Harriman’s men poured into the alleyways, but Taziar had gained distance through his ploy. Dodging, ducking, and climbing, Taziar knew this sector of the city too well to get caught. But despite the excitement of the chase, he was unable to keep the tears from his eyes.
* * *
CHAPTER 7 : Ladies of the Shadows
I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.
—William Shakespare The Merchant of Venice
Back in the inn room, Taziar Medakan huddled on the stacked logs, feeling weak and as tattered as an old rag. Everything he had done since arriving in Cullinsberg replayed through his mind in an endless loop of accusation. He had not asked Rascal to drag him, unconscious and bleeding, from the whorehouse alley. Even if Taziar had been coherent enough to warn the children, he had not known the danger. No one could have guessed that Harriman would choose that moment to demand his share of the day’s take, nor just how cruel and warped his anger would become. Still, Taziar could not help feeling responsible for the children’s deaths. And after he revealed the information to his friends, the fact that Larson, Silme, and Astryd sat watching him in silent sympathy only strengthened his guilt. Taziar wished just one of his companions would chastise him for running off alone.
Larson crouched in a corner near the window, saying nothing. Astryd sat among the packs, tracing a pattern on the hilt of Taziar’s sword. It was Silme who finally broke the silence. “What time of day is the baron planning to hang Shylar and the others?”
Taziar stared at his hands. “Tomorrow sundown, almost certainly. Aga’arin’s High Holy Day is the most sacred day of the year. His followers, including the baron, will spend most of daylight on the temple grounds.” Taziar looked up, plotting diverting his thoughts from the orphans. “The number of guards on duty won’t change. Atheists and worshipers of Mardain will work. But many of the shops will close early or won’t open at all, and the streets will be nearly empty.” Taziar sat straighter, touched by the first familiar stirrings of excitement that accompanied planning the impossible. “The holiday won’t make the escape any simpler, but once we’ve freed them, we should be able to move through town without much difficulty.” Uncomfortable with leaving his friends in prison any longer than necessary, Taziar frowned. “Assuming we wait until tomorrow to release them.”
“Which gives us tonight to remove Harriman,” Silme spoke gently, but her suggestion inspired a flare of guilt that made Taziar squirm.
“Forget Harriman for now.” Taziar’s words did not come easily. “We can kill him any time, but my friends could die tomorrow.”
Larson looked pensive. “Silme’s right, Shadow. Breaking your friends out won’t do us any good if we leave an enemy at our backs. Harriman got them thrown in prison once. He can do it again.”
Silme continued. “You couldn’t talk a gang of frightened children into leaving Cullinsberg. Do you expect Shylar and the others to run away from the only home they know, passively waiting while Harriman destroys the part of city life they created?”
“Of course not.” Mercifully, Taziar’s remorse and the burden of blame retreated behind this new concern. “At the least, we have to know just how much control Harriman has over the remainder of the underground. We have to define friends and enemies. And that’s never an easy thing to do with criminals. When ...” Taziar avoided the uncertainty implied by the word “if.” “When we free the leaders, we have to know who will stand with and who will stand against them. But ...” He trailed off, licking his lips as he tried to frame the concept distressing him.
Three pairs of eyes confronted Taziar in interested silence, and he met them all in turn. “Harriman knew those children helped me yesterday, but he waited until we raised a hand against him. He killed Rascal and the others only after you went to the baron. I don’t think that was coincidence. It was a warning. If we try to kill Harriman and fail, which of my friends will he destroy next?”
A hush fell over the room as Astryd, Silme, and Larson considered. Larson spoke first, with the guileless moral insight he had openly displayed before Gaelinar’s death had driven him to emulate his swordmaster’s gruffer manner. “This is war, Shadow. In war, innocents die. You can’t feel responsible for every sin your enemy commits. The most you can do is limit your own killing to enemies and protect your buddies to the best of your ability. You try. You may fail. Everyone makes mistakes, and, sometimes, the wrong people pay. But there’s no excuse for not trying at all. ” Taziar lowered his head. It was against his nature to fear a challenge, but it went against all his experience to weigh children’s lives in the balance.
Silme returned the conversation to practical matters. “Who would have the information we need about the underground’s loyalties?”
“I’m not certain.” Taziar wandered through the list of informants in his mind. “Of course, the people who always knew the most about the goings on in the underground are the ones in prison. I got most of my facts from Shylar.” Frustrated, he shook his head. The gesture flung hair into his eyes, and he raked it back in place. “No one will talk to me. They all either hate or fear me, and I won’t endanger any more innocents. Certainly, no one will talk to any of you. It took me eight years to gain enough trust to establish the connections I have. You can’t accomplish the same thing in a day.” Another desperate thought pushed through his disillusionment. “Unless ...” he started before he could dismiss the idea as too dangerous.
“Unless what?” Silme’s tone made it clear she would not accept denial or argument. “Speak up.”
Taziar knew better than to try to hide knowledge from Silme. She had an uncanny ability to read people, and she never brooked nonsense. “Apparently, Harriman’s working out of Shylar’s whorehouse. That’s not surprising. A lot of information goes through that house, and it’s built for meeting and spying. For some reason, men tend to talk to Shylar’s girls, and they share disclosures amongst themselves.”
Silme picked up the thread of Taziar’s thought. “And possibly would talk with another girl who joined them.”
Unnerved by the course Silme’s mind seemed to be taking, Taziar attempted to redirect the suggestion. “The girls know and trust Shylar like a mother. Harriman’s sly, but I doubt even he could turn them against Shylar. In fact, I can’t fathom how the whorehouse is running at all without her. If I could sneak in again and speak with one of the girls ...”
Larson broke in with a loud snort of disgust. “Sure, Shadow. You’re going to slip past Harriman, his drug-crazed Vikings, forty thieves, guards, and other assorted male citizenry out to kill you so you can talk to a hooker who might just as easily turn you in as talk to you. You’d have about as much chance as a frog on a freeway.”
Larson’s last sentence held no meaning for Taziar, but the skepticism came through with expressive distinctness. And having failed once, Taziar could understand his companion’s doubt. “Are you trying to say it’s impossible?” Taziar left his intention unspoken, aware his friends knew that naming a task impossible was to Taziar like dangling raw steak before a guard lion.
Obviously undaunted, Larson rose. “You’re good, Shadow, but not that good. Besides, even if you made it through, you would force Harriman to kill whichever woman you spoke with.”
Silme nodded agreement. “You’re staying if I have to tie you to the door. Harriman may know you, but he’s never seen any of us. There’s only one logical choice as to who we send for information.” She looked pointedly at Astryd.
Dread crept through Taziar, a wave of cold foreboding that left him frozen like a carving in ice. “No,” he croaked. Then, louder, “No!” I won’t blithely deliver the only woman I’ve ever loved directly into Harriman’s hands.
Astryd responded with calm determination. “It’s not your decision, Shadow. It’s mine. And I choose to go.”
“No!” Taziar sprang to his feet. He measured the distance to the window.
Apparently alert to Taziar’s intention, Larson blocked his escape.
“Fine.” Silme stood, walked to the door, opened it, and gazed into the hallway. “It’s clear.”
Taziar drew the hood of his spare cloak over his head and followed Silme into the passageway. She closed the door, and he kept his back to the hall so that anyone who passed would not recognize him. “Harriman’s master can access Allerum’s thoughts. Surely, he knows what we all look like.”
“Certainly,” Silme agreed. “But Harriman knows only what his master chooses to tell him. That could be nothing. Unlikely, but possible. Even then, it takes time to memorize features well enough to send images. The master wouldn’t be able to show Harriman what we look like. That would be like an artist trying to draw a detailed picture of a stranger after only a few brief glimpses. He’d have to give Harriman a verbal description. You gave one of the best I’ve ever heard when you described Harriman, but I wouldn’t have slain the first person on Cullinsberg’s streets who fit the description. How would you portray Astryd?”
Taziar shrugged. “Small, short blonde hair, beautiful, female. Carries a staff with a garnet in it.”
“Exactly.” Silme smiled. “Take away the staff and that fits an eighth of Norway’s population.”
“Norway’s population,” Taziar repeated forcefully. “Not Cullinsberg’s. Mardain’s mercy, Silme, she’s got an unmistakable accent. Isn’t there something you can do to disguise her?”
Silme leaned against the door to their room. “I suppose. But do you think we have time to shop now? And do you really believe it would matter? New clothes and some makeup isn’t going to do much to change a description Harriman only knows from vague reports anyway, other than to draw suspicion if it’s noticed.”
“I meant some sort of magical disguise.” Taziar had never seen any Dragonrank mage change his appearance, even the ugly or elderly ones. But his contact with the rare sorcerers was limited to Silme, Astryd, and the few meetings they led him into, most notably his excursion to the Dragonrank school; and the situation seemed too dangerous not to ask. “Isn’t there some way she could make herself look different, even if just to Harriman?”
Silme shook her head. “The mind barriers keep sorcerers from casting anything that works by modifying other people’s perceptions or intentions, like dreams or illusions. That’s what makes Allerum’s lack of mind barriers so dangerous. When he first came here, we couldn’t trust anything he saw or heard. His every mood was suspect. Luckily, he learned how to tell when sorcerers tried to manipulate him and even how to fight back a bit.”
Taziar listened carefully. Though quick to revert to English words and a strange, distant morality, Larson doggedly avoided talking about the more serious aspects of his past.
Silme continued, “I might be able to enter Harriman’s mind, but not without risking a confrontation with his master.” She frowned, and fear touched her expression briefly.
Taziar stared. Never before had he seen Silme appear any way except in complete control of a situation.
Silme recovered quickly. “To actually alter Astryd would take phenomenal amounts of magic, certainly more than she has or can afford to waste. Even if she managed it, she’d never get herself back to looking exactly the way she does now.”
Taziar shivered at the thought. It was Astryd he loved, not her appearance, but he wondered if he could still consider her the same person with unrecognizable features on a face he had come to use as the standard for beauty. And even if Harriman doesn’t recognize her, what if he finds her as attractive as I do? The image returned, of the nobleman calmly blocking a berserk’s punch, tearing Skereye away from his victim like a starved lion from its kill. Harriman’s strong, bold to the point of insanity, and Astryd’s never had to physically defend herself against any man larger than me. “It’s too dangerous.”
Silme sighed in exasperation, naturally assuming Taziar was still concerned about Harriman identifying Astryd. “She can leave the staff and take another name. This is a huge city. She can’t be the only Norse woman in Cullins-berg. Besides, Shadow, everyone in the town would recognize you. Only Harriman might know Astryd. She may even be able to avoid him completely. Harriman may leave the simple chores, like hiring new girls, to his underlings. And you’re forgetting the most important thing. If she gets into trouble, Astryd can transport back to us almost instantly. Can you do that?” Her gray eyes probed in question.
Taziar’s rebuttal died in his throat. That’s true. As long as Astryd can transport, she’s in no danger. He managed a grimace of acceptance. “You’re right, as always. But before she goes, I want to talk to her. I need to describe the layout of the whorehouse, to name some of the people, and give her some directions.”
Silme clapped a hand to Taziar’s shoulder, too relieved to quibble. “Take all the time you need.”
Astryd threaded through the maze of city streets, concentrating on Taziar’s complicated series of directions designed, it seemed, to keep her clear of back roads and shadowed alleys. Though still touched by fatigue, nervous energy drove her to shy at every sudden movement. Her edginess drew unwanted attention. The afternoon crowds eyed her with pity, questioning her intelligence or passing whispered comments about the tiny, young woman with no man to protect her from thieves. Under ordinary circumstances, Astryd would have found the citizens’ concern amusing, but two days of draining her life energy nearly to nothing had left her more exhausted than a morning nap could overcome. Her aura spread around her, its usual brilliant white sheen dulled by weariness, its edges dark. Anxiety kept her hyperalert; each movement claimed more vitality than normal, fraying the fringes of her aura.
Astryd took slow, deep breaths. Gradually, the rapid hammering of her heart slackened, and she was able to pay closer attention to the shops and landmarks Taziar had detailed. She tried to recall the list of names and descriptions of people she might encounter in Shylar’s whorehouse, but it all blended into a verbal lump of colors and shapes; the odd, Cullinsbergen names all sounded alike to her. The realization triggered another burst of stress. She calmed herself using the mental techniques taught in the Dragon-rank school.
Astryd turned another corner, and, by means of a rotting signpost, identified her new location as Panogya Street. Magic or not, I’m the most ill-suited for this task. What does a shipbuilder’s daughter know of espionage? Until Astryd’s dragonmark had appeared seven years ago, she had spent a carefree childhood helping her mother and sisters sew clothes and prepare meals or skipping across the timbers her father and brothers used to construct the fishing boats. Every spring, as ice dissolved from the harbors, the thaw turned men restless. Many sailed off, in dragon-prowed ships crafted or patched by her father, to seek war and win treasures in distant lands. They returned, scarred but wealthy, sharing their spoils with a rowdy generosity. But Astryd’s father and brothers never joined them. She had come by her slight stature honestly, by breeding, and her menfolk’s small hands were unfit for wielding their heavy-bladed axes in wild battles. The most exciting ventures of her town she knew of only distantly and vicariously, from stories leaked thirdhand after drunken boasts in the village tavern.
Spending eleven months of each year at the Dragonrank school, Astryd had learned much of strength, meditation, and magic, but little of human nature. She spent her one month vacations with her family. But the fisherfolk treated her with uncharacteristic reverence. The boys she grew up with had married during her absence, and her relationships with people were as stilted and ungainly as those of a child playing at being an adult.
Astryd’s reminiscences brought her to the polished wooden door of Shylar’s whorehouse. She wiped sweating palms on her cloak, and smoothed the skirts beneath it, and tried, again, to remain composed. Only minimally s
uccessful, she hoped the men would attribute her discomfort to the understandable nervousness of a woman requesting employment in a whorehouse. It may appear appropriate, but it won’t help my powers of observation or make my task any easier. Resigned, Astryd tapped a fist against the door.
Several seconds went by while Astryd feigned engrossment in the panel, avoiding the smug glances of passersby. Then, the door swung open and a male face peered out. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for a job,” Astryd said, wishing she sounded less timid.
The man studied Astryd in the afternoon sunlight. Frowning, he gestured her into the entryway. When she stepped through, he closed the door behind her.
“Cooking and cleaning,” Astryd clarified. “And running errands.”
The man shook his head. “We have someone who cooks, and the girls pitch in with the other jobs. But I’ll ask the master.” He marched forward. The hallway ended in a door. Pulling it open, he gestured Astryd through it.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 17
