The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  I returned to myself, lifted my head and blinked, wavering where I sat as the world shifted, receding from one defined by the nuances of smell to be replaced with the brilliant colors and myriad shades that defined human perception.

  I shook my head. “We could probably all use a bath—especially you, Rory,” I said, “but I doubt if there’s a way we can confuse a sentinel’s sense of smell.” I shook my head again, trying to find the words to describe the complexity with which Wag perceived the world. “He knows what everything smells like. They pass down their ability and their knowledge. Try to imagine playing seeker and lost except all the lost are the ones wearing the blindfolds. He smelled the men coming to kill him.”

  “It all makes sense, except for one thing,” Rory said and everyone else nodded. The problem stared us right in the face.

  I sighed. “Yes. If it’s impossible to fool their sense of smell, how did those men manage to sneak in and kill them? The sentinels should have smelled them coming for days.”

  “Alchemy?” Bolt asked.

  I shook my head. “Not possible.” I waved my arm at the forest around us. “Wag could tell you exactly what route Volsk took when he left, right down to each tree or bush he brushed against on the way.”

  “Maybe they bathed?” Rory asked.

  “There’s no bath that can take your smell off,” Bolt said. “Hunters don’t even try that. Instead they go out into the woods for a few days until they smell more like the natural surroundings, but that wouldn’t work on a sentinel.”

  “Do the sentinels have a way to distinguish between the smells of friend and enemy?” I asked.

  Bolt cocked his head to one side before giving a small nod. “The members of the Vigil are all friends.” He must have seen my expression. “Even if one of the men who came here was Jorgen, that wouldn’t explain how the dwimor managed to sneak up on them.”

  “That’s it, then,” Rory said as if that settled it.

  “What?”

  He lifted his shoulders and let them fall back into place. “The sentinels are smart like people, so when they get old enough they can be fooled like people. It’s not like your eyes quit working, your vision just slides past the dwimor. They must be able to do the same thing to the adult sentinel’s sense of smell.”

  Bolt growled under his breath. “That would also give them another reason to kill the pups. They can’t hide from them.”

  I put my glove back on and turned to look Wag in the face. He gazed back. Now that I knew it was there, I could spot awareness, the telltale sign of almost human intelligence in his gaze. “We’re going to get you to Gylden,” I told him. “We’re going to get you a healer and you’re going to help us hunt these men down.” His tale thumped on the ground.

  I looked at Bolt. “They made a mistake.”

  He nodded. “They left us a weapon.”

  Chapter 27

  We came within sight of the towers of Gylden and its steep-roofed houses just before sunset of the next day, slowing our horses to a casual walk to time our arrival after sunset. The smell of people and forge fires drifted to us on a breeze blowing from the northwest. Even in the fading light we could see the mountains immediately to the north of the city, mountains that held the secret to Duke Orlan’s wealth.

  Gylden boasted more of the gifted than any city in Collum except Bunard, the king’s hold. Those within Orlan’s domain bent their gifts and talents toward finding precious metals, devising ever-more-efficient means for extracting wealth from the streambeds of the countless flows that came gushing from the mountains each spring.

  But there were rumors—old even when I was a boy—that the rivers within Orlan’s duchy had panned out long ago and that the duke had done what was forbidden. He’d used the gifts and talents of his people to mine the deep places of the earth, searching for silver and gold.

  And whatever traces of aurium he could find.

  Laidir had never pursued those rumors. The constant threat of war with Owmead had kept him from it. His widow, in an even more precarious position, would likewise have to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to the duke’s supposed criminal activity.

  And so the house of Orlan was enriched.

  Rory looked down at Wag, who slept draped across the back of my horse, his breathing shallow. “How are we going to get him through the gates?”

  I exhaled a long slow breath. In Bunard I’d built up enough goodwill with the guards to have them look the other way or pretend selective blindness when I needed it. Entering Gylden with a wounded sentinel pup was the type of thing the guards would likely report.

  “Cover him,” Bolt said. “Tell the guards it’s a wolf that attacked us in the Everwood and we’re going to have it stuffed.”

  It might have been coincidence, but Wag opened an eye and blinked at that.

  “And if they pull the blanket back and see he’s still alive?”

  Bolt held up his hand and made a wiggling gesture with his fingers. “Tell him to keep his eyes closed and play dead.”

  I took off my glove and put my hand on Wag’s head, the fur thick and coarse to the touch. Every scent I’d noted on our approach to the city intensified a thousandfold, imbued with nuances and flavors I’d never suspected. I shunted aside odors of sweat, forge fires, and a thousand different foods and concentrated on planting an idea in Wag’s mind, a game quite nearly as old as the custom of keeping dogs itself. I told Wag to play dead, reinforcing the necessity of the idea with the smells he’d already come to associate with danger.

  Behind his happy acceptance of my instruction lurked two impressions I tried to ignore but couldn’t. The first was something I had noticed before—the scent of evil, a slight tang of corruption that Wag associated with my touch. I didn’t spend much time wondering what that might be.

  The second was a growing weariness that came through our connection, a fatigue born of continuing blood loss. Even Wag’s memories carried a diffused cast to them, a dark penumbra that reminded me of Kera. We needed a healer, and we needed haste.

  I pulled my hand away from his head. “Now, boy,” I said, “and don’t stop until I tell you.” He went limp across the back of my horse and closed his eyes. I covered his form with a blanket and, with a sigh and a prayer, twitched the reins.

  We passed by the outer gatehouse without comment, then through a wide arch in the heavy walls. I turned in my saddle to inspect the dark, heavy stones as we went, their surfaces worn smooth by weather and water, moss clinging to the shaded crevices. “Old,” I said. “Not so old as Bunard, but nearly so.”

  Bolt nodded. “Even if there’d been no silver here, Gylden would have remained for the quarries and the trappers.” We stopped on the other side of the deep entry arch and paused to survey the towers of Orlan’s stronghold lit by torchlight. “Though it wouldn’t have been nearly as big,” he added.

  At the other end of the entrance tunnel a guard met us, his pike loose in one hand and his beard-shadowed face bored. I didn’t want to be the interesting part of his day. “Your business in Gylden?”

  I coughed. “We’re looking for a healer.”

  The guard jerked back and drew his sword. “No one enters the city carrying the fever.”

  I shook my head. “Touch me if you like. The healer is for stitches.” I pointed at the blanket. “There’s why.”

  The guard twitched the blanket aside to reveal Wag’s head, eyes closed and tongue hanging out. By the torchlight I couldn’t detect breathing or any other motion. I hoped the guard couldn’t either.

  He put the blanket back, nodding. “But why bring it here?”

  I opened my eyes, pretending surprise. “I’ve never killed a wolf before. It’s a trophy.”

  He shook his head and swung his arm toward the crossroads ahead of us. “Stupid custom, stuffing dead animals.”

  We stopped a few paces on, where traffic, noise, and the charcoal light of dusk combined in a dizzying soup that overwhelmed the senses. “We need to get off the street,
” I said, keeping my voice low. “Or have you forgotten that I’m not exactly a favored son here?”

  “I haven’t been here in a long time,” Bolt said, omitting my name, “and then only once. My memory is good, but not like yours.” He turned to peer north, then east, then west. “Most cities are laid out the same. This way, I think.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “There are probably traders and moneylenders there as well, fairly close to the gate I’d imagine.”

  “Along with higher-priced night women,” Rory said, shaking his head. “There’s no point in letting a man’s successful venture go to waste.”

  Ten minutes later we arrived at the noise and light that marked the Pick and Shovel, apparently a well-trafficked establishment, despite its name. We dismounted, and Rory and I led our horses to the large stable behind the inn while Bolt went inside to pay for rooms. I slipped the hands a bit more than required to take care of our horses and lifted Wag as gently as I could from Dest’s back, coughing to cover his soft whimper.

  We climbed the back stairs to the second of three floors and waited. Bolt came around the corner a few moments later and motioned toward the third floor. We took a large room by the stairwell that led to the stables. I put Wag, blanket and all, on the bed.

  “I’ll find us a healer in the morning,” Bolt said.

  I shook my head. “No. He needs one now.” I held up my hand, the one I used when I delved.

  “That’s the kind of thing that gets noticed,” Bolt said.

  I couldn’t disagree. “It can’t be helped. His wound hasn’t closed and there’s a cast to his memories that I’ve seen before.”

  Rory levered himself up from the bed where he’d been sitting at Wag’s head. “I’ll find one.” He untied the knot at his throat and tossed his cloak over a chair.

  Bolt shook his head. “No. You can’t leave him,” he said, pointing at me. “Not ever.”

  Rory looked at me, then back to Bolt. “You need a healer who works at night without asking questions or talking about what they’ve seen.”

  “How do you know Gylden even has such a healer?”

  Rory barked a laugh. “Every city has thieves, and sometimes thieves need medical attention. The healers willing to treat them cost more, but they keep their silence.”

  “Tell me where to find one,” Bolt said.

  The young thief shook his head. “That’s just it, I can’t.” He patted his chest, hips, and the small of his back, checking his knives. “I’m going to have to go into the city and find a thief.” He held out his hand. “And I’m going to need money.”

  The lines of Bolt’s face hardened as he prepared to argue, but a heartbeat later he pulled his purse and tossed it to Rory. His apprentice withdrew three full silver crowns and wrapped them in a piece of cloth, keeping them separate. Then he tossed Bolt’s purse back to him and tucked the wad of cloth holding the coins into his tunic.

  “Is that going to be enough?” I asked.

  Rory shook his head. “Probably not, but it will get him here. After that we’ll have to slip him enough to buy his silence.” He cut his eyes to Bolt. “And it might not be a bad idea to offer him the hospitality of our room for the night just to make sure he doesn’t decide to sell information about us to the guards.”

  I thought Bolt might raise one last protest, but he stepped away from the door and Rory left without saying anything more, his footsteps all but soundless as he went. I settled myself next to Wag to wait.

  Two hours later we were still sitting that way when a soft rap at the door brought us to a standing position. Farthest from the door, I reached for my throwing daggers, noting that Bolt already had his sword in his right hand. He nodded to me and opened the door, blocking it with his body.

  A short figure holding a large bag peered at us from the shadows of his hood, making placating gestures, but his feet were pointed resolutely into the room. Then a delicate hand rose to sweep back the hood and a cascade of chestnut hair framed a face I knew from my more normal nightmares.

  “You’re Orlan,” I said.

  She stiffened, straightening as though someone had replaced the natural curve of her spine with a rod of iron. “My father has never bothered to admit his paternity. My name is Fynn.”

  “Come in,” Bolt said, but he made no move to sheath his weapons, even as Rory followed her into the room.

  “Perhaps I should go,” she said.

  I shook my head. “So that you can alert your father’s men? No, I don’t think I’d like that.”

  When she frowned at me, I could see the stamp of her father’s arrogance in her features. “Did you not hear me, friend?” She nodded at the blade in my hand. “Or do you think with your steel like every other man around here?”

  Bolt stifled his laughter and moved aside. Fynn edged into the room, attempting to keep as much distance from his weapons as she could.

  “Do you know who I am?” I asked.

  She cocked her head, her green eyes tight with challenge. “You don’t know me or of me, so you can’t be from Gylden, and the only other place the duke visits is the king’s city. You’re probably someone from Bunard who’s managed to draw my father’s unwelcome attention.” She shrugged. “That doesn’t narrow it down overly much, but then ‘Da’ does manage to get around.”

  The thought of delving her crossed my mind more than once, but I couldn’t see any advantage to it. I wasn’t prepared to kill her and we weren’t going to let her leave until we were headed out of town. “You understand that we must have your discretion?” I said.

  Fynn blinked and gave me a slow nod that focused the light on her hair. “Yes. Your thief has told me of your unusual requirements.” She cut her gaze to the bed.

  “What happened to you?” Bolt asked Rory. “I thought I’d trained you better than this.”

  Rory gingerly touched the swelling around his left eye. “Thieves have their own way of doing business. I had to pay for the information that led me to Fynn and prove I was desperate enough to be willing to take a couple of blows for it. Ducking the leader’s fist and putting him down would have been fun, but we needed a healer.”

  Bolt nodded his approval. “It usually takes years for me to beat that kind of discretion into a guard. You did well,” he said to Rory. “Did anyone follow you?”

  Rory shook his head. “Not unless they’re better than I am.” He slipped out of his shoes. “I’ll go up to the roof to have a look around anyway. I’ll knock twice, then three times.”

  Fynn moved over to the bed where Wag lay, watching each of us in turn, probably waiting for one of us to finish so that we could scratch him behind the ears. “I don’t treat animals,” Fynn said. “They bite and it’s hard to get the dosages right.”

  I pulled my glove and moved to stand by Wag’s head. “He won’t move, just give him half of whatever you think he’ll need.”

  Fynn shook her head. “He’s just going to chew the stitches right out of his wound.”

  “No,” Bolt said. “He won’t.”

  The shrug Fynn answered with conveyed surrender, not agreement. “Light all the candles”—she pointed around the room—“and keep him still. The binding you’ve put on the wound will probably stick despite my efforts.” She opened the bag, searching, before she pulled forth a bottle of clear liquid and a pair of clean, bright shears.

  “What’s in the bottle?” I asked. “A healer named Galen used spirits on me once. He almost had to scrape me off the ceiling.”

  Fynn smiled, and I saw what Orlan would have looked like if he’d been young, female, and kind. “It’s just purified water. I’m going to wet the bandage to make it easier to remove.”

  The healer poured the water slowly across the bandaged wound, waiting for each trickle to be absorbed before adding any more, her fingers deft as a musician’s. After nearly a quarter hour she took her shears in her left hand.

  I gestured toward them. “I imagine those cost you quite a bit.”

  She
looked toward me and nodded. “Between my wrong-handedness and my face, not too many people believe Duke Orlan when he says he’s not my father, but it hardly matters. His silver and gold have managed to buy the semblance of belief, if not the reality.”

  She squinted at Wag. “Exposing the wound to the air will be painful. If he makes a move to bite me I’m leaving, and that will be after I scream loud enough to draw the city guard.”

  I nodded. “He won’t. Give me a moment.” Fynn didn’t look convinced. I put my bare hand on Wag’s head and wobbled a bit on my feet as the room shifted in my senses. Fynn wore nervousness and lilac, but he found the odors of her art more interesting. Through our connection, I put the image in Wag’s head of lying still as the bandages were removed. It kept sliding away, dispelled by the strange smells coming from the healer’s bag, but each time I put it back until it achieved some measure of permanence. For the healer’s sake I crooned encouragement to Wag at intervals.

  “You’re safe now,” I told Fynn.

  She slipped the shears beneath the linen, muttering as she squeezed the blades together in minute snips. “I’ll have to pour numbing liquid on the wound and cut away whatever flesh has fouled before I stitch him up. That goes for the muscle as well. If the sword stroke got to his organs, I’ll stitch those as well, but even if you keep him still, it will be a dozen rolls of two if he survives.”

  I nodded. In the game of bones, rolls of two and eight were the least common and two was seen as a sign of bad luck as well. “He’ll be fine,” I said. “He has to be.”