The Sianian Wolf

by Y. K. Willemse

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Francisco’s Refusal

  Rafen’s arm ached. He had been signaling for fifteen minutes with no response. Glancing along the wall-walk, he discovered he was shaking. Before leaving the astronomy tower and pulling the guard onto the battlements, he had yelled in Tarhian to anyone within earshot that there had been a brawl and murder in the barracks of the outer wall; the astronomy tower was closed, and Talmon requested aid. The few guards up here had flown from their posts, and Rafen had had the wall to himself. It couldn’t last long.

  Some guard was going to appear shortly and see the corpse at his feet.

  Frantically, Rafen started signaling again, his eyes fixed on the cluster of bushes across from where he knew the side door was. Tarhian voices rose from the courtyard within the outer wall. Rafen’s wary eyes slid left to the astronomy tower’s door.

  Rustling below drew his attention. He stepped between the merlons, gazing down. Sherwin was clinging to one of the larch’s uppermost branches. Freeing one hand, he motioned downward to Rafen.

  “You’re not doing me any good there,” Rafen muttered.

  He had hoped Sherwin could be on the ground to pull the dead man away when Rafen threw him over the wall. Noticing five guards by the side door for the first time, Rafen banished that idea completely. The falling corpse would draw their attention.

  The voices below had become quiet. A door swung open and slammed shut. Instinctively, Rafen knew it was the ground level door of the astronomy tower.

  Holding up a hand to Sherwin to wait, Rafen stepped back from the merlons and grabbed the corpse’s shoulders. Feverishly, he dragged his burden to the inner edge of the wall and shoved it over. A sickening thud resounded in the courtyard below. A guard yelled something incoherent in Tarhian. Rafen prayed this wouldn’t get Francisco into trouble.

  Footsteps clattered along the astronomy tower’s winding stone stairs.

  Rafen rushed over to the merlons near the astronomy tower’s door. The angle made by the tower’s rounded wall and the western wall would help. By pushing hard against both walls, he could keep from falling.

  Sherwin still motioned frenziedly, occasionally looking back at the guards watching the side door. Rafen estimated they were two minutes’ brisk walking from Sherwin. He was out of earshot, yet within view.

  The echoing footfalls within the tower sent a thrill through him. He turned, clutching the merlon closest to the tower, and lowered his left boot from the wall. The large stones were smoother than he had thought, and they were wet with rain. Rafen trembled. He was going to be found, and he would look like a fool.

  He pressed his toes into a little niche and lowered his right leg, hoping Sherwin was ready to catch him. Another slight cleft. Rafen lodged his foot in it, and lowered one hand to the bottom edge of the merlons. He agonizingly found crevices for his fingers to hook into, and moved his whole body down. He was now completely free of the wall-walk – a vibrating spider on stone bricks. Somewhere below, Sherwin was probably wetting himself.

  And then Rafen was looking below. Four stories beneath him, the ground spun dizzyingly, like a maelstrom determined to suck him down. Sweat beading on his forehead, Rafen’s grip slackened.

  Bang. The astronomy tower’s door flew open. His head snapped up. He tried to flatten himself against the dripping stone.

  “He must have passed this way, Your Grace,” a guard said. “The men at the doors mentioned it.”

  “Indeed,” interjected an oily voice Rafen recognized with hate. Thus far in his stay at the palace, he hadn’t seen Frankston again, because the lord was busy leading contingents of the Lashki’s philosophers and killing off members of King Robert’s old ruling structure. Now he had at last appeared. “Yes,” Frankston said in perfect Tarhian. “His Majesty’s favorite haunt. You will find him here, Talmon. Of a surety. Yes.”

  “Shut up,” Talmon snapped. Rafen was vaguely pleased that he found Frankston’s speech aggravating too.

  Then Rafen’s heart stopped. The fingers of his left hand were sliding from his handhold. With a mortifying scraping, his right foot jolted out of its crevice. Simultaneously, his left foot came loose, and Rafen yelled involuntarily. He dangled by slipping fingers.

  “What was that?” Talmon said.

  “The larches against the tower,” Frankston replied. “Yes. Must get them felled. Ugly trees.”

  “I heard a voice.”

  To Rafen’s horror, Talmon’s figure appeared between the merlons directly above him.

  Talmon glanced diagonally down at the larches some way below Rafen. Rafen’s hands were beneath his feet. The Tarhian king’s eyes were again filled with worry for Francisco.

  “It must have been from within,” he said distractedly.

  Turning on his heel, he stalked off down the wall-walk. He obviously would not have dreamed Francisco would attempt climbing down a wall, because he hadn’t bothered looking at it.

  “If I do not find my son,” his retreating voice said, “there will be death. Many have I employed to watch him, and the fools all shirk. Who is that lying around in the courtyard? I did not see him when we entered the tower.”

  They had spotted the corpse then. Rafen waited until they were out of earshot. He was holding on by his fingertips now. His heart pounded feverishly as he raised his left leg and struggled to find a foothold. He wormed his boot into a small aperture, and groped around with his right one for a hold. At the same time, his left hand slipped away entirely. Rafen felt himself reeling backward, but his muscles tightened so that he held on with only his right hand and left foot. Finding a niche for his other boot, he pushed against the walls with both legs so that he was secure. Letting out his pent up breath, Rafen glanced down again at the larches.

  Sherwin had vanished. This was fortunate, otherwise Talmon would have spotted him a moment ago. Still, Rafen’s heart sank. He could have used the moral support.

  Above, the spring rain clouds had dispersed, revealing a metallic sky and a beating sun. The stone was drying fast and becoming warm.

  Thirty minutes later, he had clambered down three stories, though with many moments when it had looked like he would get down quicker than he had hoped. At last, Rafen was above the larches. The top branches were mostly twigs and would never support him, so he kept crawling down the wall until he reached sturdier limbs. He gingerly eased his body onto one and felt his muscles relax slightly. He was safe now. The stone walls had been smooth, and painfully hot beneath his fingers as the sun brightened. However, Rafen was used to climbing trees. It was cooler in the needle-like leaves, and the smell of bark was fragrant.

  Rafen’s gaze drifted right to the five guards in the distance. They milled around the door, gulping from water pouches and a rust-colored flagon. From one of the guard’s lolloping antics, Rafen assumed they were drinking something stronger than water. Another leaned against the door, semi-somnolent.

  At last, something was going right.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rafen was at the foot of the tree, where someone stirred behind the trunk.

  “Sherwin?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. What were yer going to do if it weren’t?”

  “Ask you for a drink anyway.”

  “Go an’ ask them,” Sherwin said, facing Rafen and jerking his thumb at the increasingly merry guards. “They’re havin’ a great time.”

  “I’m happy for them.”

  Sherwin’s face split into a grin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait to help yer, but I wasn’t sure what yer wanted me to do,” he said. “I got down because I was about fallin’. And besides, yer didn’t look so steady yerself, and I didn’t want yer on me uncle.”

  “Oh,” Rafen said, “so you weren’t concerned.”

  Sherwin’s face turned incredulous. “Yer can’t believe that,” Sherwin said. “I was peein’ myself hanging in that tree and watching yer. Yeh’ll excuse me for going behind this ’ere trunk and prayin’.”

  Rafen smiled, and be
fore he knew it, Sherwin was hugging him in a brotherly way.

  “I missed yer,” he said, releasing him.

  “Thank you for coming,” Rafen said.

  “Why didn’ yer attack Talmon in the end?”

  Blushing with shame, Rafen shook his head. “Never mind.” It was too hard to explain.

  “Wha’ was this plan of yers?” Sherwin said. “Yer sound like yer up to something.”

  “I’ll explain soon,” Rafen said. “Where is Francisco?”

  “I’m gatherin’ he’s still in those there bushes. We’ll go this way.”

  Sherwin turned and headed toward the turf behind the larches. So far, the guards hadn’t seen them because the trees had concealed them. Now, Sherwin led Rafen north along the wall until they could head unseen sideways down the slope, to approach the beautyberry bushes from behind.

  Reaching them, Rafen groped among the branches. Breathing heavily, Francisco sat sleeping amid twigs and leaves.

  “Franny!” Sherwin hissed from behind Rafen. “I told yer to stay awake.”

  Rafen restrained a laugh at Francisco’s nickname.

  Francisco stirred, opening his eyes. Seeing Rafen, he straightened,

  fully awake. “Rafen!”

  Rafen stared at him. Clothed in some of Sherwin’s things, Francisco was dusty from travel. His face was pale and weary, and a gigantic bruise bulged on his forehead.

  “Talmon’s really going to like this,” Rafen said.

  “Yeah, I have to admit, he’s an eyesore,” Sherwin said. “As for yer, Raf, yer never looked better yerself. Did I tell yer I liked this fancy all afloat? Wear tha’ in England, an’ people’ll call yer a woman.”

  Rafen gave Sherwin a black look.

  “Can I go back now?” Francisco asked in a tired voice.

  “Of course,” Rafen said. “I think the guards will let you in now. But you and I had better change clothes.”

  Five minutes later, Rafen and Francisco had swapped their clothes a little down the slope from Sherwin. Francisco had scarcely spoken. Rafen stared at him, his forehead furrowed. It would be a miracle if Talmon didn’t notice a difference between them now. Francisco looked terrible, and the purple bruise on his forehead was too fresh to be passed off as Rafen’s.

  He’d better lie well, Rafen thought.

  “I have told the guards that you have had a lapse in health, and

  you begged to come to the astronomy tower for air,” Rafen said.

  “They believed that?” Francisco said hoarsely.

  “I acted like I was dying, so they did whatever I wanted. Be careful when you lie to Talmon next to make sure you tell the same story.”

  Francisco looked anguished at all this deception.

  “I need your help,” Rafen added quickly. “Talmon wants to ride to New Isles with you today.”

  Francisco’s eyes widened.

  “I know you saw Wynne,” Rafen said, and his brother flinched as if the memory were painful. “I’m going to have some sort of diversion, and while Talmon is distracted, can you tell the guards that Asiel has bid you to personally free Wynne?”

  “And then you want me to do it,” Francisco croaked.

  “I wish you would.”

  This was an understatement. Rafen couldn’t do it without Francisco. He bit his tongue hard as he waited for his brother’s protests.

  Francisco nodded. “I will do it,” he said.

  Rafen stared at him. “Are you ill?” He found himself smiling.

  “I told you,” Francisco said, “I have frail health, by the stars.” He met Rafen’s eyes, giving a thin grin. “I believe you now,” he said. “I have no memory of Roger… I do not like him. Yet I remember Elizabeth – I remember a ship. She spoke to me, and I remembered much. Her voice… brought it back. I remember almost drowning in the water before someone’s arms grabbed me. Once I was out of the sea, they put me somewhere dark, a sack perhaps. After that, I do not know… Still, one thing I know: she was never mad.”

  He paused, his eyes red. “Talmon lied to me,” he said simply.

  “Then forget the plan,” Rafen said, stepping forward and gripping his brother’s shoulders. “We can rescue Wynne some other way. Why don’t you come with us?”

  Francisco started to shake. He stared at Rafen, tears trembling in his eyes.

  “I cannot,” he said brokenly. “You do not understand. Talmon loves me. He will suffer if I am not there. If I leave him…” Francisco’s eyes widened, his face ashen. “No, I do not even know if that is the truth,” he said. “But this is the reason I cannot go with you, I have overheard him talking to his Master. I will be killed for a surety if I ever go.”

  He pulled away from Rafen. “I must return.” He turned, and with a speed Rafen hadn’t thought him capable of, ran up the slope.

  “Francisco!” Rafen shouted, rushing up the slope after him.

  Francisco was speaking with the drunken guards by the side door. He drew himself up with a noble air as one of them slobbered on the hem of his coat.

  Crouching beside Sherwin in the bushes, Rafen stared at his brother, agonized. The guards opened the door for him, making ingratiating gestures and trying to conceal their water pouches. Without a backward glance, Francisco disappeared through the door. Feeling like he was being eaten from the inside, Rafen tore his eyes away.

  If Francisco thought he was safer within the palace, he was wrong. Asiel knew too much already, and it wouldn’t be long before Talmon knew that his heir was in contact with his supposedly dead brother. And then the Lashki would find out.

  “Come on, Sherwin,” Rafen said. His throat hurt, and he felt sick.

  *

  Nazt was getting impatient. It hissed and roared in his ears, and blinded him with its fury. And he himself was burning as he flew through the air unseen and unfelt, his body shed and the copper rod melded into the mist that was him.

  In the three days it had taken him to cross central Siana, he had had another idea. Why would Nazt have reacted so strongly to Rafen after King Robert’s return? Why, after a year of peace, of the Lashki ruling unopposed in Siana through Frankston, would Nazt start demanding the Fledgling? It was obvious: Rafen was close. How foolish of Alakil! Rafen had probably been near the whole time. He was certainly in Siana still, and was likely somewhere near New Isles at this moment.

  As the Lashki flew over the grasslands, he knew he was a mere half day from the feathery trees of the Cursed Woods. He thought about the twin. Would Talmon’s pampered one know where Rafen was? Even if the twin did not, the Lashki knew that by looking at the boy who was so much like his brother – and yet so different – something would be revealed.

  “RAFEN! RAFEN!” Nazt shrieked in his veins and in his temples, and he knew it was not long.

  This time, he would crush the Fledgling.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In New Isles

  Rafen and Sherwin rushed toward the covered wagon from the roadside. Rafen flung himself through the opening in the back and onto the rocking wooden floor. Sherwin landed heavily on his spine.

  “Omph,” Rafen said, air flying from his lungs.

  “Sorry,” Sherwin said in a tiny voice. He got off Rafen’s back and clambered sideways, bumping into a large, heavy chest.

  “Quiet,” Rafen mouthed. Aching, he got up from his belly and moved into a sitting position.

  Rafen and Sherwin had decided hitching a ride in a wagon was the only way to enter the city without being interrogated by the large group of guards at the gate. The road leading to New Isles was often crowded at this time of morning, because many merchants queued to enter the city. Most camped on the plains around it, preferring not to spend the night within New Isles under Tarhian guard.

  The wagon in which Sherwin and Rafen had jumped was one of the only covered wagons on the wide New Isles road. The two of them had hidden in the long, muddy grass in a depression of land, watching this wagon approach from a distance. When it was directly across from t
hem, they had started crawling rapidly through the grass. Then Rafen had realized he hadn’t timed this right, and the wagon was moving too fast. They were going to miss their entry and wind up standing in the open, looking stupid. He had urged Sherwin into a wild run, despite the Tarhian soldiers weaving in and out of the queues.

  Someone must have seen them leap into the wagon: the driver behind them, a traveler on foot, or some soldiers three or four carts back… The main thing now was to hide quietly and hope for the best.

  Tiny dust clouds floated in the wagon interior, which was filled with rectangular, musty-smelling chests. One partially open chest contained chipped teacups. Sherwin leaned against a second chest near it, which was covered with a stained sheet. Intrigued, Rafen crawled over to it. Reading his mind, Sherwin unlatched the rusty clasps and pulled the arched lid open. Beneath, the glitter of weapons caught his gaze.

  “I don’t think our driver will want to be caught with these,” Rafen said, remembering the Tarhian law prohibiting anyone other than members of the army to own a weapon.

  Sherwin nodded sagely.

  “Did yer find out anythin’ abou’ the Selsons while yer were in the palace, Raf?”

  “I tried,” Rafen said. “I even asked a few people today. It’s hopeless.”

  I did find out the Lashki’s after me, he thought feverishly. And he might be close.

  Shivering, he tried to shove the thought from his mind.

  The wagon jerked beneath them. Their driver yelled a few words of Tongue (‘in my way’) before ejaculating in a language Rafen recognized as Ruyan. Sherwin grinned.

  “You hide behind this chest, under the sheet,” Rafen told him, “and I’ll hide behind the one with teacups.”

  “But it’s closer to the entrance,” Sherwin said.

  “I don’t think the merchant will let Tarhians in here.”

  Sherwin closed the weapons chest and slipped beneath the sheet with it, as if he were playing some absurd game of “ghosts”. Rafen moved behind his own chest, waiting.