And now that they’d apparently found their target, and Dallin’s, they sat in the yard like quiet little ducklings, waiting to be silently picked off by a crafty wolf in the mama duck’s absence. Dallin was happy to oblige.
He wondered which one of them had set the fire back in Kenley, and his face set in a snarl. He couldn’t be positive of that last, but the trail was clear and his instincts were clearer. Hunting down the local law, giving them a report and then sending one to Jagger had set him back a day, but it had been easy enough to pick up the pursuit again afterward.
Silence and stealth were key now. Dallin withdrew a score of yards, quietly doffed his pack and his crossbow, checked himself over. The rifle he might need, but it also had a tendency to get in the way with close work, so he reluctantly unslung it from his shoulder and left that with the others. The new revolver was strapped in its holster to his right thigh, and he checked the leather binding carefully, made sure it was snug and secure but loose of its tether so he could draw quickly. His old revolver was holstered at his left hip, its weight and shape as familiar as an old friend. The short-sword was angled in its sheath behind the holster so that he had to tuck the tail of his coat around it to ensure easy access. There really wasn’t a place for his knife anymore, so he’d taken to carrying it in his left boot—telling himself every time he did so that he needed to make the time to have a pocket sewn into the leather for the purpose, but he never seemed able to make that time. He never seemed able to make time for anything anymore, not even a haircut, and the curls at his nape and about his ears were beginning to annoy him.
Then again, this whole business annoyed him. And after Kenley, it infuriated him. He’d thought at first he’d been assigned to haul back some spoilt runaway who’d got himself into trouble Dallin didn’t want to know about, which had chafed to no end, but duty was duty. In the days he’d spent following Calder’s sporadic tracks and then picking up on the ones who followed him, Dallin had come to understand there was more to it, though he’d known there was more before Calder had even taken off in the first place, he just hadn’t known what. He still didn’t know what, and it was really starting to piss him off. Still, it hadn’t occurred to him that the men who dogged Calder were as dangerous as Dallin had come to realize they were, not until he’d seen the burnt skeleton of Kenley. Now, he was glad he’d come armed as he had. He’d chuckled at himself as he’d packed his kit, and now he felt vindicated that he’d followed his instincts instead of his reason.
He took the two in the trees first, carefully, quietly, and one at a time. The first fell so quickly beneath the butt of his gun that Dallin feared he might have hit him too hard and accidentally killed him; he’d worry about it later. The only rope he’d brought with him he expected to need, so Dallin removed the man’s holster, took his gun, and trussed him with the belt.
The second must have sensed him somehow, because he turned just before Dallin got into position, obviously expecting the shape in the darkness to resolve itself into the fellow currently unconscious behind him, since he actually started to smile a greeting before Dallin dropped him, too. If the bugger hadn’t turned, Dallin wouldn’t’ve lost the angle and had to whack him twice. Served him right, anyway. He bound that one in the same manner as the first and moved on.
That left the one over by the paddock and the one behind the table. Taking out the one behind the table would be less risky, since Dallin would have to cross his line of sight to get to the other; but the one by the paddock appeared to be the less intelligent of the two, since he seemed to have no idea the horses that had sidled up to investigate him were more-or-less trumpeting his presence with their curious nickering. None of these men seemed terribly over-burdened with intelligence, but that one seemed to have no brains, so Dallin chose the other. He wanted to at least try to get the one who seemed to know what he was about, and the one playing horse bait didn’t look like the better prospect.
He’d been following what he was fairly certain were six men, and here were only four accounted for. Dallin could see one hovering about the open back door of the inn—safely distracted and in turn distracting Calder, if Dallin was lucky—and assumed the other was inside where Dallin couldn’t see him, but he wanted to make sure of their numbers before he walked into anything. Anyway, he really wanted to know what this little posse was doing on Calder’s trail in the first place and why they’d felt it necessary to spread carnage in their clumsy wake to eliminate witnesses. Then again, he may have just answered his own question.
Except the bigger question was why? Why go to all this trouble for some skinny little trouble-making runaway who was, so far as Dallin knew, merely a figurehead and easily replaced? And especially after Ríocht’s ambassador had gone to such lengths to drag Cynewísan into the search. Having read the little faerie tale Manning had given him, Dallin could almost understand why they wanted him back—religious fanatics, in Dallin’s experience, could see perfect reason in the most unreasonable things—but Calder couldn’t possibly have this much import. Something else was very wrong.
Not Dominion spies—they weren’t nearly good enough. Except, now that he’d got a look at them—albeit a very quick look in the dark—he was re-thinking that assessment. All of them were dark-haired with light complexions; though clearly and undeniably from the north and likely candidates for agents, the fact that they rather stood out here made them useless as spies. Although, the fact that the two he’d taken out in the trees had no papers seemed to add to the suspicion, rather than dismiss it.
Dallin shook his head. He’d find out from one of them.
Persistent buggers, though, whoever they were. Dallin had been wondering for days and miles what reason they had for their dogged pursuit of Calder, and the man with the best hiding place was, by dubious default, apparently the smartest among them, which wasn’t saying much. Still, Dallin’s curiosity and patience had both reached their limits and he wanted that one able to answer his questions, so he’d prefer to save him for last.
Though, truly, the best man for answers was likely Calder himself, but Dallin would have to deal with these others first.
The moon was new and too bright to Dallin’s liking for his purposes, but it was hiding behind a scrim of cloud at the moment—not exactly a circumstance he could control, and he was loath to expose himself in the light of the yard. If the moon chose to show its face while he was out in the open, there could be real trouble. He decided to keep trusting his instincts, went for the man by the paddock first. The other one hadn’t moved yet, but Dallin kept a wary eye as he sidled through the shadows at the perimeter of the yard and toward his target. This one was flat to the ground, so no convenient angles of assault presented themselves. Dallin would have to kill him, quick and quiet, and hope he was right in his assessment that this one was just a lackey. The paperwork when he got back to Putnam would be a bitch, and Jagger would sigh wearily at him and roll his eyes, but really—what choice did Dallin have? It was the man’s own fault for being so incompetent.
Dallin’s luck was improving. The horses had got bored and wandered out farther into the paddock. He’d have to do this one with all speed, so he would be away and back into the shadows before they got curious again, or started making noise when they smelled the blood. Because there would, Dallin knew, be a lot of blood.
The muffled whoof of breath when Dallin fell on the man’s back was the only noise that got loose, Dallin’s weight and position making struggle impossible as his left hand covered the man’s mouth and the dagger in his right found its mark, severing the man’s jugular in one clean plunge-and-sweep. He waited until there were no more twitches before rolling himself off, wiping his hands and weapon on the grass and the man’s coat.
Damn it, no papers on this one, either. Dallin breathed a silent growl, looked about.
Now he’d have to either work his way back the way he’d come and risk the pockets of albeit weak lantern light and the moon, or make his way around the front of the in
n and approach the last one from behind. Except the latter held the risk of taking his eyes off the man, plus the possibility of running into an entering or exiting patron of the inn around front. He imagined the time lost, along with the element of surprise, in lengthy explanations to civilians, and chose to risk the former.
It took him longer this time. Dallin had to freeze and crouch every time the clouds shifted. He worked his way around the yard, setting his boots softly in the grass, testing his steps for unseen twigs or other alarms before resting his weight for the next. Closer now, he noted that the man crouched with pistol drawn, held loose but firm in his hand, capably braced—a combat stance. Dallin had been very right in assuming this man the smartest of the bunch. He crouched in the dark with a discipline Dallin recognized—former military. Likely one of those wily little recon ferrets the Commonwealth’s infantry so despised. Dallin adjusted his former presumption accordingly. The man held his weapon as one used to the heft and shape, and his body as one who remained alert and on watch. Unlike the others, this one had obviously been well-trained. All the more reason to take him out of play before Dallin attempted to arrest Calder.
Not well-trained enough, though. Dallin was perhaps four strides from the man when he noted the telltale tensing of the shoulders, the firming of the fingers about the gun. Dallin caught the man’s arm in mid-swing. Forcing the gun’s aim at the ground, Dallin jammed the meat of his thumb between its hammer and firing-pin. The pain was exquisite but there was no time to feel it. Apparently too long out of practice, Dallin’s opponent was spending all his time and energy trying to free his weapon and not enough on maintaining equilibrium. Dallin took advantage. He yanked the gun from the man’s hand and flung it to the grass. A hammer-blow to the belly nearly brought the man to his knees, all his air whoofing from his lungs. Dallin gave him no time to regain his breath. He spun the man about, slipped his arm about the man’s neck and lifted him off his feet. Tightened his grip.
“Fight me and I’ll kill you,” Dallin whispered calmly in his ear. “Make a noise and I’ll kill you. Tell me a lie and I’ll kill you.” The man stilled but the coiled tension remained. Dallin had him now, and they both knew it, the only danger lying in his own potential mistakes, which Dallin intended not to make. He kept his grip, loosened his arm just enough for the man to drag a breath in, said, “Why do you follow Calder?”
The man tried to shake his head—couldn’t. “I know no Calder,” he wheezed.
Dallin thought that likely enough, since Calder was obviously not the man’s name in the first place. Though, he had a very difficult time believing these men had been following someone all this time without learning the alias under which he was traveling.
“All right, then,” Dallin agreed, “why do you follow the man you’re following?”
A quick spurt of energy from the man spent itself quickly when Dallin cut off his air again. The restrained thrashing of his limbs tapered into weak spasms before Dallin let the man have another breath—it was raspy and not deep enough, but Dallin didn’t need him comfortable, he needed him afraid and willing to talk.
“Why do you follow the man you follow?” Dallin asked again, this time through clenched teeth. “Why is he so important and what do you want with him?”
“They said you would come,” the man snarled, breathless, and a withering little laugh crept up from his constricted throat. “You are no Guardian. You refused the call, but there are hundreds more who have not.”
The last bit was choked and garbled, and more so than could be explained by Dallin’s arm about the man’s throat. Sickening, wet strangling sounds rose from the man and his body arched against Dallin’s chest, stiff and rigid. Cautiously, Dallin lowered the man to the grass, flipped him to his back. A light froth oozed out the side of his mouth, eerily blue in the weak moonlight, and his eyes bled exaltation and triumph. A ragged, truncated breath dragged through a grimace that was trying to be a grin, macabre in its rapture. He pushed out a throttled cough, a fine film of blood and spittle flecking Dallin’s cheek. Dimming eyes held Dallin’s, narrowed in victory.
“Hundreds,” the man gasped, then his whole body seized, stiffened, then slowly went limp, head dropping heavily to the side.
Dallin slowly sat himself in the grass, reached his foot out and kicked the man’s gun a little farther away. Throttling a curse, he pushed his fingers to the vein beneath the man’s jaw, though he knew there would be no pulse. The stupid bugger had managed to poison himself somehow. Dallin moved his fingers from the man’s neck and to his mouth, ignored the repugnant pool of froth that was still foaming lightly, and dipped them in to feel about. He found what he was looking for immediately: a small, paper-thin capsule of tin, bitten through and perforated. He’d heard about such things in the army, but he’d never actually seen one used. In fact, having come to know the hearts of men as he had over the years, he’d suspected the tales of their use terribly exaggerated. Now he supposed he knew better. Surgically inserted in the soft tissues inside the mouth, so one would have to actually bite through the flesh to activate the capsule. He hadn’t really believed that either. He didn’t check for confirmation on that one, telling himself it was because it was too dark to see anyway and not because he didn’t really want to know.
Perfunctorily, he checked this one for papers, too, not at all surprised when he didn’t find any. The clan-marks on his cheek were something, at least. Dallin stared at the pattern a moment, wondering where he’d seen it before, before peering once more up at the moon. The tattoos were interesting, and possibly significant, if he could figure out why they twitched at his memory, but not the answer he was looking for. Although, if things didn’t start going in his favor soon, it might be the only answer he was going to get.
He stood, swore quietly, and just barely restrained himself from kicking the corpse. The eyes were still open, staring sightless past Dallin’s right shoulder, and he had to suppress an absurd shiver and the desire to have a look for himself.
Damn it. Damn it.
He surveyed the yard with a quick, circuitous glance, tried to gauge the amount of time he’d been faffing about out here, and couldn’t. He hadn’t been prepared for someone to take his own life, certainly not while Dallin was holding onto him, and he had no shame in admitting that it threw him. He pulled himself together with another curse. The ones he’d left unconscious could stir any moment and he hadn’t gagged them, and who knew what was going on inside the inn. He peered over his shoulder—the man who’d been at the door earlier was gone, and even as Dallin noted it, the noise and soft strumming of a lute abruptly stopped.
Shit. Something was happening. And here Dallin was, cursing at corpses.
Forcing a calm he no longer felt, he swooped down, retrieved the man’s pistol, and tucked it into his own belt at the small of his back. He made sure his own gun was cocked and ready, then walked calmly and quietly to the porch of the common room.
And right to the edge of chaos.
It took a moment for Dallin to understand what he was seeing. All eyes in the room were nearly vacant, glancing toward the only people still moving then quickly caroming off again, as though vaguely disturbed from waking dreams. It was as though everyone here had simply stopped in the middle of whatever they’d been doing to fall into a waking torpor, all except the three men who stood grappling not five feet in front of him.
Dallin had dealt with the reality of magic his entire life, knew that many practiced it and many more tried, knew that more often than not what some claimed as magic was likely something more akin to mundane coincidence. He’d actually seen magic exactly once, and been thoroughly unimpressed. Until now.
“Bloody fuck,” Dallin breathed, ran his thumb against the reality of smooth, burnished wood in his palm, if for nothing else than to assure himself that at least he was awake, then gave his head a sharp shake when the little group lurched, stumbled. “Bloody fuck,” Dallin said again when he recognized Calder, dangling from the grip of the s
maller man like a ragdoll, face bloodied and eyes beginning to bulge and dull from lack of air. It was like a repeat of what had happened at the Kymberly. They were obviously fighting over possession of Calder, snarling and cursing at each other in another language, what Dallin could see of their eyes enraged and near-insane.
Moving purely on instinct, he stepped through the door and to the left, putting his back to the wall. Giving the rest of the room a quick scan, he lifted his arm and aimed at the largest of the group.
“Hold!” he shouted. Except they didn’t; there was a scream from across the room then two reports, one right after another, neither from Dallin’s gun, and the man he’d been aiming at crumpled to the floor. The misfire whizzed past Dallin so close he heard it whistle before it exploded into the wood of the doorframe, spraying his right shoulder and cheek in a rain of splinters. He barely even noticed. Another went off and he ducked down and farther to his left, took inadequate cover behind the first thing available—a stray barstool that had somehow wandered several feet from the bar itself—in time to watch Calder hurtle past him and crunch headlong into the doorframe; he crumpled, too, and Dallin dismissed him for the moment, focusing his attention on the last one standing.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 10
