Shattering the Ley
Page 44
“You only said that it’s hard to come by. Does that mean you can get it?”
Vanter hesitated. Allan could see him calculating its cost against Allan’s desperation. “Let me ask around. I may be able to get it for you. How do I get in touch with you?”
Allan frowned. The prickling urgency in his gut passed through him in a wave. “You don’t. I’ll stop by in a day or two.”
“Fair enough.” Vanter scratched out a receipt—which Allan had always thought odd for someone who dealt on the black market—and handed it over. “Pickup will be at the docks, as usual.”
Allan halted in the street outside, scanned the surrounding rundown and decaying buildings—what had once been the thriving docks and warehouses of the city until the arrival of the ley lines—but saw no Dogs through the faint drizzle. The few people on the street ignored him, and those partially hidden in the alleyways and alcoves of doors that preyed on those in the streets sidled deeper into the shadows.
Allan shrugged his shoulders, but the prickling tightness at the base of his neck remained.
He headed toward the bridge leading to West Forks, head bent against the chill rain, shifting his cloak enough so that the pommel of his sword was visible to discourage the gutterscum, but the sense of urgency in his gut didn’t abate. Picking up his pace, he caught occasional glimpses of the Tiana River between the buildings, suddenly concerned about Morrell, left alone in the small room he’d rented for their stay in Erenthrall. She would have drawn too much attention in East Forks if he’d allowed her to come with him, both from the Dogs and from the gutterscum. But now, a cold, thin mantle of fear settled over him, shivering in his skin. What if the Dogs had tracked him to the room? What if they were desperate enough to bring one of the Hounds to bear to find him?
He shuddered. Even after the Hound had let him leave Erenthrall, he’d expected them to hunt him down. When over two months had passed, he’d assumed that he wasn’t important enough. Then he’d heard about the Purge and realized that the Dogs and Hounds were too busy controlling those within Erenthrall to worry about a lone deserter. But maybe something had changed. Maybe there was more going on here than a Wielder recognizing a former Dog who’d fled after the death of his wife.
Maybe the Wielder hadn’t recognized him at all. What if her strange look had been about something else entirely?
His pace slowed with the sudden thought, and new fear jolted through his back.
He lurched forward as the fear seeped inward, his heart pounding, nearly moving at a run. The reek of the district burned in his lungs, people dodging out of his way, cursing. All he could think about was Morrell, her sulking face when he told her she couldn’t come with him, that she’d have to remain inside and out of sight until he returned.
He never saw the men. The board swung out of the shadows of an alley and connected with his gut.
Pain exploded in blinding whiteness as he folded over the board, curled and twisted, hitting the ground hard with one shoulder and ripping the board out of the attacker’s hands. He heard someone curse, heard a short burst of laughter, followed by shuffling feet. His stomach clenched in agony, making it hard to breathe, hard to focus. He hissed through gritted teeth and rolled onto his back. The board clattered to the stone of the street.
He lay there gasping, blinking his eyes to clear his vision—
And a hand reached down out of the receding whiteness, grabbed a handful of his shirt, and hauled him across the stone, new pain exploding through his chest. Sounds grew muffled as they entered the alley. Allan winced as the man dropped him into the middle of the sludgy runoff from the rain, then retreated. Jolts of pain shot through him at every movement, so he remained motionless, willing the aches away with every gasped breath.
He needed to be able to move if he was going to get out of this and back to Morrell.
“Stop cursing and help me,” one of the men growled.
A figure knelt down beside him. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could smell him. He reeked of the river, of fish, and the shit and slime of the alleyway.
“I’m bleeding. The board cut me up good when he ripped it away.”
“That’s your own damn fault,” the man kneeling beside him said, then glanced up. Allan caught the profile of a broken nose, a cheek scarred and pocked, with ragged stubble. “Are you holding him, Tery?”
Something pressed down on Allan’s chest and arms, as if a heavy blanket had been thrown over him, although none of the shadowy figures Allan could see had moved.
“Well?” the leader spat.
The figure at the edge of Allan’s vision shifted. “I’ve got him. I think.”
“You think?”
“I’ve got him, I’ve got him! Just get on with it.”
The leader grunted and motioned the third man forward. “Let’s see what this bastard has for us, shall we?”
As the third man settled down on Allan’s other side, shaking one hand and still wincing in pain, the leader began sorting through Allan’s clothes.
Allan tensed, clenched his jaw as the leader reached into an inner pocket—
And then he heaved up, throwing off the heavy blanket, a fist shooting out, catching the leader with the broken nose hard in the face. Bone cracked and blood splattered as the leader roared in surprise and fell backward, but Allan didn’t wait for him to land. His other hand had gone for the short sword at his side. He drew it and swung as he rolled into a crouch, cutting the third man, the one who’d nailed him with the board, across the stomach even as the man cried out and lurched away. Allan felt the blade bite deep, then turned his attention to the leader and the other man who’d hung back near the edge of the alley.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
The leader held one hand over his face, blood gushing from between his fingers, his breath coming in harsh, fluid heaves. He glared at Allan, his hatred tight across the skin beneath his eyes. “I thought,” he said, his voice low, like a growl, “you had him held down.”
“I did,” Tery said from behind him.
“Obviously not!”
“I did! He slipped out of it somehow. The ties I used to bind him just slid free. They rolled right off of him!”
To one side, the third man had fallen onto his back and now lay still, emitting short, ragged gasps as he whimpered and mumbled to himself. Allan risked a quick glance in his direction, saw him clutching at the wound in his stomach, his face strikingly pale in the gloom, beaded with sweat and rain, his clothes stained black. The sharp scent of blood and stomach acid lay beneath the drizzle, tainted with an underlying reek of shit. A dark pool began to spread from underneath his body.
“Oh, gods, Lars, it hurts! He cut me good! Lars? Lars, it hurts bad, it—”
He drew in a sudden deep breath, as if surprised, and let it out in a long slow sigh. One hand slipped from his stomach and fell to the alleyway with a thick slap.
Allan turned back to Lars. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”
Behind, Tery grew still and gasped, “Baron’s balls, Lars, he’s a Dog.”
Lars’ eyes flew wide, true fear crossing his face, settling in the corners of his eyes, but then those eyes narrowed, took in Allan’s clothes, his sword, his stance. “No, not a Dog. Why would the Baron send his Dogs to East Forks? There’s nothing here the Baron’s interested in.”
“But they’ve been seen all over the city lately, even in Tallow. What if they’ve sent someone in to sniff things out? What if—”
“Enough!” Lars spat. “He isn’t a Dog!” But the fear in his eyes hadn’t abated. He smiled uncertainly. “But he was a Dog once, wasn’t he?”
Allan’s hand clenched on the handle of his sword. He brought his other hand across his bruised stomach with a wince, then swallowed, tasting a sourness in his mouth. “Leave,” he said, and heard the tremor in his voice.
He drew his own sword, the blade narrower than Allan’s, with a slightly longer reach, but older and not as well taken care of judging by its dullness and the nicks in its edge. The style of the hilt suggested it was from the Demesnes, which made Allan wonder how Lars had gotten his hands on it.
Perhaps the same way he’d managed to get Allan cornered in this alley.
Allan rose from his crouch, hand falling away from his stomach. Fresh pain flared, but he could already feel himself sinking into a calmed state, his breath slowing, aches and bruises receding into the background, his body already slipping into the default stance of the sword. Lars slid into a similar stance—
Then he moved, unexpectedly, sword striking in a classic Temerite style, fluid and swift. Allan reacted without thought. Training kicked in even as he registered a moment of surprise and a thin frisson of fear—Lars was trained—then he seized the man’s movement and used it to his advantage, parrying the sword with a clash of metal on metal and carrying the force off to the side, slipping beneath Lars’ defenses and slashing hard across Lars’ other arm. Lars hissed as Allan’s blade bit into his bicep, deep enough to draw instant blood, but he stepped forward, raised his free hand and shoved Allan hard, bringing his sword around and cutting low along Allan’s thigh as he stumbled back.
Allan came up hard against a stone wall with a grunt, then pushed away, raising his sword to block another strike as he lurched toward the center of the alley, seeking space to maneuver, room to fight back. He felt a twinge in his side as he spun and caught Lars’ sword again, metal scraping as he drove the strike down and away. Even as he moved, feet slipping in the mud of the rain-slicked alley, his fist drove forward for another punch to Lars’ bloodied face.
He missed Lars’ nose, struck his cheekbone instead, but it staggered him. He stumbled back with a howl, Allan seizing the moment to take control of the center of the alley. Tery had moved to the far end, near the entrance, his back up against the wall, his face open with blatant fear. He didn’t look like much in the greater light near the street—tall, thin, dressed in clothes as worn and ragged as Lars’. He didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons larger than a knife.
Allan brushed him from his mind, focused on Lars again. The thug had regained his balance and now glared at Allan from his own position, seething, rage replacing everything else in his expression, all of the fear and hesitation gone. He was pissed, and not because Allan had killed the other thug. He was pissed because Allan had bested him. And he’d done it in front of Tery.
They glared at each other, both breathing heavily, Lars’ more phlegmy and less controlled, but Allan’s strained. His bruised abdomen had begun to take a toll.
“Leave,” he said again, the word harsh, filled with command.
Lars sneered, then attacked. Not a charge—his training wouldn’t permit that—but Allan countered, grunting with the effort, his strength ebbing. Swords clashed, strike and feint and parry, and at every opportunity Allan drove his fist into whatever opening presented itself: a thigh, lower back, chest, upper arm. Lars cried out, managed to slice Allan again across the chest, the wound barely drawing blood, and Tery watched it all from the entrance to the alley.
“Help me!” Lars barked at one point. “Help me, you bastard!”
But Tery only shook his head and muttered, “I can’t. It just slips off of him. I can’t hold him. I can’t even touch him.” His voice shook with effort, sweat and drizzle rolling down his face.
Then Lars slipped in the mud of the alley and Allan seized the opening, driving his sword down into the thug’s side, an inch beneath his ribs.
Lars gasped. His free hand rose halfway toward the blade embedded in his side, his eyes catching Allan’s one last time, still burning with hatred.
Then he collapsed, Allan’s blade slipping free. He tried to roll away, body arching. His sword dropped from his weakened hand and Allan kicked it away, but the action was unnecessary. Lars was already dead.
Allan turned slowly toward Tery. The thin man watched him warily from the alley’s entrance, still breathing hard. Allan felt a pressure against his arms, his chest, his neck, but at each fumbling push the pressure slipped away, like folds of silk brushing across his skin.
“You can’t touch me,” Allan said. “Not with the ley, or whatever it is the Wielders use.”
The pressure stopped. Tery swallowed once, eyes widening even further—
Then he bolted into the street.
Allan let his sword lower, watched the entrance to the alley for a long moment, listening for a shout, for a call to the city watch, but heard nothing except the dripping of the misty rain.
Morrell.
Heart leaping, the urgency from before the attack returning with a spasm in his chest, he wiped the rain and sweat from his face, cleaned his sword and searched the two bodies perfunctorily, taking a few coins but nothing else. Then he returned to the street, pausing only at the entrance to the alley to scan for threats.
Then he moved, fast, but not as reckless as he had before, his senses heightened. His stomach ached, the two cuts burned, but he shoved the pain aside, moving out of East Forks, across the bridge over the Tiana into West Forks, passing through streets and narrows. At a corner, he slowed, head bowed, as a group of Dogs passed by, and then he darted down the street behind the building where he’d rented a room. Entering through the courtyard gate in back, he moved through the hall to the front of the building, scanned the street outside but saw no one watching.
He turned to the stair and ascended to the second floor. When he opened the door to their room, Morrell turned from where she was sulking on the bed, her eyes angry and pensive, ready to protest her seclusion, but her indrawn breath caught in her throat as she took in his shirt stained with blood.
Her eyes widened, and she leaped from the bed with a strangled cry of “Da!”
“It’s all right, Poppet, I’m fine,” he said, letting her hug him tight around the waist a moment before pushing her away slightly and moving to the single window, gazing out at the street below.
Morrell followed him, not willing to let go of his hand. “I don’t like it here,” she said in a soft voice. “I want to go home.”
Allan glanced down, saw the tears streaming down her face, the vulnerability there, and his heart twisted in his chest.
He should never have brought her with him.
Kneeling down, he wiped her face dry and kissed her on the forehead, hugging her close to his chest. “Three more days, Poppet. We can leave in three days.”
Twenty-Three
THE HOUND HAD found Leethe within three hours of disembarking in Tumbor, had been following him for the past week. Most of the Baron’s activities had been uninteresting, duties that took him to various districts throughout Tumbor. The Hound had seen the old wharf, the massive trading grounds to the east, where caravans had once gathered for protection and to conduct business, the trading houses that surrounded the new ley stations, and the hulking granaries where Leethe and the other nobility stored most of their export goods. He’d investigated all of these locations thoroughly and found nothing. He’d searched the palace, the mistress’ residence, even the estates of the lords and ladies Leethe had visited since his arrival. Nothing.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, Leethe had deviated from his normal schedule. Instead of rising and attending to the mundane details of his responsibilities in Tumbor—passing judgment and mediating quarrels—he’d ordered a carriage and departed the palace for an unknown location along with an escort of enforcers and hi
s chief enforcer, Arger. The Hound hadn’t been able to keep up with the carriage, hadn’t even tried. He’d followed Leethe’s scent to the base of the Flyers’ Tower instead, and discovered that the Primes and Wielders who had been sent to Tumbor to oversee the ley network in Leethe’s city had allowed the Baron to enter.
The shock when he realized Leethe’s scent passed through the tower’s doors had set the hairs on the nape of his neck prickling. He’d stood in the tower’s shadow, mouth twisted into a snarl, staring up at the subtle folds of vine and leaf that had been sown to create it. No one but the Primes and Wielders were allowed access to the towers or the Nexi, not even Baron Arent. The argument over access had been harsh and loud, but Prime Augustus had refused to back down and eventually, grudgingly, Baron Arent had agreed. The Nexi and the ley were declared sacrosanct. All Wielders and Primes swore fealty to Augustus, and through him Baron Arent. It was the only way to maintain the integrity of the ley system and to retain control of the ley for Erenthrall and Arent.
For Baron Leethe to have gained access to the Flyers’ Tower, he must have subverted some, if not all, of the Primes within Tumbor. It was the only explanation.
He needed to gain access to the tower. He needed to find out what Leethe and the Primes here in Tumbor were doing.
By the time he reached the base of the Flyers’ Tower, the sun had set, darkness settling over the city streets. Here in the heart of Tumbor, the walks were mostly empty, those who worked in the palace and the nearest trading houses already returned home. Ley globes lit the thoroughfares, the white lights steady, but the Hound kept to the shadows, halting only when the occasional group of pedestrians or Prime Wielders walked past. He didn’t halt for ley-driven carriages or carts, trusting the occupants to be preoccupied.
He contemplated the tall main doors, shaped like a leaf, coming to a point at least thirty feet overhead. He’d never attempted to enter the Primes’ precincts, not even in Erenthrall. He didn’t even know if the doors opened in the traditional manner.