Justin had felt that stillness when the man had grabbed him on the platform, like a smothering blanket.
“Ready . . . ready for what?” Justin rasped. His mouth was dry.
“Ready to become a Hound.”
Justin frowned in incomprehension, grew still. He hadn’t even realized he was trembling. “I don’t want to be a Hound.”
The fist came out of nowhere, slamming into his face and knocking him into the wall to one side. He rebounded and flopped onto the floor, stunned. Pain radiated from his cheek, its inside flesh torn by his teeth. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and salty. He spat to one side, started to raise a hand to his lips, which felt slick, but a foot pressed down onto his chest and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.
“You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, and to kill. That is your sole purpose. Seek, subdue, kill. Repeat it.”
The pressure against his chest released enough so that he could suck in a lungful of air. He began to wriggle, trying to thrash his way from beneath the man’s heel, but the pressure increased again.
“Seek, subdue, kill,” the man’s voice said, grating and hard this time. “Repeat it.”
When the man’s weight shifted again, Justin gasped in more air, then steeled himself and shoved hard away from the wall to his right, but it was useless. The man’s heel dug in with bruising force.
“If you refuse to train as a Hound, your parents will be killed.” His voice came from above, cold and implacable. “If you rebel, your friends will be killed next. We will bring them here and kill them before you. If you try to escape, you will die. You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, and to kill.” The man leaned forward, the weight against Justin’s chest increasing until it felt as if his ribs would crack. “Now, repeat it.”
The pressure lessened, barely enough for Justin to draw in a trickle of air and wheeze, “Seek, subdue, kill.”
For a heart-wrenching moment, nothing happened and Justin nearly sobbed. Then the heel withdrew and he rolled to one side, heaving in air, choking on it and the blood that coated his throat. His stomach turned and he dry-retched.
When the waves of pain receded, Justin curled into as tight a ball as he could, hands over his head, chin and knees tucked into his chest. A low whine escaped him.
A rustle came from the darkness, the first real sound Justin had heard aside from the man’s voice. He reached for the sound in desperation, and as if his sense of hearing had been heightened he caught a scrape of metal against glass, followed by a hollow pop, as if a bottle had been uncorked.
Justin flinched when the man spoke again: “Tell me what you smell.”
He didn’t respond until he heard footsteps approaching, then he shouted, “I smell you!”
The footsteps paused. “And what do I smell like?”
“Sweat and soap and oil,” he snuffled into his arms.
A hesitation. “Is that how you knew I was here?”
Justin nodded.
Silence. Long enough Justin’s shoulders unconsciously relaxed. Then: “What else do you smell? What else do you sense?”
Justin began to shake with silent sobs, but he drew in a ragged breath and realized he could smell something else, something stronger than the soap and oil, something newer, sharper, acidic. “An orange,” he cried out desperately. “I smell an orange!”
“Good. Although I think I started with too strong a scent. You’re already sensitive to smells, aren’t you? New Hounds usually are . . . but not always. Do you sense anything else?”
Justin thought he felt the smothering blanket again, but couldn’t tell if that were true or if his chest merely ached from the bruises. He shook his head. “Nuh—nuh—nuh—nothing.”
“Disappointing.” More rustling, another soft pop. “Tell me what you smell.”
A noisy, deep breath. “Cinnamon.”
“And now?”
It was getting harder. The scents were mingling, the orange and cinnamon overpowering. Justin had to suck in air twice to catch the floral scent beneath the other two. “A flower.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
A strike from the darkness, a stinging cuff to the head. “What kind of flower?”
“I don’t know!”
Justin tensed in anticipation of another blow.
“It’s called hyacinth. Remember it.” A hollow pop. “Tell me what you smell.”
Justin shook his head, the tears he’d been withholding coming now, harsh and hot. “I don’t know. I want to go home. Please let me go home.”
The man’s foot drove hard into Justin’s back and Justin screamed, white-hot pain lancing up into his shoulders along his spine. He arched back, then scrambled blindly away, sharp jabs from his muscles making him wince as he moved. He hit the wall, scuttled down its length until he hit the corner, then huddled there, waiting for another kick, another punch, willing the nightmare to end. But it didn’t. The granite cell didn’t disappear. The scents that filled the air didn’t fade. The darkness didn’t recede.
Instead, from the darkness, he heard the hollow sound of a bottle being uncorked and the man who’d sought him out, who’d taken him, said, “This is your home. This is your life. You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, to kill.” A rustle as the man shifted closer. “Now, tell me what you smell.”
Tyrus heard the creak of a floorboard behind him where he sat eating his lunch a moment before a meaty hand closed around the back of his neck, twisted, and shoved the side of his face into the table. He cried out and began to flail, knees hitting the underside of the table, making the crockery and his mug of ale jump, but then the hand on his neck tightened and someone leaned in close to his ear.
“What did you tell them, little snitch?”
He recognized the voice instantly, the fleshy hand a breath later, and stilled, hands clutching the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white.
“I didn’t,” he gasped, “tell anyone anything. What are you talking about?”
His Kormanley bodyguard from three weeks before leaned in even closer, his breath reeking of liver and onions and pickles. “The Dogs raided our meeting place four days ago. They took Pils and Korana to the Amber Tower. I don’t expect to see them alive again, and you,” he squeezed Tyrus’ neck hard enough Tyrus whimpered, “are the only one I can think of who would have snitched.”
“I didn’t—”
“Careful what you say. I can snap your neck as easy as breathe.”
Tyrus swallowed hard, a shot of pure panic slicing cleanly to his already trembling arms and legs. It took him a moment to work enough spit into his mouth so he could talk. “I didn’t snitch. I don’t even know where the meeting took place. You took me there with a burlap sack over my head, dragged me out the same way. How could I have told them where it was? It must have been someone else.”
His captor grunted, a fresh wave of onion and brine washing over Tyrus’ face, but the hand pinning his head to the table relaxed. He could see the man’s shadow against the wall; he’d straightened.
“Good point,” the man admitted grudgingly, but he didn’t release his hold completely. “What about those papers? Where are they?”
“The permits have been submitted. I’m awaiting signatures. I’ll have them tomorrow or the day after.”
“Good. The event is only a few days away.”
Tyrus tried not to shudder at the anticipation in the man’s voice.
Then the grip on his neck tightened again and in a soft but deadly tone he added, “Don’t screw up. We’re watching you.”
The meaty hand released completely and Tyrus sat bolt upright, wincing as his neck twinged. He spun around
with a barely checked snarl and caught a bulky figure striding out the gloomy inn’s door into the bright afternoon sunlight beyond, vanishing immediately to the left. He thought about leaping up to follow him, but restrained himself. He needed to keep in the splinter group’s good graces if he intended to help stop them. And at the moment he knew nothing, only that something involving wagons was to happen at the park in Grass a few days from now, during the Baron’s latest display of his abuse of power. Dalton and the other members agreed that it wasn’t enough for them to act on alone—there weren’t enough of the regular Kormanley to stop all of the vendors that would be inside the park—and they certainly couldn’t approach the Dogs or city watch with such sketchy information.
Tyrus turned away from the empty doorway, one hand reaching to massage his bruised neck, to find the inn’s keeper standing a discreet distance away looking troubled.
“Is there a problem, Tyrus?” he asked.
Tyrus sighed. “No problem, Rell. Except I seem to have spilled some of my ale.”
Rell stepped up immediately to retrieve the mug. As he retreated to top it off, Tyrus glared at the remains of his meal, no longer hungry, and wondered what exactly the splinter Kormanley had planned and how long he would have to continue the subterfuge.
Allan waited for Moira in the garden area beneath the Amber Tower as dusk settled over the city. The newest addition to the central section of Erenthrall rose into the sky not far away, its dark green outer shell textured like overlaid leaves touched orange in the fading sunset. It was taller than most of the towers that surrounded it, although it appeared lifeless in comparison. Ley light gleamed in the windows of the other towers, and Allan could see people moving on balconies and through the lowest windows. One or two rooms glowed with the yellowish light of candles. But the new tower remained dark. The Wielders had kept it sealed, awaiting the activation of the twelve subtowers, which continued on schedule. Ten of the subtowers were operating now, and the eleventh had been activated a short time ago. There had been no sign of the Kormanley protestors.
Allan’s gaze dropped to the entrance to the garden as two women entered, but neither one was Moira. He shrugged off his disappointment, surprised at how strong the emotion felt. He’d managed to catch Moira only twice on her way home from working for the Baron; three other times he’d waited in vain. Since the disastrous party at the sowing of the green tower—when he’d bumped into her and caused her to drop the box of candles—they’d seen each other only five times, mostly in passing as Allan went about his duties as a Dog and she as a servant of the Baron. And yet after each meeting, Allan found himself thinking about her more and more.
He smiled as he stared down at the crushed stone beneath his feet. The bench where he sat gave him a direct line of sight on the entrance to the garden, yet was hidden from the rest of the pathways by a screen of willow trees. Their long branches rustled in a faint breeze, the last edge of the sun sinking into the horizon, and with a sigh Allan shook himself. Moira must have taken a different route home that day, perhaps had not even been working in the Amber Tower at all. Baron Arent had planned events all over the city for the night the main tower would be opened and the new ley system activated. She may have been assigned to one of the other locations.
He swallowed back the bitterness of regret in his throat and glanced up.
Moira stood on the edge of the path near the entrance, watching him, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth.
Allan stood abruptly, hands smoothing the rumpled creases in his Dog uniform, fumbling with a pocket, his belt, the hilt of his dagger, before he drew in a deep steadying breath and forced them to still, his body to relax. Moira’s eyes glinted with amusement as she headed toward him and she shook her head. She halted before him and looked up into his face, one hand plucking at an amber sleeve.
“Were you waiting for me?” she asked.
Allan drew in another breath, smelled honeysuckle, knew that it came from Moira; there was no honeysuckle in this garden. The scent was intoxicating and he grinned. “Yes. I thought I could walk you home. Again.”
Moira raised her eyebrows. “I see,” she said, but chuckled and motioned toward the path. “This is becoming a habit.”
“I’d like it to be more than that.” He said it baldly, before he had a chance to think, and immediately ducked his head, cursing himself under his breath. He could feel his cheeks burning. He’d risen in the Dogs since his arrival in Erenthrall, but for the first time in weeks he felt less like a Dog and more like the Pup that Hagger still teased him about being.
When he glanced to the side, he caught Moira staring at him, her expression guarded, the lightness of a moment before gone.
An awkward silence held, Moira turning away, head bowed, until she said uncertainly, “You’re a Dog.”
“Yes,” Allan answered, even though it hadn’t been a question. His heart fell and he found his hand gripping the hilt of the sword belted at his side. “I’m a Dog. I know what everyone says about us. I know what everyone thinks. And some of the Dogs are cruel and vicious.” He thought of Hagger and what he’d done to the Kormanley they’d interrogated, then swallowed at the sudden constriction in his throat and added softly, “But we aren’t all like that.”
“You aren’t like that?”
“No!”
“Then why are you a Dog? Why are you still with them? Why haven’t you left?”
Allan’s hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt. “Because I can’t.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended, remained raw even though he tried to control it. “I was raised in Canter, a small town, not really more than a village. My father was a farmer, and his father before him, and his father before him. I wanted something different. I wanted to escape, wanted to see Erenthrall. I wanted to be a Dog. So I trained, entered local contests, and when the chance to leave Canter came, I took it.”
“And came here. Became a Dog.”
“Yes.” Allan considered this, head bowed, then said, “It wasn’t what I thought. But by the time I realized what being a Dog truly meant, it was too late. The Dogs won’t let me leave. Hagger won’t let me. I’m too valuable to him. He never expected to rise so high in the Dogs’ ranks, but now, with me at his side, he thinks he can become one of Daedallen’s betas. He’d kill me if I said I was leaving.”
They walked a ways in silence, Moira chewing on her lower lip in indecision. Then she halted and faced him. “I’ll probably regret this, but what did you have in mind?”
Allan sucked in a breath, felt himself trembling. He hadn’t planned anything, hadn’t expected to blurt out what he really wanted earlier, certainly hadn’t meant to tell her about Canter and his father and Hagger. “Can we meet before the ceremony Baron Arent has planned in two days?”
“I have to work—”
“So do I,” Allan interrupted, “but not until later. We could meet in Wintemeer Square, stroll along the canals, find some place to eat—all before we have to report at the Amber Tower.”
She searched his face, as if looking for something she could trust. He was suddenly intensely aware of the burn scar along his jawline, of the bruise near the corner of one eye, and all of the little nicks and cuts he’d gotten since he’d become a Dog. He should have cleaned himself up before coming here, instead of heading over immediately after Hagger had allowed him to leave.
But then Moira reached up and tweaked a lock of his mussed hair into place.
“I’ll meet you,” she said, letting her hand drop. “By the fountain in the square, an hour before midday.” Before he could respond, she said sternly, “But I have to be back at the Amber Tower by the second hour or the steward will have my hide.”
Allan’s heart thudded hard in his chest but he nodded in agreement. “I’ll need to be in the barracks by that time as well.”
Moira held his gaze a moment longer. “At the fountain, then.”
<
br /> She turned to where another entrance to the garden led out to the street and with a few short steps merged into the flow of people along the walk.
Allan let out a pent-up sigh of relief, then grinned and headed toward his bunk in the barracks. He needed to find out everything the other Dogs knew about Wintemeer Square.
Allan waited anxiously at the fountain, trying to appear calm and casual. Puddles of water from the rainstorm that morning filled the square, glinting in the sunlight that had broken through the clouds in the last hour. To one side, a pair of children screamed in delight as they stomped in one, the mother gasping in horror and herding them away while scolding them. The other patrons of the square smiled as they wove around the cobblestones and the few vendors who had taken advantage of the sunlight and already set up their wares. Across the way, the owner of a small tavern had moved a few tables and chairs out onto the edge of the walk. A few drays passed by, horse hooves clopping on stone, as overhead the black clouds continued to fray as they streamed south.
Allan saw Moira the moment she stepped into the square, her gaze searching the fountain as her hands smoothed out the dusky-colored dress she wore. She caught sight of him, smiled, and headed toward the fountain. He was startled at how different she appeared without the amber clothing of one of the Baron’s servants. Her hair looked darker, her skin pale and smooth, not washed out and strained. Allan’s pulse quickened as she drew near and he smelled honeysuckle.
She hesitated a step from him, a slight frown marring her smile. “You wore your Dog uniform.”
Shattering the Ley Page 11
