Shattering the Ley

by Joshua Palmatier

  And Dalton needed him where he was, as his eyes and ears in that splinter cell. If he backed out now. . . .

  “They trust you enough to plant a bomb?” he asked carefully.

  Tyrus snorted. “I don’t know if it’s trust so much as desperation. The Dogs have been sniffing a little too close to the group lately. Calven thought he caught one following him the other day, so he doesn’t dare risk it himself. Both Vanel and Ari planted the last one in Stone. Even though that was six months ago, they don’t dare do another any time soon. That only leaves me, and Vanel has threatened—” He cut off suddenly, one hand reaching to massage the back of his neck. Fear leaked out through the sickening dread that had bleached his face. His gaze locked with Dalton’s. “But I can’t do it. I can’t do something that I know will hurt people, probably kill them. What if there are women on the barge? Children?” He looked close to vomiting.

  Hot anger flicked through Dalton; he reached forward and grabbed the flute of Gorrani wine. Tyrus’ weakness nauseated him. This was why the original Kormanley had failed so miserably, because no one had been willing to take action, to take risks. It was why he’d cultivated the younger members when he’d noticed they were willing and able to take those extra, sometimes violent, steps.

  “Don’t you see what this means?” he snapped. “It means you’re finally making progress. Real progress. It took over a year before they trusted you enough to remove their cowls during the meetings and reveal themselves.”

  “That was only because the Dogs raided and caught Korana and Pils immediately after that first meeting,” Tyrus grumbled.

  Dalton nodded in irritation at the interruption. “But they revealed themselves. We knew who they were. We figured out how they operated, and you were privy to some of their plans.”

  “Not that it helped much.”

  Dalton thrust the wine into Tyrus’ hands, noted that they weren’t trembling as much. “We stopped their attack in Wintemeer, didn’t we?” Which was a lie. That had been an accident; the bomb had gone off before it could be put in place. But if the accident could be used to keep Tyrus in line, so much the better. “And now they trust you to carry out one of the attacks yourself. I’d call that progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. More than the Dogs can claim. Now drink. It will help calm your nerves.”

  Tyrus drank absently, coughed harshly as the potent wine—made from a cactus that grew only in the Gorrani Flats—hit the back of his throat. A flush burned through his sickly pallor. “We’re still no closer to finding out who the Kormanley’s Benefactor is,” he wheezed.

  “But we know there are at least five Kormanley groups spread throughout the city, even if we don’t know who their members are. One of them must have contact with this Benefactor, or at least know of someone who does.” Dalton knew the Benefactor, of course, even if he only received direction from him through a courier. And there were seven active Kormanley groups in Erenthrall, not to mention the groups he’d begun to organize in other cities with the Benefactor’s help.

  “Calven said someone from one of the other groups approached him recently, a man named Ibsen. He said the group is planning something major and they may need our help. He didn’t reveal any other details, only that it involved the Baron somehow.”

  A tension within Dalton released and he leaned back into his chair and picked up his own wine. So Ibsen had made contact, then. This was exactly why he needed Tyrus in that group’s confidence.

  And it was exactly what he needed to keep Tyrus where he was.

  “You have to plant the bomb, then.” At Tyrus’ pained look, he added, “Even if we can’t learn the identity of the Benefactor, you need to remain inside the Kormanley group long enough to find out about this new plan.”

  Tyrus held his gaze . . . but then his shoulders sagged in resignation. He took a deep swallow of the wine, merely wincing at the burn. “If you think it’s best.”

  Taking pity, Dalton asked, “Where are you supposed to plant this bomb?”

  “On a barge in the ley station in North Umber, beneath one of the seats.”

  “If you can give me more details, I’ll see if I can stop it somehow, like the Wintemeer attack.”

  Hope flared in Tyrus’ eyes. “I’ll let know you which barge as soon as I find out.”

  Dalton forced a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine, Tyrus. Trust me.”

  Tyrus finished the last of his wine with a grimace and hurried through the scattered café tables and out into the street. As soon as he passed outside of Dalton’s view, Dalton frowned.

  Tyrus might be a problem. He couldn’t afford to push him so far that he ran to the Dogs. He knew little about the splinter Kormanley—only those members in his own group, and now Ibsen—but Dalton couldn’t afford to have the Dogs nosing around at this stage. Not so close to the beginning of this new endeavor. The attacks on the ley stations, bridges, and the Baron’s holdings throughout the city weren’t enough; the last four years had proven that. And the Kormanley’s Benefactor had grown impatient. He wanted the group to do something more significant.

  Dalton was more than happy to oblige. He glanced skyward, noted two barges and one of the lords’ personal flyers skimming the sky overhead, above Grass. His lip curled in derision and his stomach roiled. The Baron’s abuse of the ley had become more flagrant with the activation of the Flyers’ Tower. The ley was never meant to be used in such a manner. He had hoped the attacks would catch the attention of the citizens of Erenthrall, force them to see the Baron’s abuse for what it was, but obviously the citizens were content to let him squander the ley’s power for his own purposes. He’d certainly used it to solidify his hold on the other Barons, lords, and ladies; most were clamoring to have Flyers’ Towers built in their own cities.

  Not even the strange distortions that had begun appearing throughout Erenthrall over the past few years were enough to awaken the citizens’ fears. The bursts of light that appeared at random made everyone pause, and there were rumblings of discontent, but usually only when the distortions forced a delay in the ley barges’ schedules. Most didn’t care where they came from, or what caused them, as long as they didn’t disrupt their lives.

  But Dalton did. Each instance of a distortion drove his fear of what the Primes and the Baron were doing to the ley deeper into his gut. He was convinced they were caused by the overuse of the ley, that they were signs of the strain on the system. He couldn’t prove it—he had no intimate knowledge of the ley nodes or the Nexus—but he knew it was true. The distortions were a warning. And if that warning wasn’t heeded. . . .

  He shuddered—in fear, dread, and with a touch of ecstasy. He didn’t know what would happen, but he’d had visions of Erenthrall in ruins, its towers cracked, its streets empty. Each time he dreamed, he woke soaked in sweat, his body trembling and weak. And the visions were coming more often now, had become more intense. They’d set him on this path initially—they were why he’d joined the Kormanley in the first place, in his youth—but now they’d grown urgent, as if a reckoning were coming. He had to stop it. It was his destiny to stop it.

  And to do that he had to push the Kormanley harder, take greater risks. He needed to set his sights higher, as their Benefactor suggested.

  Perhaps as high as the Baron himself.

  Tyrus wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of one arm and scuttled down the tunnel in the ley station to the platform beneath, leaving the mezzanine behind. The space before the ley line that ran through the far side of the chamber was crowded, citizens milling about as one barge unloaded and another departed. A whistle pierced the air as he worked his way toward the edge of the platform, swiping at his face again. He shifted the strap of the rucksack slung across one shoulder. It was heavier than he’d expected.

  The barge that had been unloading passengers when he arrived closed its doors and pulled out, the platform clearing slightly a
s people made their way up to the mezzanine above. Tyrus watched them, mumbling, “Yes, yes, keep moving, out to the streets, you’re safer there,” under his breath.

  He started when another whistle blew and turned to find another barge sliding down the glowing white ley line. It emerged from the tunnel and pulled to a halt beside the platform, a gust of air at its passage cooling the sweat on Tyrus’ face. He swallowed, something hard in his throat clicking.

  “This is it,” he muttered to himself. A woman next to him cast him an odd look. He grimaced and followed her onto the barge, moving toward the seats at the back. He sat down heavily, body shaking. He barely noticed when the barge began moving, heading toward the North Umber District. Acid rose up in the back of his throat and he leaned back and breathed in deeply. He kept his eyes focused on an empty spot. He didn’t want to see who else was on the barge, didn’t want to see their faces.

  When they neared the next station, he reached down and pulled a leather strap that dangled outside the rucksack, felt something tear inside. Then he kicked the rucksack deeper under the seat and stood, glancing around once as the barge drew to a halt—

  And stilled, horror seizing his muscles and locking his arms in place, his eyes going wide. A Dog waited impatiently at the door to the barge, one hand steadying himself, the other on the handle of the knife sheathed at his belt. He scanned those around him, all a discreet distance away and studiously avoiding his gaze. His eyes locked onto Tyrus and Tyrus nearly pissed his pants, but then the doors to the barge were opened by the stewards on the platform and the Dog stepped out.

  Tyrus stood rooted to the spot, relief coursing through him, then cried out and leaped through the doors as the steward began to close them again. The barge pulled away. Knees weak, he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the platform where he stood and let the sickening tremors that tingled in his arms and chest fade, but he knew he couldn’t stay. He needed to get out of the station, and as far away from North Umber as he could.

  He’d reached the tunnel leading up to the mezzanine when the bomb exploded.

  Nine

  “THERE WAS ANOTHER Kormanley attack last night, this time in the North Umber District,” Daedallen said.

  From his balcony overlooking the center of Grass in the Amber Tower, Baron Arent Pallentor frowned at Daedallen’s report but he did not turn. Overhead, the beacon of the Flyers’ Tower pulsed with a brilliant white light, more visible at this height than from the ground. Numerous flyers drifted between the towers, two docking at balconies that jutted out into the open sky below him, while a third sailed past at nearly eye level.

  “What did the Kormanley strike this time?” he asked, letting none of his annoyance leech into his voice.

  “Another one of the barge stations. They placed an explosive device beneath one of the seats in a rucksack. Twenty people on the barge were injured, another dozen on the platform. Three passengers were killed outright. It is uncertain whether one of those killed was one of the Kormanley.”

  Arent turned from the window and caught Daedallen’s eye. “None of them were Kormanley. They moved beyond immolation and suicides over four years ago.”

  “One of them died in the Wintemeer attack,” Augustus said from his seat at the table, a glass of wine resting before him, untasted.

  “But that was a mistake,” Daedallen responded immediately. “From what we’ve learned, the bomb exploded prematurely. It was intended for the Fairview Bridge, not the marketplace. The Kormanley priest was the only death, everyone else was merely injured. It would have been much worse if he’d made it to the bridge.”

  Arent moved away from the light pouring through the balcony windows and into the main room. The captain of the Dogs glared at the Prime Wielder, face set in a sharp frown. He stood as far from the Wielder as he could without giving offense.

  “How did he make it to the square in the first place?” Augustus asked, shifting in his seat to face the Dog. “Shouldn’t the Dogs have found him first? Shouldn’t the Dogs have discovered their plot and eliminated the threat before it hit the street? Isn’t that the Dogs’ job?”

  Daedallen stiffened. “We’ve discussed this before. You know it’s not that simple.”

  Augustus smiled thinly. “I expected the Dogs to be more effective, that’s all.”

  “You sanctimonious bast—”

  “That’s enough, Daedallen.” When Arent turned his attention from the bristling Dog, he caught Augustus’ smug expression. “You as well, Augustus. We both know the Dogs have done everything possible to contain and eliminate the Kormanley. The group is simply too organized, and too dedicated to their cause. But again, I wonder if it is more than that.”

  Daedallen and Augustus halted their irritating posturing and focused on him with the statement, both wary.

  “What are you saying?” Augustus asked.

  Arent moved to the table, reaching for the flagon of wine and pouring himself a glass as he spoke. “As we’ve discussed before, perhaps the Kormanley are receiving some kind of outside help with regard to their efforts here in Erenthrall. Perhaps the reason we have not been able to locate their leader—if they have a leader—is because their leader does not reside here in the city.”

  “That would explain why it has been so difficult to find them, yes,” the Wielder muttered grudgingly. “But we could never settle on a suspect before this. What has changed? Why rehash an old argument now?”

  Daedallen stirred, as if he’d realized where Arent was headed. “We have begun getting reports of the Kormanley spreading to other Baronies. There have been two attacks so far in Farrade and one in Severen. Not on the same scale as here in Erenthrall, but nevertheless. . . .”

  “The diplomats from Temerite, Gorrani, the Archipelago, and the Demesnes to the west have all expressed concern over the Kormanley,” Arent added. “They are afraid that because their main cities rely on the ley, that the priests will target them as well.”

  “They will, eventually,” Daedallen said.

  “I agree, although I have not said so to any of the diplomats. I’m hoping that we can destroy the Kormanley before that happens.”

  The captain of the Dogs moved toward the table, his arguments with Augustus set aside. “Who do you think is supporting the Kormanley from outside the city, then? Now that they have spread their attacks outside Erenthrall.”

  “Who do you believe it is?” Arent countered.

  Daedallen didn’t react to the subtle admonishment that the Dogs—and Daedallen in particular—should already have their own suspicions. As soon as the attacks began in these other cities, Arent had narrowed his own down to a few likely candidates, one in particular, but he was curious to hear what the captain of the Dogs thought.

  Daedallen paced to the tall windows of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out into the sunlight. A shadow passed by as one of the flyers drifted around the Amber Tower. “Nothing has changed from our previous discussion; it would have to be someone of high rank, perhaps a lord, although I find that unlikely. The Kormanley have resources that would require more funds than the lords could pull together on short notice, let alone over the course of the last four years. Besides, the lords would have no interest in attacking other cities. Their interests lie solely within Erenthrall, with you, Baron. Without your support, they would be nothing.”

  “Unless the attacks on Farrade and Severen are independent of the core group here in Erenthrall,” Augustus said.

  Daedallen turned, his irritation at being interrupted clear, but he nodded in acknowledgment before continuing. “I still believe it unlikely that any of the lords or ladies are funding the group. It is too extensive, has been acting for far too long. Which leaves only the Barons.”

  Arent had come to the same conclusion in their previous discussions, but he merely inclined his head and said, “Continue.”

  Daedallen
began pacing before the window, moving from one long stretch of deep blue velvet curtain on one side to the other. “Baron Calluin was distressed over the two attacks in his own city. I doubt he’d sanction attacks on his own Barony—he’s too protective and prideful of Farrade’s architecture. Baron Tavor might attack his own city to deflect attention away from himself, and with the resources of the Steppe behind him, would have the money to fund the group. But he has never shown any aggression toward Erenthrall, not since his city of Severen was joined to the ley system by the Wielders. That leaves four other Barons—Leethe of Tumbor, Sillare of Dunmara and the Reaches, Ranit of northeastern Jarada, and Iradi of Wayside.”

  “Ranit is too weak. He does not have the resources of the other Barons, nor the backbone to carry out such devastating attacks.” Arent swirled the wine in his glass, brow creased in thought. “It must be Leethe, Sillare, or Iradi. Find out which one is behind the Kormanley before the Baronial Meeting at the end of summer.”

  Daedallen’s eyes narrowed. “You believe it is Leethe.”

  Arent’s hand tightened on his wineglass. “You know what it took to subdue the other Barons, what it took to subdue Tumbor in particular. A hundred years ago, the other Barons viewed Erenthrall as the weakest of the Baronies. And they were right. Erenthrall was nothing, a city lost in the middle of the plains, a trading post surviving at the meeting of the Tiana and Urate Rivers. It provided a convenient resting point for the shipments coming down the river from the northern mountains and the caravans crossing the grassland headed toward the Demesnes to the west. My father,” he could not suppress the sneer, “was content with letting Erenthrall remain nothing more than that—a stopover to greater places.

  “When he died, I seized control of the Barony and allowed Augustus to begin building the Nexus. It took me years to train the Barony’s forces after that, even longer to use my new Dogs to bring the Barons to heel. The Baronies had always been unsettled, a place of treachery, assassination, and deceit, but during my rise, the plains were drenched in blood. I succeeded in eliminating the strongest of the Barons, letting weaker and younger sons take their places. I thought the Baronies were mine at that point. I meant to reshape the plains using the Barons’ dependence on the ley and their fear of my Dogs as the hammer and anvil.