by Connie Ward
I tugged on Ginger's sleeve. “Aren't you worried Fleurry might post guards on the catwalks?"
"He won't. The warehouse is awaiting demolition. Only a fool would stand up here.” He grinned impishly, then gestured to Ragsey to remain on the landing. “You're the lookout."
The mage led me along the walkway to a wooden platform. I clung to the rail, battling a sudden bout of vertigo. Ginger peeled away my hand and forced me to lie down on the dusty planks, where I could peer over the edge. Only a few inches of worm-eaten wood and a couple of cross beams lay between me a three-story drop onto about two dozen Royalists below.
Then I saw the rats. Several sat on the rafters above, seemingly content to watch us with beady black eyes. Another hunched in shadow just three feet from my elbow. I tried to shoo it away but it wouldn't budge. With effort, I ignored it.
Ginger sat in the platform's centre, arranging concealment spells around us, and probably others he hadn't told me about. I surveyed the scene on the ground, tallying Royalists and scanning for faces I knew. Fleurry was present, of course, sitting at a desk thrown together with planking and empty crates. I wondered if he was aware of that little bald spot.
He and his second had their heads bent over an unfurled map, plotting, I presumed, their attack on Gregaris. While they conspired, several more men entered the building, stopping to identify themselves to the guards. Ginger peppered me with questions.
"Who's that, the one in the Gryphon livery?"
"Um, not sure. Scout, maybe."
"And the short guy beside him? With the lady's sword?"
Lady's sword. Ginger-slang for rapier. “Looks like a liaison from the castle."
Another soldier slipped inside, strode unimpeded past the checkpoint and straight to Fleurry, passing him a leather satchel.
"What's that? What's in that packet? More maps? Codenames?"
I squinted for a better view, the oily black torch smoke that spiralled upwards stinging my nose. “Ahh. Oh, my."
"What?” the mage hissed. “What?"
"It looks like ... his supper. Yes, some thoughtful underling has fetched the captain fare from the local tavern. A wrap of hard cheese. A loaf of black bread. A jar of stew, and its still hot—"
Ginger's glower stopped me in mid-sentence. I guess whatever earth-shattering revelation he hoped to uncover here had little to do with Royalist metabolic timetables. Hey, you're the one asking the questions.
Fleurry opened the jar and the pungent aroma of mutton stew wafted up to us, mingling with the smoke that hung thick and lazy in the air. The visitors stopped by the checkpoint apparently gained entrance, for they materialized at the captain's elbow as he slurped his supper. They did most of the talking, discussing supply issues and Arial's impending arrival with reinforcements, which should appear within the month. Fleurry swallowed hard over a chunk of meat in reaction to that last, and let out a much put-upon sigh as he picked a piece of fat off his spoon.
"Can't he speed it up?"
"He's trying, sir, but the Gryphon Highlord has expressed a difference of opinion on the matter and so—"
"I don't give a shit what that toad Valleri said. Who's in charge? Him or Bertrand?"
"Uhm, maybe you can ask the general that when gets here. There's a rumour circulating that Chiverly and Urharde take orders only from him."
Fleurry sputtered and cursed, spewing broth all over the sleeve of the liaison, who ogled it with distaste. “Bloody hell! I knew it. I goddamned knew it!" He pounded his fist on the desk for unnecessary emphasis, shattering a support crate into splitters. Although the desk titled dangerously Fleurry didn't seem to notice. “That venomous worm. The usurpation has already begun. I warned Bertrand about the sneaky bastard but he ignored me. The ingrate. Nobody listens to me."
A refrain similar to my own.
There was a minor commotion at the door as someone tried to barrel his way past the checkpoint. Harsh words were exchanged and the guards stepped aside. As Fleurry shot to his feet I thought excitedly Val's here!
But no. That fop Urharde sauntered in, two underlings in tow, his helm tucked under an elbow, all for show. I can't recall an instance when Urharde actually entered an arena of battle. Fleurry grumbled and sat back down, his deflation as acute as my own.
Urharde chuckled at the captain's obvious malcontent. “Tut, tut, Fleurry, old friend. Such dramatics! You've been out of the castle too long. There's been developments since you took to the field."
Fleurry is as tough as they come, a grizzled, hardened old warrior of fifty or more. His experience and plethora of battle-scars allow him the privilege of complaint and dispute when it comes to dealings with the Regent. No doubt he considered Valleri's newfound influence with Uncle unwarranted and unwelcome. He levelled a glare on Urharde that would have made anyone with an iota of sense cringe.
Urharde broke into a grin. “As for Arial..."
One of those people who revel in their role of bearer of bad news, he let the words hang in the air, dangling them like a bone before Fleurry as if the captain were a starving dog. Fleurry's eyes narrowed, perhaps on the assumption he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed the men crowding his desk. Everyone but Urharde and the liaison went.
Ginger nudged me with an elbow, whispered low, “What do you know about Arial?"
Ahh, Arial. A pure delight. Not young, not old, in his mid-thirties. He had a skid-load of experience and know-how behind him. Sensible. Thrifty. Reserved. The sort who thinks before he acts. A no-nonsense, by-the-book commander. Neither a coward nor a blowhard. All his risks are calculated, all his losses minimal. He treats his men decently, and he's well liked by his peers. We got along just fine. Better, even. He'd won his command from Uncle on merit, not by wealth or favour like so many others.
I relayed most of this to Ginger in hushed tones, but he didn't seem impressed. I attributed his ignorance and indifference to the fact he'd never had a run-in on the field with the Royalist captain.
Finally, Fleurry snapped, “Arial what?"
"Arial's been relieved of duty. Bertrand gave him his walking papers."
"Bertrand did?” Fleurry's bafflement was genuine, bafflement I shared. Even the castle liaison didn't seem alert to the situation. “I find that hard to believe. Surely the Regent is aware of Arial's worth to him in terms of loyalty and effectiveness."
Urharde shrugged. “Well, it seems Arial wasn't seeing eye-to-eye on a few things with the new Gryphon Highlord, so he got the boot. I didn't get much in the way of details."
I mulled that over. Valleri was a risk-taker, sometimes a hothead. And yet he was decisive and ruthless at times when I couldn't be. It was not out of the realm of possibility to conclude that Val and Arial had butted heads.
"Just like Kathedra,” Fleurry muttered. “Everyone's expendable, it seems."
"Yes, something you should keep in mind."
"Is that threat?"
"A friendly warning, is all. Bertrand is useless. Valleri is, for all practical purposes, the Regent of Thylana. Bertrand dares not oppose him."
"Valleri murdered the princess, didn't he?” Fleurry shot the captain a rueful smile. “The damned Crusaders had nothing to do with it."
Urharde shrugged, as if my death were of little consequence. “Valleri has ambitions of own. Kathedra moved too slowly for him. She was a restraining hand on his shoulder. He could not act with her around. Valleri is free now to take charge. When he gets finished, there won't be a Crusader left alive. And you can bet it won't take him another year to do it. Whatever his humble pedigree, at least he knows how to get things done."
Fleurry shoved aside his meal, half-finished. Poor man. All he'd wanted was five minutes to eat his supper in peace.
"Where is Arial now?” the liaison asked.
"Nothing's official, but I presume he's a guest in Gryphon's dungeons. He wouldn't have gone quietly."
"Did your source happen to mention his replacement?"
/>
My blood ran cold as I recalled Arial's second-in-command. I reached out, consumed with a near-debilitating dread, and grabbed Ginger's arm.
"His lieutenant. Someone called Serastaben. Sarastuffit. Sara—"
"Serasteffan,” Fleurry finished for him. “That low-life? The man's an idiot! What the hell is Valleri thinking?"
I echoed the sentiment. A cold-blooded killer like the Butcher had been given a command? Beside me, Ginger tried to prize away my fingers. “I take it you've met this Serasteffan?” Dark mirth edged his tone.
I nodded. “And pray that you never do.” My hand clenched his tighter. “Promise me one thing. Promise me you'll keep your Crusaders out of his way."
He stared at me a moment, all amusement flown, my terror having transmitted itself to him. “I'll pass that along."
"So, you're my reinforcements?” Fleurry was saying, sounding less than enthused.
Urharde's grin only widened. “Sorry, no. You're on your own here. I'm just passing on the message.” He signalled to an underling to take his helm, then pulled on his gloves. “Can you perhaps recommend a decent place to eat near here? One that serves something besides goat?"
"What?” the captain sneered. “You're not staying to hear what Valleri has to say?"
"Oh, I do beg pardon. I forgot to mention; Valleri's not coming. He has business elsewhere."
For one heart-stopping minute I thought Fleurry was going to fly across the desk at him. Then, displaying admirable restraint, the captain said, “The Boar's Head down the block serves an edible pigeon pie. Don't let me keep you."
I jabbed my elbow into the mage's ribs. “We've been duped. We have to get out of here. Now.” I struggled to get up but Ginger caught my sleeve.
"No. We have something to do first."
I snatched away my arm. “What's that?"
"I'm going to bury this place in rubble."
Somehow, I had expected it. This was no reconnaissance mission. He'd planned this from the start. Except now he would be deprived of his prime target.
Livid, I stared at Ginger. He stared back, his eyes impassive, his face set in grim determination. “You'll kill us all,” I hissed.
"We'll have several minutes to reach cover, I promise. Just do as I say. Get ready to move."
I glanced at the rat that was no rat at all, but some sort of sorcerous mine awaiting Ginger's detonation spell. Several more, similarly disguised, lurked in the rafters. How many more, concealed as scraps of junk, littered the warehouse below?
Urharde had gone and Fleurry was grumbling to the liaison. “...bastard's allegiance blows with the wind.” It was a shame Urharde would enjoy a reprieve, but it only made good strategic sense for the Crusaders to rid themselves of an adversary as dangerous as Fleurry.
Ginger returned to the platform's centre, knelt and traced a pattern in the dust of the planks. His lips moved, muttering mystical words of sorcery though I caught only one in ten.
Naturally, something went awry. The spells backfired in Ginger's face, the saboteur himself sabotaged.
A thunderous concussion rocked the building. Sparks flew. Ginger reeled away from the explosion, engulfed in smoke, sputtering and choking. A second convulsion shook the platform, the force so great I lost my balance and fell to the boards. As I lay there, I noticed the dust was no ordinary dust but a fine scattering of powder. Beside me, the rat had been reduced to a pile of ash.
"Hang on!” Ginger yelled, urgency in his cry. Past the haze of smoke, I caught a glimpse of the mage clinging to the rail and gasping for breath. “Hurry, Ruvie,” he beckoned, holding out a hand.
Cautiously I inched toward him, feeling the platform lurch and sway with the shift of my weight. I was four yards away from the mage when the thing groaned ominously and pitched to a sharp slant. There was nothing to hold on to. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to scream. I slid along the planks feet first, plummeting toward Ginger and certain death below.
A wrench in my right shoulder tore a grunt out of me as Ginger snatched my arm. I dangled in mid-air, suspended high above the stunned Royalists, the world below me spinning crazily.
"Grab the rail!"
I looked up into the mage's face, tracked with sweat and taut from exertion, and noticed that he held me with his injured hand. “Oh, drat,” I groaned. “Please, don't drop me."
"I won't. Just grab the rail."
Wriggling about like a fish on a hook, I managed to wrap my fingers around the gnarled wood. Then, hoisting me enough so I could swing my legs onto the catwalk, Ginger helped me to my feet and supported me with a steady arm.
"Where's Ragsey?” I gasped.
Ginger glanced down at the Royalists as they began to pick themselves up off the floor and pulled me towards the stairs. “He should be to the door by now. C'mon, let's go."
The Royalists had recovered their wits. “Stop them!” Fleurry bellowed to his men, as he crawled out from under the remnants of his desk. “Kill that blasted mage!"
We skidded down the steep flight in darkness, bouncing over the last few steps on our bottoms. Hoping to beat the soldiers, we burst through the door and out into the night. Escape lay only a sprint away, except I sprinted left and Ginger sprinted right.
"Ruvie! This way!"
Too late. Urharde's escort rounded the far corner. A bunch of Fleurry's soldiers flew out the door and, spotting Ginger, streaked after him. In flight for his life, the mage ran for the sanctuary of the crowded market square, a dozen guards giving chase.
Panic seized me. I froze inside the feeblest of shadows below the wall. If Urharde caught me, he would surely kill me. His words echoed dully in my brain. Kathedra moved too slowly. She was a restraining hand on his shoulder.
As the soldiers pounded towards me, I held my breath, hoping they wouldn't see me, pouring all my Teki energy into that one thought. They bore down, weapons drawn. I shrank against the wall and gathered shadows around me.
And to my astonishment ... they ran straight past. Not a soldier glanced my way. They charged after their fellows in pursuit of the mage.
Relieved, I took a deep breath and edged warily toward the corner. Fleurry stood outside, ranting in high dudgeon, but the distance muffled his words. I watched while he and his cohorts mounted and rode off in the direction of their barracks.
Only when I was certain everyone had gone did I make my way back to the square and blend into the mob. Once, I spotted a group of Fleurry's soldiers as they bickered among themselves, frustrated at having lost Ginger's trail. Finally, they split up and were swept away by the flow of the crowd.
Since I lacked Ginger's skill for covering my tracks, I took a roundabout route back to the Dragon's Lair. Swallowed up in the press of bodies, I allowed the lazy, meandering stream of traffic to carry me to safety.
Miraculously avoiding Royalist patrols, the crowd deposited me on the tavern's doorstep. I pushed my way inside and through the rowdy throng. Over the heads of the mob I strained for a glimpse of my companions and spotted Ginger almost immediately, slumped at a corner table. Ragsey sat across from him, leaning forward, I presumed, so no one might overhear them. As if anyone would hear a lion roar above the din. From the set of Ginger's face, they argued.
My knees felt suddenly weak and my legs turned to jelly as the absurd notion struck me that if I did not reach Ginger I would collapse and be trampled beneath several dozen drunken feet. I shoved and flailed at the bodies surrounding me, ordering them to move. I lost my hood in the press and tore the hem of my cloak as some clumsy oaf trod on it.
At last the sea of flesh parted and Ginger caught sight of me threading a path towards him. He blanched, his eyes widening. Clearly he had not expected to see me again. Then ... he smiled.
I hurried forward. Without thinking, I elbowed a man in his face as he groped after me, then stomped a woman's toes, heedless of the curses she flung at my back. All that mattered was reaching Ginger.
I was only a few short steps from him when Rag
sey stood up and blocked me. Incredulous, he said, “Ruvie, we thought we'd lost you!"
His arms came around me, whisking me off my feet in a bone-crushing bear hug. My whole body trembled with relief as I realized just how narrowly I'd escaped. At that moment it did not matter that he wasn't Ginger. Giddy, I wrapped my arms around Ragsey's neck and kissed his cheek. But over his shoulder I saw the mage had risen. His smile was gone, his face slack and sombre. What shadow was that crossing his features? Disapproval? Disappointment?
When Ragsey released me, Ginger did not welcome me into his arms. He greeted me stiffly and gestured me into a chair. Without asking, I grabbed his ale tankard and drained its contents.
"How did you escape the soldiers?” he asked.
"I took cover beneath the wall,” I said, wiping ale from my chin. “The shadows were too dense for them to see."
Ginger stared at me, his gaze level and penetrating, as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes contained a glimmer of disbelief. I dropped my own, afraid he suspected some inkling of the truth. The only reason I'd eluded capture was because my Teki powers had erected a shield of invisibility.
Ginger leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it's possible a fraction of the concealment spells held."
I nodded. “Yes, that must be it.” Then fixing the mage in my sternest glare, I asked, “What happened back there?"
"I don't know exactly. All I can think is that when I detonated the spell a foreign entity present in the warehouse caused it to collapse on itself."
"Magebane,” I concluded. The word is a general term applied to any number of substances that deflects or repels sorcery. Anything from a powerful amulet to simple diamond dust like that which powdered the platform. “Why didn't you detect it?"
