“Do you think he can be found so easily?” the Chief of Servants asked.
“Perhaps not,” the Archbishop said, “but if Jorgen is worried about keeping his head, he might be too busy hiding to create more assassins.”
The sound of the Archbishop clearing his throat emanated from the crystal. “Perhaps it would be better to finish our discussion without commandeering any more of the Eldest’s time.”
Pellin listened to the quick assents of the other heads in disbelief and for a moment considered delving the Chief of Servants, but such an act without permission would be tantamount to an accusation, and he had none. Nevertheless, as she stood to signal his dismissal, the realization that he had been nothing more than an unwitting player on the stage for the last two hours wouldn’t leave. Their cooperation with each other had been too easy, too familiar, without the endless debate that customarily accompanied even minor decisions.
He left the Chief’s office in a daze, retracing his steps back through the Cathedral of Servants and out toward the broad plaza of Criers’ Square with the mechanical steps of a child’s wind-up toy. Engrossed in the catastrophe and his failure to avert it, he failed to notice that night had fallen until Allta jerked him to a stop, forcing him to see the lamps.
“Eldest, we have no acolyte.”
Allta drew his sword, and they retreated into the safety of the Servants Cathedral. Pellin approached a robed servant standing just inside the narthex. “Brother, my servant and I require an escort back to our lodgings for the night.”
The brown-robed priest cast a look toward Allta, who stood just inside the entrance, two hands taller and broader than most men and holding his sword with the deadly familiarity of those who live with the weapon in their hand.
The brother’s blond eyebrows rose. “You need an escort?”
Pellin forced a smile and nodded. “Despite appearances to the contrary. My guard and I are both suffering from a temporary lack of visual acuity and would earnestly appreciate assistance.”
The brother locked gazes with Pellin, squinting in an obvious attempt to verify his claim. With a shrug that communicated more doubt than certitude, he bowed from the neck. “I will serve you.”
Pellin worked to keep his smile in place. For the second time he flashed the silver-worked medallion showing a hand holding a foot. “Ah. Yes. Well, you are certainly welcome to come along, but I have found that young eyes are the best. Would it be possible to have an acolyte accompany us?”
The look of suspicion remained, but the brother nodded and disappeared into the recesses of the narthex to appear a moment later with an acolyte of perhaps twelve or thirteen, a dull-eyed boy who exhibited little interest in his present circumstances.
“This is Rundor,” the brother said.
Pellin bowed his gratitude. “Thank you, brother. We’ll send him back to you once we reach our destination.” He waited until the brother retreated to the hidden safety of the cathedral’s narthex, leaving the three of them alone at the entrance before addressing their guide. “Tell me, Rundor, how good is your eyesight?”
The boy stared at him openmouthed without answering, blinking slowly to keep pace with his sluggish thoughts.
Pellin backed away and held up two fingers. “How many do you see?”
Rundor’s thick brows lowered in concentration, an expression that communicated no small amount of discomfort. “Two.”
“Wonderful,” Pellin exclaimed, putting an arm around the boy and leading him across Criers’ Square. “Here’s what I want you to do. Do you see the Merum Cathedral over there?”
Rundor nodded.
“Excellent. That’s where we’re headed, and it’s about two hundred paces away.” They took a few more steps while Rundor did his best to digest this information. “If you see anyone coming toward us, Rundor, anyone at all, I want you to point at them. Do you understand?”
Rundor nodded and lifted his hand and pointed at the empty expanse of Criers’ Square in front of them.
Pellin bowed his head in frustration. He would have to find an even simpler way to explain. “Very good, Rundor, but don’t point until you actually see someone.”
The boy nodded, his arm dipping a fraction before raising it again to point. At the same spot.
Pellin sighed. “I think we need—” His head snapped to a hint of shadow, a ghost of movement at the edge of his vision.
Too many things happened in that instant—a whisper of displaced air; Allta crashing into Rundor, who tumbled into Pellin; the sound of meat being cut as a knife blossomed in Rundor’s side; Allta drawing his sword to fight something they couldn’t see.
Pellin stooped to pick up the boy, his back and knees screaming at the abuse. “Quickly, back to the cathedral!”
Then he heard footsteps, the strike of a bootheel directly in front of them without an apparent owner, and Allta began yelling for the city watch, his sword cutting the air everywhere at once.
A hint of shadow in the dark, black on black from the guttering torches, moved across his vision. Allta cocked his head listening, straining to hear over the sound of his sword cutting air, his weight forward on his feet, ready to spring.
The hiss of a blade, not Allta’s, came from their left. Quicker than thought, his guard leapt toward the sound, and Pellin winced at the chunk of steel biting into flesh. Allta backed away, weaving broad figure eights with his sword, free arm clamped against the wetness spreading along his side.
“Stay behind me,” Allta growled, backing toward the cathedral.
Shifting the boy, Pellin searched his cloak for something, anything that he might throw at their attacker, any object that would reveal his position or at least blind him momentarily so they could run. His hand closed around one of the medallions, and when Allta’s head jerked to the left, he threw, but the symbol of office disappeared into the darkness to clatter against the stones.
Allta gasped as the assassin found an opening, and more blood worked its way down his leg. Pellin looked behind them. Twenty paces separated them from the gates of the cathedral. Rundor whimpered into Pellin’s cloak.
Pellin stumbled, buckling under the weight of the acolyte. Fifteen paces separated them from safety. Across the square, booted feet came running, but they were hundreds of paces away. They’d never make it in time.
He tripped under the boy’s weight. It was no use. He couldn’t get both Rundor and himself back to the cathedral. “I’m sorry, lad,” Pellin said as he laid the acolyte on the stones as gently as he could.
Chapter 9
Jeb looked at the body of the woman, his face wrinkling at the sight of her mottled skin. “She’s a little overdue for burial, Dura,” he growled.
I nodded. “I’ll have her taken to the gravesman once we’re done.” I chose my next words with care. “She came for me in Braben’s. I’m not sure how she did it, but she had that knife on me almost before I noticed her, and I’ve been more than a little watchful lately.”
“You think she’s one of Orlan’s?” Jeb asked.
I cocked my head to one side as if considering the idea, but inwardly I ground my teeth. Jeb had completely missed the hint. “I’m not sure. But you told me that you had a bunch of unsolved murders, and I wondered if there might be a connection.”
Jeb stared at me as if I were hard of hearing. “And how would we know that, Dura? I have no witnesses, as in none.”
I knew what I wanted to ask and knew just as certainly I couldn’t ask it. How would I explain to Jeb that his only possible witnesses would be children? “Did you try the urchins?”
Jeb fished into his pocket and tossed me the token I’d given him. “Their new head, Bounder, knows me a little too well.”
Sometime in the past, Jeb had probably put his fists to use on the thief. Now that Bounder headed the urchins who chose to stay on the streets, no token or bribe would be enough for Jeb to enlist his aid. I sighed. “With your permission, I’d like to take a look around.”
Jeb
shrugged, turning away from the dead woman, his interest gone. “It’s about time you started to make yourself useful again. See Gareth on your way out. He’s got a list of every murder since Bas-solas we haven’t been able to solve.”
I left the quarters of the city watch and came out into dusk. Bolt took one look at the sky and commandeered one of the watch to take care of the woman’s body. I knew better than to argue the point. Since Bas-solas, my guard’s one nonnegotiable point was being out after dark.
Pounding at my door scattered my thoughts like water on a hot skillet. Before I could lift my gaze from the ficheall board, where I had just started a game with my guard, Bolt had left his seat and drawn. A second knock, followed by the sound of Toria’s panic-stricken voice, brought a throwing dagger into each of my hands. I nodded to Bolt, who opened the door but kept his foot wedged against it just in case.
For once, the gaze Toria directed at me lacked the suspicion or resentment it usually wore. “Pellin’s been attacked.” She disappeared from the doorway quickly enough to seem gifted, leaving Bolt and me to run after her and her guard.
We followed her around the corner and wedged our way through a small crowd of healers at the door of Pellin’s quarters. One of the women at the door wore the embroidered sigil of an apothecary. I swallowed against my worst fear and followed Bolt as he pushed his way through the mass, shoving and scattering bodies without apology or comment.
Inside, three men were being examined by healers in Merum red and the drab brown of Servants. Pellin and an adolescent lay stretched on the large table, tended by a single healer, and though their color could have served for linen, they were conscious.
Allta was another matter. A swarm of healers surrounded him, preventing me from seeing the extent of his injuries, but more than once I heard someone asking for pressure, and there were enough needles and thread in evidence to weave a tapestry.
Bronwyn stood at Pellin’s head, scolding him, her face set against eventualities she didn’t want to contemplate.
“Give over, Bronwyn,” Pellin said. “If I were going to die I would have brought someone in.” He cut his eyes to Bolt and gave his head a small shake. “Check on Allta and Rundor.”
Bolt nodded and withdrew.
In the last war, I’d learned about all the ways men and women deal with fear in the midst of fighting. Most of them resembled some version of Bronwyn, who fought against its debility, or Toria, who channeled it into fire. Oddly, it was those like Toria who ended up dead, so caught in the rage of the moment they couldn’t safeguard themselves.
“Toria Deel.” Either she didn’t hear me or tried to ignore me. “Toria,” I said a bit louder. Her head snapped up at the absence of her last name, and I held up both hands. “My apologies. I needed your attention.” I pointed at the door. “There are no children here, and the door is open.”
Her eyes widened, and she snapped her fingers. “Elory, bar the door and send some of those hangers-on in the hallway for a pair of acolytes.” She gave me an expressionless nod.
“The boy’s going to have a nice scar, but he’ll be up and about in a week,” Bolt said, as he returned to stand by Pellin’s side. “The dagger didn’t hit anything vital.”
Pellin nodded. “That’s well. I still owe the Chief of Servants some recompense, but less than if he died.” He bit his lower lip. “Allta?”
Bolt shrugged. “The healers have stopped the worst of the bleeding, but he left a trail of blood a blind man could follow. The healer from the Servants gives him one chance out of two, the Merum a bit less.”
Pellin nodded and sighed in relief. “That’s well.”
I gaped. “What’s well about it?”
Before I could say any more, Bronwyn leaned over to whisper in my ear. “They do not understand the depth of his gift. He can survive more grievous wounds than another man, and he will heal more quickly as well.” Allta’s soft snores seemed to confirm Bronwyn’s reasoning.
We waited until the healers had finished their embroidery and bound Allta’s wounds with oil cloth infused with goldenseal and comfrey. They left, supporting Rundor’s weight between them, and we helped Pellin to a sitting position. Toria locked the door, and Elory remained in the hallway, flanked by Merum guards and four acolytes.
Bronwyn waited, face composed, until the door closed, then wheeled on the Eldest. “What stupidity compelled you to remain outside the cathedral after dark—and why, in the name of all that’s holy, did you stay with Allta during the attack?” Her voice rose in pitch and volume until Pellin winced. “Do you not know who you are?”
“Give over, Bronwyn,” Pellin said. “We had the boy with us.”
“In the dark!” Bronwyn’s voice cracked under the strain. “Why didn’t you stay with the Pueri until dawn?”
“I didn’t expect an attack,” Pellin said, “and even if I had, I would have tried to return. As for why I didn’t run, Rundor took the dagger meant for me. Allta was otherwise occupied and I wasn’t strong enough to carry him back to the cathedral. After I set him down, I stayed on the ground, throwing dirt and sand until Allta knew where to strike.”
“Clever,” Bolt said. “He couldn’t see the assassin, but he could see the sand bouncing off of him.”
Pellin nodded. “It was a close thing, even so.”
Toria nodded, but Bronwyn didn’t appear ready to surrender her anger. I’d seen this reaction before as well. Some people hated the feeling of being scared even more than the cause. “You put the Vigil in jeopardy. Let me be clear, Eldest—I will not take the mantle. I will submit to the next in line.”
Toria’s eyes widened at that.
“What was so important that you had to return to the Merum cathedral tonight?” I asked.
Pellin took turns looking at the three of us who shared his burden. “I’ve made a grave mistake. I thought that a dose of uncharacteristic honesty would be the simplest, most effective way to secure the church’s help in finding Laewan’s gift.” He shook his head. “But I scared them into unexpected cooperation. The heads of the four orders are of one mind. They’ve decided to bring the Vigil under their authority. Each of us will be assigned to a different order of the church.”
For some reason he avoided looking at me as he said this.
Bronwyn and Toria’s voices mixed in anger with Bolt’s and even Balean’s. Their denials and imprecations against the heads of the orders filled the room until Pellin raised his hand, calling for quiet.
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
The rest of the Vigil looked at me as if they were certain the walls within my mind had collapsed and I’d lost myself to the senility that overtook some of the Vigil in the end. Even Bolt wore surprise on his craggy face.
I swallowed the last of my black mirth and pointed at the Eldest. “Don’t you see? He means for us to run. Why else would he rush back tonight?” I caught Pellin’s gaze. “First light, I take it?”
The women’s stares drifted back and forth between Pellin and me.
“Allta’s injuries present something of a problem,” Pellin said. “And somehow we need to get the Merum Archbishop to send us the rest of the apprentices from Cynestol now that Peret Volsk is unable to fulfill his duties.”
Toria jerked in hurt and surprise. “Eldest, none of them are ready.”
Then she looked at me. I didn’t have a clue why.
Bronwyn gaped at Pellin as if the man on the other end of the conversation had become strange to her. “They’re children, Eldest.”
“They’re needed,” Pellin said. “With the loss of Peret we have no apprentice at hand if one of us should fall.”
For the first time since I’d become part of the Vigil I saw defiance in Bronwyn’s expression. “No, Eldest. The oldest doesn’t even own a score of years. You would crush them under the weight of the gift, and sending the request to Cynestol is pointless unless you mean to assign an apprentice to each of us.”
Pellin’s voice crackled through the air. �
��That is exactly what I mean to do. The dwimor pose a threat our guards can’t combat, but we can prepare.” His voice stilled. “Since our guards can no longer protect our safety on their own, we must each have an apprentice ready to receive our gift. Our guards can train them in the sword as we travel our separate ways.”
I shook my head. By the looks Toria and Bronwyn exchanged with each other, they saw the flaw in Pellin’s desperation as easily as I did. “You don’t need apprentices,” I said. “You need thieves, young thieves.”
Toria gaped at me, but I saw a ghost of a smile flit across Bronwyn’s face.
“Four of them have already proven themselves against the enemy, Eldest,” I said. “And not only are they young enough to see a dwimor, they’re skilled enough to fight them.”
Bronwyn nodded, but Pellin spluttered at the suggestion, his expression twisted in repugnance.
“There is another advantage to using the urchins, Eldest,” I said.
Pellin threw his question at me, forced and clenched like a fist. “And that would be . . . ?”
“If you use Rory, the Mark, Fess, and Lelwin and we lose one of the guards, they can accept their gift as well,” I said. “During Bas-solas they were nothing short of astonishing.”
“You’ve yet to voice your opinion, Toria Deel,” Pellin said. “Are you in agreement with this insanity?”
She nodded once before she spoke. “It addresses our needs, Eldest.” She paused to give me a stare that mothers taught their daughters in order to make men uncomfortable. “No one presumes it to be anything more than temporary, a precaution against the worst case.”
“I’ve seen too many worst cases come to pass already. Aer forbid the next generation of the Vigil should be composed of beggars, larcenists, and thieves,” Pellin snapped. “Or does the possibility of turning the most precious gift of Aer over to such not bother anyone besides me?”
The Shattered Vigil Page 9
