‘I couldn’t let them recognise you, Lady Ayla.’

  ‘That was my brother, you idiot! He must have found out about this other Changer and arrested her. If I’d just made myself known to him then, I could have gone back to Darkhaven with him and everything would have been cleared up.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Caraway said. Then, as she opened her mouth for another retort, ‘Please, just listen. Assuming the woman in the hood was the woman I saw yesterday, and assuming she is a rogue Changer who has been concealed in the city by Owen Travers for reasons best known to himself, why wasn’t she struggling when Myrren came to take her away? And she’s expecting a baby, which I didn’t realise before. Is it even possible to Change if you’re that heavily pregnant?’

  Ayla’s brows were drawn together in disapproval, but at least she was listening. Before she could interrupt him, Caraway ploughed on.

  ‘And as for the father of the baby … isn’t it possible that the child is Myrren’s? That he and this unknown Changer colluded in your father’s death so Myrren could regain the throne that was going to be taken from him – and that Myrren let you out on the night of the murder deliberately to cast suspicion on you? In which case, couldn’t the hood have been there to conceal the woman’s identity, rather than because she was a prisoner?’

  By now Ayla was very pale, and there was a stricken look in her eyes. It made Caraway’s guts clench, but he couldn’t stop until she realised the possible danger she was in. So he folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘Can you answer any of those questions with absolute certainty, Lady Ayla?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted.

  ‘Exactly. Neither can I. And until we can, I don’t think it’s safe for you to return to Darkhaven. If the explanation is what you think it is, you can go home soon enough. But it’s worth waiting until you’re absolutely sure.’

  There was a tense silence; then she nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  It was the first heartfelt apology he had ever received from her, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Now that the need to make her see sense had faded, the old guilt was creeping back into its place, telling him he should never have raised his voice to her. That he was worthless, and that he needed a drink to make it all go away.

  ‘All right,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Now I’m going to go into the house and see what I can find out. I suggest you wait here.’

  Still unusually meek, Ayla inclined her head in assent, and he headed for the house. It was four stories high, each storey a separate set of rooms; he had seen the girl in a top-floor window, so he climbed all the way up. The door of the apartment was pulled to, but it swung open at his touch. Inside there were signs of a struggle: furniture knocked over, a scattering of plaster across the floor, a lingering smell of something smoky. Caraway walked down the hall into the living room, and stopped. Naeve Sorrow was lying face-down on the ornate rug, a gag in her mouth, wrists and ankles tied behind her and joined with another length of cord. Crouching beside her, Caraway untied the gag; she spat it out as soon as it was loose enough.

  ‘What happened here?’ he asked her. She scowled at him.

  ‘You – you followed me yesterday. What do you want?’

  ‘I need to know what happened here,’ he repeated. Sorrow’s eyes scanned his face, then narrowed.

  ‘I know you,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t recognise you before. You were in the Helm, years ago … you’re the one who was involved in that scandal. Tomas Caraway.’ Her lips tightened. ‘I’m not telling you anything.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Caraway flung the questions at her as though they were stones that could knock a response out of her if he tried hard enough. ‘Why did Travers hire you? What do you know about the dark-haired girl who was here yesterday? Was it her that was just taken away by Myrren Nightshade?’

  To his annoyance, Sorrow only gave him a cool stare and said it again. ‘I’m not telling you anything.’

  ‘Fine.’ Caraway affected unconcern. He knew she wouldn’t be intimidated by a threat of violence, but there were other threats she might respond to. ‘Then I’ll just leave you tied up here. Who knows how long it’ll be before someone else comes visiting?’

  She looked defiant. ‘I’ll free myself.’

  ‘And how long will that take you? By the time you get out of here, it might all be over.’ He saw something flicker in her eyes, and pressed the point home. ‘You’re clearly involved in this situation. No doubt you have something to gain from it. But it’s unlikely you’ll gain anything if you’re stuck here for days.’

  ‘All right,’ she snapped at him. ‘The girl’s name is Elisse. Travers hired me to protect her against the Changer creature that’s stalking the streets.’

  ‘Is she a Nightshade?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who’s the father of her child?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What did Myrren want with her?’

  ‘Answers to the same questions you’re asking.’ From her recumbent position, Sorrow gave a kind of half-shrug. ‘I don’t know any more.’

  Caraway studied her face. She was obviously lying – certainly as to the extent of her knowledge, and perhaps in her answers as well – but the set of her chin was obstinate. He was familiar enough with Sorrow to know she wouldn’t tell him anything she didn’t want to, whatever he did to her. Nor did he much like the idea of torturing a woman when he wasn’t even sure what she had done.

  ‘If that’s all you’ve got …’ he said, starting for the door, but was stopped by her raised voice.

  ‘It’s all I know, Caraway, I swear! Now pleas
e, untie me …’

  He turned, eyebrows lifting. ‘Never said I would.’ Seeing the mute anger in her face, he added, ‘Come off it, Sorrow. You’d be after us as soon as I let you go.’

  ‘Us?’

  He didn’t reply, biting his tongue at the slip. She sighed.

  ‘At least put me into a more comfortable position, Caraway. I can’t lie like this for days.’ Then, as he hesitated, ‘You can sit me on the spinet stool. It’s out of sight of the window, so I won’t be able to signal for help.’

  His first instinct was to say no, to leave straight away. But she did look like she was in pain, and she hadn’t done anything to harm him, after all. She’d just got caught in the middle of whatever battle was going on between Owen Travers and Myrren Nightshade.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, even as he cursed himself for a soft-hearted fool. ‘I’ll move you.’

  After untying the cord that connected her wrists and ankles, he helped Sorrow hobble over to the stool, then fastened her ankles to one of its legs. The stool was a heavy one, so there wasn’t any way she’d be able to drag it with her, but all the same he was conscious of a vague sense of misgiving.

  ‘Just remember,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘I could have hurt you, but I didn’t.’

  Her answering smile was satirical. ‘I always remember weakness, Tomas Caraway.’

  He’d been wavering over whether to fetch her some water before he left, but that remark made the decision easy. Without a word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  As soon as Caraway had gone, Sorrow wriggled around on the stool until her fingers touched cool stone. Perfect. She’d noticed it while she’d been lying on the floor trussed up like a piece of meat: a shard of the vase she’d blown apart, still nestled among the keys of the spinet. Slowly and carefully, she eased it into her hand. Myrren hadn’t made the mistake of underestimating her because she was a woman; he’d tied her as tight as he could, ensuring she wouldn’t be able to work herself free, which would make what she was about to do all the harder. Gritting her teeth, she pulled her wrists as far apart as they would go and began sawing at the thin rope that bound them.