The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  “The Guild…” Calder whispered, snorted, mirthless and bleak. “You’re to take me back to the Guild?” The tears were back, dripping down and mixing with the blood. “They mean to kill me.” Toneless, the voice of a man already dead. The change from the wild fury he’d fought with only a moment ago to this broken creature, weeping silently and pleading with a stranger… it was unnerving.

  Dallin narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. It seemed like the truth, felt like the truth, and if it wasn’t, Calder believed it, but…

  “You are the Chosen,” Dallin returned. “I won’t pretend to know all of your strange religion, but I know some and I know what the Chosen is, and you’re going to have to convince me of your claim. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me—I’m your only hope—and unless you tell me what this is about, you have no hope and back to Ríocht you go. It’s the task I’ve been given and my sworn duty.” He was pretty sure that was a lie—right now, he could find nothing within himself that indicated he’d be willing to hand this man over to the Dominion, regardless of any number of repercussions he could think of, and he had no idea what to make of that. He sighed, leaned in, softened his voice. “I believe you that you’re in danger. I’d thought at first that you were just a spoilt runaway, but there’s more here, and I don’t know what it is, and unless you tell me what it is…”

  He let the rest hang there, unspoken threat.

  Calder shook his head, breathed out a weary laugh. “Spoilt.” He closed his eyes, thumped his head back. “I have no religion,” he muttered, strangely hollow. “But you’re right about one thing, Constable: you know fuck-all about it.” His eyes snapped open, the venom seeping back into his gaze as he leveled it at Dallin. “And when you meet your end, and you stand before your Mother-goddess as She asks you why you knowingly sent a man to his death, what will you tell Her? That it was your task?”

  “I don’t know that I am sending you to your death,” Dallin retorted. “I’ve seen enough to give me pause, but lying comes too easily to you, and drama like a second-skin, except I don’t think you’re lying and there’s too much you’re not telling me. I’ve no idea what to believe and not nearly enough evidence to sway me one way or the other. I cannot simply take your word when you’ve lied to me since the moment I met you and you’re too damned good at it—you change faces as a snake changes skins.”

  “Look at me,” Calder demanded, “and tell me you see lies.”

  Dallin did look. He stared for a moment, trying to find pretence, and couldn’t. He shook his head. “Why would they want to kill their own Chosen?”

  A wry smile this time, and a look very near pity. “Because I am not their Chosen,” Calder said, turned his head and spat out a sticky stream of saliva and blood, wiped his mouth on his shoulder. “I am merely in their way.”

  “How?” Dallin wanted to know. “In their way of what?”

  Calder peered at him for another long moment, indecision warring with distrust, hope against fatalism. On the cusp, Dallin had seen it so many times in hundreds of different faces, and his heart picked up pace in anticipation of pending confession. But Calder only slumped, bowed his head.

  “I’m thirsty and my head hurts.”

  Dallin sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and let it drop. For now. “I’m not surprised,” he said, reached out. “Here, let me—” He paused when Calder flinched back, softened his voice. “I’m going to help you up,” Dallin told him calmly, “and then I’m going to help you inside. I can almost feel your friend Miri burning me in effigy already, and we’d best let her see to you, if their healer hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Calder shook his head. “I don’t want her to see to me,” he whispered, small and humiliated, arms working behind him in what Dallin was fairly sure was unconscious denial of his current defeated state.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” Dallin replied, kept his voice low and near-affable as he leaned to the side, retrieved his sidearm, checked the safety and deliberately holstered it, secured it in its straps. “Your right hand needs setting and wrapping, and we can’t very well have you shackled for that, can we?” He set his jaw a little when Calder shot a hopeful glance from beneath tangled fringe. “I’m not letting you go,” Dallin warned, “and if you make me go through this sort of set-to again, you’ll be a lot worse off than you are now, I promise you. If you try to run, I will catch you and make you regret it.” He shrugged, opened a hand. “But I need my right hand free and can’t have you attached to it—” He patted the holster. “—and your right hand needs seeing to, so I can’t cuff myself to you. If you can behave yourself until I can get us safely upstairs, we’ll take those shackles off.”

  Calder’s face fell, but he didn’t protest, only dropped his gaze, nodded. “I’ll… behave,” he said quietly. Dallin didn’t miss how he’d spoken that last word as though it tasted sour.

  It was only the work of a few seconds to get Calder on his feet—amazing how light and thin he felt when he wasn’t trying to kill a person. He turned with no resistance when Dallin prodded him, stood still and quiet, waiting patiently for Dallin to fish out the key. Dallin had seen this slumped posture before, this submissive-seeming compliance, so he remained chary as the shackles came off, one hand clamped to Calder’s left elbow as he re-secured them on the back of his belt. But Calder only swayed a little on his feet, didn’t tense or try to jerk out of Dallin’s grip, only brought his right arm around, cradled it to his chest, and waited for Dallin to turn him again.

  “All right,” Dallin said, “calm and quiet, now. Lean into me if you have to, but if you try to get away from me, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

  Calder’s jaw twitched. “I said I wouldn’t.” Tight and resentful.

  It confirmed Dallin’s initial assessment: Calder was never going to admit defeat, no matter what the situation. He’d mimic defeat, say all the right words to convince his antagonist, but underneath it all, Dallin had no doubt there was scheming and calculation and the patience to wait for the next opening. He’d cooperate meekly and politely, right up until he was cutting your throat. Or his own. And Dallin was a little pissed off to realize he was grudgingly impressed; if nothing else, Calder had stones of pure, solid brass… or maybe it was more like a head full of rocks. Unfortunately, Dallin would likely get several more opportunities to decide which.

  Calder did lean into him as they made their slow way around to the back porch, and Dallin didn’t think there was any sham in the unsteady gait or the occasional stumble. The man had been through the wringer—several wringers, by the look of him—and it wasn’t a wonder the effects were catching up with him. Nonetheless, Dallin kept a good hold on Calder’s arm, alert for a sudden move toward any of the weapons secured about Dallin’s person. There were many dangers involved in his line of work, but the most embarrassing among them was getting shot with one’s own sidearm. Dallin had no intention of finding out how that one felt.

  The small crowd Dallin had ordered away before had merely migrated around the corner and to the porch. And grown. Likely bollixing and skewing any evidence he’d hoped to find once Calder was seen to. Who knew what sort of mess they’d made out of the scene in the common room? Damn it, he needed a bloody regiment to wring some order out of this cock-up, and he was only one person.

  Calder shrank back a little, made himself smaller, as he caught sight of everyone staring at him, some of them almost hostile, some of them merely curious—only one of them willing to break from the security of the crowd and approach them. Dallin was not in the least surprised when Miri strode over to them with shoulders thrown back, Tom, as always, a half-step behind her, at her back, a frustrated scowl of reprimand and resignation both darkening his thin features.

  “Are you all right?” Miri asked Calder, shot an accusing glance up at Dallin; again, Dallin only just kept from snorting.

  “My head hurts,” was all Calder said, eyes nailed to the ground and hair hanging to cover his face.

  It seemed Miri
couldn’t decide between sympathy for Calder and irritation with Dallin. She settled for grudging practicality.

  “The Sheriff’s arrived,” she told Dallin, maneuvering herself over to Calder’s right side and gingerly taking his other elbow. “And she en’t happy.”

  Dallin couldn’t imagine she would be.

  “We found the others,” Tom offered from behind. “I thought you said you’d only done away with two of ‘em?”

  Dallin paused with his foot on the bottom step of the porch. He’d actually forgotten about the men out in the yard. He turned to look at Tom. “What d’you mean?”

  “They were all dead,” Tom answered warily, eyeing Dallin with more suspicion than he’d done before. “One of ‘em had his throat cut, and the other three—”

  “Poisoned,” Dallin cut in, shook his head and clenched his teeth. “Damn it.” He should damn well have gone back and checked the first two, once he’d seen what the last had done. Still, who would have guessed…? “What the deuce are these people?”

  “True Believers,” Calder muttered, blinked up at Dallin as though he’d had no intention of speaking and was worried about the repercussions now that he had. His mouth worked for a moment then he shut it, looked down.

  “Mm,” Dallin grunted, glared at the people blocking the porch. “Come on then, out of the way.” He didn’t wait for them to move, merely began shoving his way through them and dragging Calder—and, perforce, Miri—along with him. “Clear out, I tell you, move along.” He peered over Calder’s head at Miri. “Where is this sheriff of yours, then?”

  “Right behind you,” came the laconic response. “Come on, then, you heard the man, out of the way.”

  The crowd parted this time, making way for a woman, broad and tall and keen-edged, sharp eyes set wide in a face ruddied with sun and wind; a spider-work of smile lines stretched from the corners of her eyes and swept up toward graying temples, an otherwise deep-chestnut mane tied back in a tail at her nape. More than just fit—the woman was the very definition of ‘rough and ready’ and could probably give Dallin a run for his money, should she so choose. She could have been anywhere between thirty-five and seventy. Dallin had no intention of having a guess, at least no out loud. Women had some sort of… thing about their age.

  The sheriff took her time mounting the steps, moving slowly, for no other purpose, Dallin guessed, than to have herself a good, long look. She said nothing yet, but tipped Dallin a business-like nod in greeting then peered down at Calder, stared for so long he started to twitch; she took pity and turned her gaze back to Dallin, lifted one expressive eyebrow.

  “Quite the mess you boys’ve made here,” was all she said.

  Dallin liked her immediately.

  She jerked her chin over her shoulder. “That your arsenal up yonder in the trees?”

  Dallin would hardly call it an ‘arsenal,’ but he nodded. “Still as I left them, I trust.” That eyebrow went up again, and Dallin gave her a little shrug. “I’m told some of the other detritus I left up there didn’t fare as well.”

  “Six dead,” she said flatly. “We’ve not had something like this in the province in…” She shook her head. “We’ve never had something like this in the province, and I’ll tell you true—I don’t appreciate you coming into my jurisdiction and wreaking holy hell, without so much as a ‘Mother, may I.’ Even the lowest bounty hunter stops by and checks in with the local law before wading in.”

  “I appreciate that, and I do apologize, Miss…?”

  “Sheriff Locke,” she informed him.

  Dallin had the presence of mind to flush a little. “Right, sorry. And I would’ve done, but by the time I tracked Mister Calder here—”

  “Wil.”

  Dallin paused, peered down at Calder in surprise; the sheriff followed his glance with another frown.

  “By the time I tracked Wil here,” Dallin continued, “things had already progressed to the point where immediate intervention was necessary.”

  “Mm, by way of shoot-to-kill, I see.” Locke looked like she’d bitten something sour.

  Dallin really needed to work on his first impressions. “Actually, no. Look, might we…?” He cast a quick, pointed glance at the crowd still gathered behind Locke.

  “Oh, we shall,” she retorted. “I’ve two cells down the Office, both of ‘em empty and ready for… guests.”

  Dallin blinked, bridled. Oh, for pity’s sake, this woman didn’t seriously think he was going to allow her to appropriate Calder or even arrest him, did she? He narrowed his eyes, made a concerted effort to make his voice calm but firm. “Surely you don’t mean—”

  “Surely not.” Locke smirked, gave him a wry glance out the corner of her eye. “But as the local law, it would be impolitic if I failed to offer aid and comfort to a fellow officer.” She leaned in, lowered her voice. “And we can talk without an eager audience.”

  “Ah.” Dallin snorted. He really liked this woman.

  Locke jerked her chin at Calder. “Is this man under arrest?” she wanted to know.

  Calder’s head came up, eyes shooting a sideways glance at Dallin, gaze finding something other than the toes of his boots for the first time since they’d left the side-yard. Apparently, he was just as interested in the answer to that question as Locke was.

  “I don’t know yet,” Dallin answered honestly, looking first to Calder and then to Miri. And then he deftly changed the subject. “Will you help me get him ready to travel?”

  ***

  Sheriff Locke arranged for Tom to saddle horses for ‘the visiting Constable and his friend’ while Dallin kept an eye on Calder as Miri fussed and bandaged, since the healer had yet to show up. Tom dragooned one of the bar-lads to hitch the inn’s only draught pony to the inn’s only cart, also on Locke’s orders, for the purpose of carrying the bodies to the local healing house, the cellar of which apparently doubled as the local morgue. And then Locke commandeered Tom to drive it. Garson nattered at Locke the whole while that all property—animals, cart and ostler—had best be returned within a night-cycle and in no worse shape than they’d been when they’d left, and then wanted to know how one went about submitting a voucher for damages and services rendered. Dallin didn’t really blame him—the common room was a mess, bloodstains already darkening the wood floors to an ominous reddish-black. On the other hand, once the tale spread, patronage would increase tenfold for at least a week, so Garson would likely profit at least a little. Someone had retrieved Dallin’s kit and weapons from the wood. Tom saw to securing it and a ratty pack Calder dredged from underneath a chair in the cart.

  Watching all of the activity while he stood about and made sure Calder didn’t bolt again made Dallin feel a bit silly and useless, but he chuckled to himself as he watched Locke directing while at the same time examining evidence and taking careful notes, and wringing semi-coherent statements out of those who at least hazily remembered the course of events. He’d wished earlier for a regiment to bring order to the chaos; he’d apparently got one in the form of Sheriff Locke and was well-pleased.

  Bruised but no longer bloody, hand beneath so many bandages it looked like a great lump of linen on the end of his arm, Calder stood carefully and quietly offered what looked like very sincere thanks to Miri. Dallin was tempted to step in closer and listen in, but refrained. Miri answered just as quietly then, to Dallin’s surprise, leaned in and embraced Calder, hugged him like a long-lost brother. It was odd—not only did the man bring out the animal in people, but he seemed to bring out the mother-hen in them, too. Even Dallin, trained in such matters and resistant to most manipulation, wasn’t immune to it. He frowned a little when he saw Calder’s good hand go to Miri’s apron pocket before pulling away from the embrace, then frowned even more when he saw the flash of coins in the lamplight.

  “How much did you drop in her apron?” he asked Calder on the way to the horses.

  Calder just shrugged. “Whatever was left in my pocket,” he answered tiredly.

&nb
sp; Dallin stopped them both in mid-stride, narrowed his eyes. “You gave her all of your money?”

  “What use will it be to me?” Calder wanted to know. “Dead men don’t need money and neither do prisoners.” He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, eyes glittering in the light still spilling from the windows of the inn. “She was kind to me,” he furthered simply, “and she’s to be married,” and then just stood there, eyes once again to the ground, waiting for Dallin to resume their pace.

  Dallin only stared for a moment then shook his head, gave Calder’s elbow a tug and got moving again.

  Calder baulked when he saw the horses, and then nearly went into hysterics when he was told he was expected to ride one of them.

  “I’d rather ride in the cart with the dead,” he insisted anxiously, digging in his heels and eyeing the animals with chary suspicion.

  Dallin probably could have forced him, but somehow couldn’t find it in him. He felt as exhausted as Calder looked. Anyway, the horse Tom had saddled for him was little more than a cranky plough-horse, indignant at being dragged out in the cold, and Dallin really didn’t fancy fighting the reins for however long the ride to Locke’s office would take. And he’d save Tom a trip; perhaps that would win him some points with Miri. He handed the reins of the horse back to Tom, shoved Calder into the box of the cart, and drove it himself.