Sympathy flashed across Hagger’s face as he caught Allan’s reaction, but he didn’t let go of Allan’s arm. In a voice that would not carry beyond the corner where they stood, he said, “You don’t approach the Baron unless he asks you to, Pup.”
Allan settled back against the wall and Hagger released his grip.
Trying to ignore the cool yet spicy scent of the unguent, Allan focused on the activity near the blackened body. This was as close as he’d ever been to the Baron, the Lord of Grass himself, and he was not what Allan had expected. A few inches shorter than Allan, he was thinner and lankier, his clothes cut to emphasize the angularity of his body. The shirt was a subtle dark blue, stitched with gold thread, his breeches a sleek black, much simpler in style and form than anything the minor lords and ladies had worn the night before. The only ostentatious part of his attire was the gold belt and scabbard, with the rather plain hilt of a short sword visible in the sheath. Allan watched as the Baron moved, fluid and precise, and realized the sword wasn’t an affectation; the Baron knew how to use it. And even though he’d ruled Erenthrall for over sixty years, he appeared to be no more than fifty.
The Baron stood over the body a long moment, spoke softly to the captain of the Dogs at his side, then listened to the response. They were too distant for Allan to hear the words, but Prime Wielder Augustus made a comment when Daedallen had finished, one hand motioning toward the body, and the Baron frowned. Augustus didn’t react to the glare, his attention fixed on the body.
Baron Arent called one of the other Dogs forward, a blond-haired man twice as broad as Allan.
“That’s Terrence,” Hagger murmured, “one of Daedallen’s seconds. He’s the one my alpha reports to and gets his orders from.”
“I know. I’ve seen him in the yard.”
Hagger’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And you learned who he was?”
“He seemed important.”
Hagger stared at him a long moment, the expression on his face unreadable, then he grunted. “You’re more dangerous than I thought.”
Across the room, Baron Arent, Daedallen, and Augustus glanced toward both of them and Allan straightened, his burnt clothes crackling. A servant headed toward them at a word from Arent.
“Ah,” Hagger muttered, and took one step forward, his demeanor and stance altering from bored to formal with a shift of his shoulders.
The servant halted two paces away. “The Baron requests an audience,” he said stiffly.
“Lead the way.”
The servant spun, Hagger following a few steps behind, Allan last. Allan’s heart quickened as they halted a few steps from the Baron and the others, the Baron’s eyes on Hagger. When he turned to look at Allan, Allan sucked in a sharp breath.
And instantly regretted it. The stench of burned and blackened skin, even hours old, slammed into him and he choked on his own breath, suppressing it to nothing more than a faint snort. Swallowing rapidly, he fought the urge to keel over and vomit, like some of the others had done the night before upon seeing the body. The Baron’s eyes lanced into him, a muddy brown with hints of gold and green that left him exposed, naked and raw. Allan felt certain that the Baron understood everything in that one look, realized that he’d probably noted Allan and Hagger when he entered, and had dismissed them.
Then the Baron turned toward Terrence. Allan exhaled, and found himself trembling as if he’d been weakened.
“These are the two who interceded last night?” Baron Arent asked. His voice was mild, almost casual.
Terrence nodded. “They were stationed inside the room, among others, to watch over the guests and to make the Dogs’ presence known.”
“And none of those stationed outside noticed anything remarkable about this man?” He didn’t gesture or glance toward the body, but nearly everyone looked down, including Terrence. A few grimaced and turned away immediately.
“No. He had the appropriate credentials, an invitation addressed to a Lord Pickerell of Ovant, with all of the required markings.”
“And no one noticed anything else amiss?”
Terrence drew breath to answer, but Allan interrupted. “I did.”
Allan flinched when Baron Arent turned to him. He saw Hagger shift slightly forward out of the corner of his eye but didn’t dare turn. Both Daedallen and Augustus shifted their attention to him as well. Allan’s skin prickled under the black glare of the captain of the Dogs, but it was Augustus who spoke, his voice scathing.
“And you did nothing?”
Daedallen bristled and annoyed anger flashed across the Baron’s face.
Allan felt heat flare upward from his neck.“There didn’t seem to be a threat—”
“No threat!” Augustus boomed, cutting off his stuttered response. “He somehow managed to get into one of the Baron’s parties carrying not only a knife but enough oil to immolate himself! What if he’d had a different purpose? What if he’d managed to bring in something more deadly, something seemingly innocent, something that could have interrupted the sowing of the tower? All he would need to do is upset the balance of the sowing enough to release the ley from its controls and there would have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of deaths. We lost over twenty to sheer stup—”
“Prime Augustus.”
The Prime’s tirade shut off abruptly at the Baron’s words, as if severed with a blade, even though Baron Arent had not shouted. Augustus spun to face him, but stilled at the Baron’s raised eyebrow.
“While I applaud your concern over the success of the sowing,” the Baron said, the words twisted with anger and irony, “and my general health and well-being, I’d like to ask him a few questions myself.”
Augustus struggled with himself a moment, then stepped back. “Of course. You are the Baron after all.”
Baron Arent’s eyes narrowed and Allan sensed an undercurrent between them that he didn’t understand, but then the Baron turned toward him again, the anger slipping from his face. Allan suddenly realized he hadn’t been angry with him a few moments before, but with Augustus, and a tension in his shoulders eased. He tried to calm his racing heart and felt the heat in his face and neck recede slightly.
“Now, tell us what you noticed.”
Allan swallowed once. “When the three Wielders arrived and stepped through the room, heading toward the tower heights, I noticed this man step forward as they passed, as if he wanted to follow them. And his face was . . . enraged. But he stopped himself. By the time the Wielders had left, he’d collected himself and returned to the party as if nothing had happened.”
“Why didn’t you report this to Hagger, or to one of the other Dogs?”
It was the first time Daedallen had said anything. His voice rumbled, like the low growl of distant thunder.
“It was just a look. I didn’t think it was important.”
“Yet according to Hagger’s report, you followed him after that.”
Allan nodded, shooting a quick glance toward Hagger. He hadn’t noticed the older Dog watching him, following his movements. “I wanted to see if he did anything else odd, but he didn’t. He merely drank and spoke to the guests. And then the sowing started and—”
“And you were distracted,” Baron Arent finished for him. Allan didn’t hear any judgment in his voice, but he lowered his head and said nothing.
After a long moment, the Baron said, “It’s my understanding that Baron Leethe was in attendance as well. Did you find this odd?”
Allan nodded. “Yes. I wondered why he wasn’t at the main party, with you and the other Barons.”
“He should have been. Did this man—the priest—did he speak to the Baron at all?”
Allan thought back to the night before, then shook his head. “Not that I saw.”
Baron Arent frowned in disappointment and exchanged a look with Daedallen. “Very well.” He caught Augustus’ eye. “An
d you’re certain that there was no use of the ley involved in any of this? The priest was not attempting to disrupt the sowing?”
Augustus straightened. “There is no indication he used the ley, no.”
The Baron glanced down at the body and anger crept into his voice. “Then this was simply a protest, like those on the streets.”
“It was more,” Daedallen said. “On the streets, they simply talk. This is an escalation. I don’t like where the Kormanley’s protests are headed. If they are willing to kill themselves for their cause, it is only a small step toward killing others. They may begin targeting Dogs, or Wielders, or even you.”
Baron Arent frowned, creases appearing in his forehead. “Have you learned anything from those we’ve arrested around the city? Did any of them have knowledge of the immolation?”
“None. The priests of the Kormanley do not appear to know many other members of their own group by sight. It appears they meet in secret, using coded markings to call meetings where they wear hoods under cover of darkness, only five members or fewer at one time.” Daedallen’s voice had grown rougher in annoyance. “It is impossible to determine who else is a member based on the descriptions we are getting from those arrested.”
“Have you tried the Hounds?”
Daedallen shook his head. “Not yet. I didn’t feel the Hounds would be required. The Kormanley did not seem that dangerous. However, now. . . .” He glanced toward the Baron. “Do you want me to call them out?”
Baron Arent considered a long moment, staring down at the body, Daedallen, Hagger, and the other Dogs close by tense. “No,” he said finally. “Calling out the Hounds will draw the attentions of the other Barons. See what the Dogs can find out first. Increase the patrols in the areas where the Kormanley appear to protest most—the Stone District, perhaps Leeds and Green—and continue the interrogations of those we have.” He turned abruptly toward Allan. “And give this Dog something more meaningful to do besides watch over guests at parties.”
Then he stepped over the charred body at his feet, moving swiftly toward the doors, Augustus hesitating before following. Daedallen stared at Allan a long moment before nodding. “You heard Baron Arent,” he said to Terrence. “Assign this Dog’s pack to the patrols.”
“Very well.”
Allan turned toward Hagger as Daedallen departed with Terrence and a few other Dogs at his heels.
The old Dog grunted. “Much more dangerous.”
“Have you heard?”
Dalton halted in the doorway at the demanding question, quelling a burst of irritation. He hadn’t even set foot inside the sanctity of the meeting chamber yet and already he was being pummeled with questions? He shot a baleful glance over the five members already inside, letting it fall on Tyrus, the one who’d spoken, last.
“It’s why I came,” he said, then purposefully knelt and genuflected before the door, drawing his hand across its entrance, leaving a faint trail in the dirt among several others. He muttered a short prayer beneath his breath and tried to center himself before rising and stepping into the room.
Tyrus waved a hand in dismissal and began pacing. “They’ve taken this too far,” he growled. “I knew this . . . this splinter group would be trouble the moment we heard about it. I can’t believe we allowed them to continue once we found out they were meeting on their own in secret. We should have forced them to disband—”
“And had them regroup and meet again, with more precautions?” Dalton asked with a raised eyebrow. “Disbanding them would only have made them angrier. At least now we know who they are and what they are up to.”
“Do we?” Tyrus rounded on him as Dalton settled into one of the high-backed chairs surrounding the rough-hewn oak table in the center of the chamber. “Did you know what they planned at the Baron’s party?” He stalked toward Dalton, his fervor altering as he approached, hand outstretched, his words now edged in horror. “One of them lit himself on fire, Dalton! He immolated himself in protest! The Kormanley is peaceful. We have always been peaceful.”
Tyrus leaned forward onto the oak table, as if he’d used up all of his energy to get there, then fell back into the chair next to Dalton. “What have they done?”
Dalton listened to the low murmur that arose from the other members present, heard the strained fear in the tone of their voices, then cleared his throat.
Everyone fell silent. Dalton had been the nominal leader of their small group for at least a decade. He’d been a member twenty-four years, recruited at the age of fourteen. The chamber where they met—more of a cavern, with its rounded earthen walls smoothed by time and its dry scent of earth—felt more like home than his own rooms above ground in the city. It was, literally, his sanctuary, where he sought peace and a stronger connection to the ley. The natural ley, not the monstrosity that Prime Wielder Augustus and the Baron had built in the center of Grass.
But the peace he and the others had always found here had been broken in the last decade. It had begun as a mere grumble of discontent within the group, easily ignored, especially when Dalton agreed with the misgivings at their heart. Complaints about the abuse of the ley, about the Baron, and in particular about Augustus. But the grumbling hadn’t stopped. In fact, it had escalated, picked up by the younger members, kept active by Dalton and a few of the elders. Until it had reached such a pitch that someone had finally taken action, had taken that discontent to the streets.
That’s when Dalton had realized the splinter group needed to be kept separate and secret from those of the Kormanley who were peaceful at heart, who did not condone such active protest. Members like Tyrus. When they’d discovered the group’s secret meetings, they’d been outraged, but Dalton had managed to calm them.
He wouldn’t be able to calm them after this. What Michael had done at the Baron’s party sickened him. When he’d first heard of it, his legs had given out on him. Immolation! He couldn’t imagine going to that extreme. The heat, the intensity of the pain . . . it must have been unbearable. No one in the splinter group had known what Michael intended, Dalton had made certain of that before coming here, but he suddenly realized that the splinter group was more dangerous than he’d thought.
Aware that the eyes of the gathered members were still on him, expectant, he shifted forward. “They have not yet stepped over the line—” he paused at Tyrus’ snort of disgust, then continued, “—because no one aside from one of our own was seriously hurt.”
“I disagree,” Tyrus said harshly. “They have hurt us. Before they began preaching in the streets, the Baron and his Dogs left us alone. Now, we risk beatings—or worse, an arrest—if we wear the white robes in public, whether or not we are preaching of the natural order. We live in fear.”
“They took Eredrus in the Eld plaza yesterday.”
Dalton shot a glance toward Priem. “Eredrus? Where did they take him?”
Tyrus answered with a sneer. “The Amber Tower, of course. Where else? With this immolation, the Dogs will be after us with greater force, greater numbers. It will no longer be safe to wear the white robes on the streets at all. This splinter group has harmed us irreparably.”
Dalton shifted uneasily. “Perhaps this is an isolated incident. Perhaps the splinter group had no knowledge of it. We didn’t hear of it until now, after all.”
“Can we take that risk? We need to know what this group intends. We can no longer afford to be left in the dark. They have become too large, too disordered, and too violent. I’m afraid that it won’t end here, regardless of how the Baron and his Dogs react.”
Dalton sat back and drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair, staring at Tyrus as he contemplated. He saw the determination in his fellow Kormanley’s eyes, and the fear. Without looking, he knew that the others wore similar expressions. Tyrus was right, the Dogs would crack down on the Kormanley—peaceful or not. They were all in danger, and no matter how fervently he agre
ed with the splinter group that more significant action was necessary, he didn’t want to put the original Kormanley at risk.
The splinter group needed to be controlled. They needed a leader. And they couldn’t go on meeting as they did. They’d have to break away from the original Kormanley completely, go into hiding, work from the shadows. He wasn’t certain how that could be done—that it even could be done—but he needed to find a way if the splinter group was going to continue. It would have to be split into even smaller groups, no one group knowing the members of the others. They’d have to scatter throughout the city, spread out. But then how would he communicate with them? How would he keep each group in check? He’d need someone in each group to act as his eyes and ears, informing him of what was being discussed, what each group was doing, and allowing him to coordinate the groups without any of them knowing who he was. He wanted to keep random acts of violent protest like Michael’s under control, although perhaps violence would be a way to make the Baron pay more attention to their cause. Michael’s act—Dalton shuddered again thinking about it—had certainly forced a reaction.
He could see the shape of the Kormanley reforming even now.
“Very well,” he said abruptly.
Tyrus frowned in confusion. “Very well what?”
“We have allowed the splinter group to go on without supervision long enough. What happened at the Baron’s party last night is a clear sign of this. Someone must become a part of it so that we can better monitor what they are planning, and we must halt any additional violent acts, if possible.”
Tyrus swallowed, uncertain now that a decision had been reached. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked weakly.
Dalton smiled. “You.”
“—don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong with her.”
Kara woke to the sound of the strange man’s voice, her head throbbing with a headache that pulsed with her heartbeat. Her mouth tasted like ash, dry and sooty. She glanced around the bedroom where she and her parents slept, but it was empty. The voices were coming from the front room, where her father worked on the clocks.
Shattering the Ley Page 4
