Laughter rippled through the circle at this last sally, but Caraway barely heard it. His mind was fixed on the first point: that no-one had seen Ayla and her captors come this way. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps they’d taken her somewhere else entirely … but no. It made no sense. The Helm must have her – the decoy had told him that – and there was nowhere for them to go except Darkhaven. If they’d kept it a secret, it only proved that there was something very wrong with what they were doing.
‘Just give it up, Caraway,’ one of the women said. ‘Go home.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Fine.’ Her face showed no hint of sympathy. ‘Then you accept what’s coming to you.’ She glanced around the circle. ‘Weapons away, lads.’
The sound of steel being sheathed rang through the air. Caraway scanned their grim faces and understood what was about to happen. They wouldn’t afford him the dignity of swordplay, with its attendant rules and courtesies. How could they? He had no blade to speak of; it wouldn’t be fair. So instead, they would maintain their code of practice by beating him up with their bare hands. The fact that there were twenty of them and just one of him had no bearing on the matter.
For an instant he considered giving up. If he begged their forgiveness now, if he promised to retreat into the lower rings and not cause any more trouble, they’d probably let him go. He could return to his life, such as it was. Maybe he could even come up with a plan for getting to Ayla some other way. It wasn’t possible for him to win here, after all. Even on his best days he’d only been able to keep two or three assailants back at once, and that was before he’d dulled his own fighting edge and allowed his physical fitness to slide. Against twenty, there could be only one outcome.
On the other hand, he was tired of running away. And he knew quite well that if he didn’t reach Ayla today, he’d never reach her. She’d be locked in darkness, forced into obedience, never able to Change again, and he’d have to live the rest of his life knowing he’d failed her as badly as he’d failed her mother … he couldn’t let that happen. No, he’d stay here and try to make them let him through, and he’d keep on trying until they had to kill him to stop him. Better to die quickly in pursuit of something worthwhile than to destroy himself slowly with alcohol and regret.
He lifted his fists into the guard position, knowing he would need to protect his face for as long as possible; and as if that was the signal they’d been waiting for, the circle of people around him began to close in. They were careful at first, taking it in turns to approach him, allowing him to block a punch here and a kick there, always leaving enough time for him to spin to face the next blow. Yet he knew they were only playing with him; like a gang of street bullies, they wanted him to realise the extent of their power over him before they finished him off.
Once or twice he tried to break out of the circle, to get into a position where he wasn’t surrounded, but each time they closed ranks to drive him back. He was trapped. And gradually the attacks became harder and faster until there were two or three of them coming for him at once, making him twist and turn in a vain attempt to defend himself. After that, it wasn’t long until the inevitable happened: one punch and then another broke past his guard, catching him just below the ribcage and on the side of the jaw, winding him and blurring his vision at the same time.
Caraway staggered, fists faltering. His teeth had sliced into the inside of his lip; he spat out a mouthful of blood. The faces around him merged into one, mocking smiles and determined frowns alike. He turned his head, searching for the single trace of compassion that would tell him he had a chance of succeeding. A couple of familiar faces swam out of the crowd, and he took a stumbling step towards them.
‘Marco, Logan … you knew me once,’ he mumbled. ‘Please, just let me pass.’
Then several of them were on him, wrenching his arms behind his back, pushing him face-down on the ground. He turned his head to one side to avoid breaking his nose on the paving stones, and the gritty surface tore across his cheek with enough force to make his eyes water. One man was on his back, holding his wrists tightly together to prevent him from throwing a punch; another pinned down his flailing legs. A boot hit his ribcage like a hammer, and his entire body convulsed against the hands that were restraining him.
As the second kick caught his shin in another flare of agony, he closed his eyes. Sooner or later they’d kick him in the face – smash his nose or break his jaw or knock his teeth in – and that would be the end of it. He had no way of defending himself. His lungs were being compressed, making it difficult to breathe – he fought to take a gulp of air through the blood that was slowly filling his mouth, then lost it again as the toe of a boot prodded his head –
‘What’s going on here?’ The shout reached him even through the clamour of pain that enclosed every one of his senses. The weight on his back eased slightly and the grip on his wrists loosened, allowing him to struggle up onto one elbow and spit out the mouthful of dirt and blood that had threatened to choke him.
‘It’s Tomas Caraway, sir,’ another voice said somewhere above him. ‘We think he’s gone mad. He came riding into the fifth ring claiming he had to reach Darkhaven as soon as possible. Well, of course we couldn’t let him get anywhere near Darkhaven, so –’
‘And it takes this many of you to subdue him?’ This time Caraway recognised Art Bryan’s voice. ‘I had no idea he was such a ferocious warrior.’
The words held no hint of satire, but they produced an awkward silence all the same. Caraway felt the man who was pinning him down relax his grip still further; immediately he pushed up on hands and knees, driving his head backwards into his captor’s face, throwing the man off. Then he was on his feet, staggering a little, blocking a punch with more instinct than skill – a well-placed kick made him stumble and fall back to his knees – now someone had him in a headlock, squeezing hard, sending jagged blocks of darkness across his already blurred vision –
‘Enough.’ Again Bryan’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears like a blade through a thread of silk. ‘Let go of him.’
The pressure on Caraway’s throat lessened. This time he stayed where he was, on his knees, gasping for air and trying to blink the spots out of his eyes. Dimly he was aware of Bryan walking towards him, stopping when he was only a short distance away.
‘What’s this all about, Caraway? I thought I told you never to show your face near the fifth ring again.’
Caraway looked up at him. The weaponmaster’s face was set in stern lines; it was unlikely he’d show Caraway any more sympathy than the rest had. Still, there was no point giving up now.
‘Ayla – they took her –’ He couldn’t catch his breath, and talking hurt, but he kept going. ‘They tricked me – got to get to Darkhaven before it’s too late –’ He stopped as Bryan held up a hand.
‘I’m not making any sense of this,’ the weaponmaster said. ‘Stand up properly, boyo, and get a grip on yourself.’
Damn him. Caraway dragged himself back to his feet, willing his head to stop spinning and his lungs to expand. One of his knees didn’t feel quite right, and his cut cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
‘It’s what I told you before,’ he managed, forcing himself to look Bryan in the eye. ‘Captain Travers and the Helm think Lady Ayla is a murderer. They’re going to lock her up. I can’t let that happen.’
One of Bryan’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I see. And did you think to arm yourself at all, before you rushed out on this vital mission?’
A muted snigger ran through the watchers. Caraway clenched his fists, anxiety and frustration flaring up inside him like a spark on powder.
‘No, because I don’t have any weapons!’ he flung back at Bryan. ‘I don’t have any resources, I don’t have any friends. I don’t have anything except a broken blade and my own two hands. But I promised Ayla I’d help her, and I will not stand by and let her be condemned for something she didn’t do!’
There was silence.
Bryan studied his face, heavy brows knitted together in thought. Then he nodded. ‘All right.’
Confused, Caraway blinked at him. ‘All right?’
‘You can go.’ Bryan unbuckled his own sword from his hip, then held it out on his upturned palms. ‘Though you may find this blade more serviceable than your own.’
Caraway accepted it tentatively, sure he must be misunderstanding. Around them there were mutters of discontent, and one voice protested, ‘But –’
‘But what?’ Bryan turned on the gathered warriors, folding his arms across his massive chest. ‘You want to argue with me? If any of you doubt my authority or my judgement, then I’m ready to debate the issue on the sparring floor, with or without a sword.’
‘Then you’re just going to let him walk into Darkhaven?’
‘Why not?’ Bryan shrugged. ‘He’ll probably go and get himself killed, and that will be an end to it. But this is between him and Captain Travers, and I see no reason to interfere. Travers is the one who threw him out of the Helm in the first place. Travers is the one who can deal with him.’ A glower settled on his face. ‘Not some jumped-up mob who think they have the right to mete out justice with their fists.’
There were further mumbles from around the circle, but it seemed no-one was willing to challenge the weaponmaster directly. Bryan turned back to Caraway, his face still contorted as though even he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing.
‘Well? Why are you still here? Bugger off before I change my mind.’
‘Thank you.’ With unsteady fingers, Caraway buckled Bryan’s sword belt on over his own, swivelling his own blade round to sit on the opposite side. The new weapon felt strange at his hip, heavy; it was years since he’d carried the weight of a whole sword.
‘To be honest, I hope you’re either deluded or lying,’ Bryan said. ‘Because whether you’re telling the truth or not, I’m likely going to have to retrieve my sword from your cold dead hands.’ His lips tightened briefly, as though keeping back a torrent of words. ‘Good luck, Tomas. Maybe you weren’t so very terrible a Helmsman after all.’
Unsure what to say, Caraway gave the weaponmaster something between a nod and a bow. Then he put his head down, ignoring his throbbing knee and his sore cheek and his aching lungs, and set off in the direction of the sixth gate.
THIRTY-ONE
Ayla’s unconscious body draped over his shoulder, Travers walked into the incarceration room and shut the door behind him.
Finally. He had her here.
His heart already thudding with anticipation, he deposited her on the bed and unwrapped the cloak he’d bundled her up in. This room could only be locked from the outside, but he’d posted a guard at the top of the stairs. He wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, not willing to take any chances, he pushed the room’s one chair in front of the door and wedged it under the handle. That would give him plenty of warning if anyone tried to come in; long enough to hide anything he didn’t want to be seen.
Once he’d done that he recrossed the room and looked down at Ayla, noting with satisfaction her unmarred features – he’d been right to drug her rather than knock her out and risk spoiling the perfection of her skin. As it was, in the glow from his lantern she simply looked as if she were sleeping. The short hair was a shame, but it didn’t matter: she’d be here long enough for it to grow back to its proper length. The light fabric of her shift moulded to her form and tangled around her thighs, making his mouth dry. Before today, he’d never seen her less than fully clothed.
Sitting beside her, he traced the curve of her cheek with one finger, and noticed his hand was shaking. He needed to get a grip on himself. Maybe he should take what he wanted from her now, while she was still unconscious – maybe that would calm him long enough to make sure he was fully in control the next time, when she was awake. The thought stirred him. He stroked her cheek again, ran his fingers over the smooth paleness of her throat. Then, with the memory still vivid in his mind of what it had been like to kiss her, he leaned down to press his lips against hers … and there was the problem. Her lips were warm, soft, pliant – everything he wanted them to be – but unresponsive. He would much rather feel her struggle beneath him, as she had before; at least that way he’d see the reaction in her eyes as he did all the things he wanted to do.
Yes, he definitely needed her conscious.
He took the second bottle from his pocket, shook a few drops of antidote onto the cloth he had used earlier, and held it to her nose and mouth. After a moment, her breath caught in her throat, becoming deeper and more ragged; a flush spread across her cheeks. Travers tucked bottle and cloth away, before dealing Ayla a single sharp slap.
‘Wha—?’ She startled bolt upright as though he had thrown cold water over her. As her eyes focused on his face, her expression changed from confusion to a mixture of anger and fear. ‘Travers, what have you done to me? Where am I?’
He considered slapping her again – he had enjoyed the first one almost too much – but he was afraid that once he started hurting her, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he didn’t want that. Not yet.
‘Take a look around,’ he invited her. In response, her gaze moved from his face to the four walls of the small room that surrounded them. When she looked back at him, the fear was more prominent.
‘This is Darkhaven.’ It was a bare whisper. ‘Are we –?’
‘In the incarceration room?’ he finished for her. ‘Yes. I’m carrying out your sentence, just as Lord Florentyn ordered.’
‘But I didn’t attack that priestess.’ The reply was automatic; he shrugged it off.
‘The evidence says otherwise, Ayla. What’s more, it also says you killed your father and attacked me. You have to be locked up, for the safety of everyone around you.’
‘Travers.’ Her voice was laced with hysteria now. ‘I’m telling you, I didn’t do it.’
He leaned closer to her. ‘But who else is there, sweet girl? Who else in this city can Change, apart from you?’
Ayla backed away from him, into the corner, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘Does Myrren know about this?’
‘Of course.’ Travers moved after her, trapping her in position. ‘He thinks you did it too.’
She flinched at that, then shook her head. ‘You’re lying.’
‘You’re all alone, Ayla. And if you think your alcoholic friend Caraway will save you, you can think again. He’ll never get anywhere near Darkhaven without being cut down.’
A tremor shook her body, but she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Let me go, Travers. You have no right to keep me here.’
She was altogether too arrogant, too sure of herself. It was time to show her a little of what the future held. With swift precision, Travers reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, forcing her head back against the wall. His other hand moved slowly down over her exposed throat, feeling her pulse leap beneath his fingers.
‘I have the only right that matters,’ he murmured. ‘This room will be your home for as long as I see fit, and the key is in my pocket.’
He saw the flicker in her eyes an instant before her feet lashed out at him, and so he was ready for the impact. All the same, it sent him reeling backwards, allowing her enough space to scramble off the bed and make for the door. She got as far as reaching out to move the chair before he caught her around the waist and dragged her kicking and struggling back across the room. One flailing foot struck his shin, making his eyes water – her head caught him a glancing blow on the cheek – then his knife was in his hand, the blade pressed lightly under her chin. Immediately she froze, holding herself stiff and still.
‘Quite so,’ Travers said. ‘I’m glad we sorted out that little misunderstanding.’
He walked her back to the bed, pushing down on her shoulder to get her to sit. It was a good thing he had the knife. Before he’d gone out into the city to fetch her, he’d visited Darkhaven’s armoury with the intention of taking the pistol from the cabinet of illegal weaponry, but it had be
en missing; most likely Naeve Sorrow had something to do with it. At the time he’d been furious at the realisation that not only had Sorrow felled three of his men and managed to evade arrest, she had also stolen the most effective means of controlling his captive. Now, however, he was relieved. A pistol was a lethal sort of weapon, inclined to go off at the slightest provocation – and the last thing he wanted to do to Ayla was kill her.
‘Now, my lady,’ he said, sitting back down beside her on the bed. ‘I told you before that you shouldn’t fight me. If you do anything like that again, I may have to hurt you.’
‘What are you going to do to me?’ Ayla’s voice was faint, but she faced him as though she didn’t realise or didn’t care that she was afraid. It was that spirit Travers had always liked in her; it would be a shame if she lost it too soon. He smiled.
‘I think you know the answer to that.’
She flinched, but held his gaze. Her eyes had glazed over slightly, yet he had no doubt that behind the vacant stare she was thinking as hard as she could of ways to distract him. Amused, Travers didn’t reach for her again straight away. Let her think she had a chance of keeping him at a distance, armed only with words and her quick wit. She’d learn her mistake soon enough.
‘Who was the girl?’ she asked. ‘The one being guarded by your sellsword in the Ametrine Quarter?’
‘What, Elisse?’ He threw her a glance, unimpressed by her first line of attack. ‘Nobody. Just a girl from the country.’ Still watching Ayla’s face, he added, ‘But the child she’s carrying is of the Nightshade line. Your half brother or sister.’
Darkhaven Page 26
