Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4)

by H. Jane Harrington

  “You know of some secret inn on this rooftop that begs entry by way of pipe rigging?” Shunatar asked like he was trying to be sarcastic but wasn't able to muster up the strength to say it good and right.

  “C'mon. I'll learn ya up.” Dailan showed Shunatar how to climb the rungs the safe way, then he instructed His Majesty the same. He decided to follow up lastly, just to make sure His Majesty didn't miss a step or stop mid-climb. It was more comfortable to climb with Saiya Kunnai's shortsword, Deynartrial, in his back belt, so Dailan adjusted it before making his way upward.

  It was clunky-going, especially since they were hauling cushions, the small table, heavy packs and their swords, but they made it to the top of the two-story building eventually. The moons were glowing real bright overhead and it showed off what the roof of a flattop building is like. Flat, of course. But empty, with lots of space and nobody about.

  “I fail to see the secret inn,” Shunatar said, sagging his shoulders in tired.

  “That's 'cause I ain't built it yet.”

  Dailan took the bed sheet and flapped it out, then draped it over the waist-high brick wally-thing that made like a railing. The sheet drooped limp like a weeping willow's branches. Dailan pulled it out, using stray bricks that were scattered around to hold it outward in the right position. It made a kind of triangle lean-to. It was large enough for Shunatar and His Majesty to lay underneath. Dailan didn't need a cover, himself. He was plenty comfortable under the moons and the few stars that tried to wink through the bright moonlight.

  “This is our shelter?”

  “For now,” Dailan shrugged. “'Til I find us something better. Nobody ever looks up, and roofs are lonely. We won't be bothered up here.”

  They directed His Majesty to lay under the sheety tent. Dailan propped the cushion under his head for a pillow.

  “Must we descend the pipe every day?” Shunatar asked darkly.

  “Probably not. There's a doorway yonder. Leads down into the attic, most like. I'll explore that tomorrow—there might be a good, safe place to hide there, or an easier way up and down. If I go peeking now and get caught, we'll be on the run again. You look like you need to sit down for a year or three, and we don't wanna get nabbed for suspect-of-nabbery.”

  Shunatar nodded and dropped his pack. He eased downward, looking like he was aching all over. Dailan could have sworn he heard Shunatar's joints themselves groan. “At the moment, I don't find a care in what location I plant myself, so long as it be quiet and devoid of eyes. I don't think I can bear to be seen in this circumstance.”

  Dailan wanted to say something. He couldn't figure what would sound soothing without also sounding pitying.

  Shunatar started to shift to his side. Dailan stopped him before he could nod off. “Don't be letting the pixies at your eyes just yet, Tosh. I heard somewhere that you shouldn't sleep if your brainworks been jostled.”

  “I believe that to be a myth.”

  “Well I don't know one way or the other. Better safe and awake than sleeping and comatose. Wouldn't Bertrand want us to be careful?”

  “Bertrand is not here,” Shunatar said shortly.

  “No, so I'm here in his place. And I say don't go to sleep. For a while, at least, 'til I'm positive you won't keel on me.”

  “Very well. I have not the energy nor the inclination to argue the point,” Shunatar said heavily. He looked seven shades of anguished.

  “I brung you a little present. Wanted to surprise you with it under smiles and drinks, but I guess we'll have to be happy with roofs and moons.” Dailan tugged his pouch open and pulled out a deck of cards. He'd found it abandoned on a table in the university dorms.

  “You are a candle in my dark little world, Dainn,” Shunatar breathed.

  “I know it. But don't tell me oft, else I might get cocky,” Dailan grinned. He set about rigging the little table with stray bricks in place of the broken leg. He'd have to see about fixing that. “What's your fancy? Sevens? That's easy enough for one who just got his bell rung.” He plopped his sitter in front of the table and tugged Deynartrial from his belt. He set it aside, then shuffled the cards with his expert hand and dealt out a round of Vorral Split Sevens.

  Shunatar examined his hand. Dailan could see a bit of the old Bardian flash to light in his eyes. A growling called out Dailan's hunger to the evening, but he ignored it. Shunatar needed a filling of his spirit much more than a filling of his belly, so Dailan would do his part to fill him up where he could.

  When Dailan was sure Shunatar was not going to succumb to whatever ills brain-bang sleepers were supposed to succumb to, he gathered up some bricks and rubbish for a fire circle. Shunatar's little Inferno Wisp lit it so they could sleep cozy in the brisk springtime air. When Shunatar and His Majesty were both out sound, Dailan slipped quietly to the edge of the roof. He looked over the sleeping city of White Tower, seeing the shimmering towers from its name in the distance. The skyline was spiky, what with all the triangle roofs that stretched beyond seeing. Moonglow danced all over them. It was a pretty spectacular view—one that rich men paid good lorans to get. Here they had it, and it didn't cost them a centinar. It didn't take lorans to appreciate what was good in the world. Sometimes it took a hard life at the bottom of the barrel to get the best view of it.

  Shunatar was so sore the next morning, he could hardly move. It was the hit-by-an-airskiff kind of hurt from the way he described it, but he used bigger and prettier words. He wasn't as blackened as they'd expected after the jarring tumble, neither as battered as his mouth seemed to say. Dailan suspected it was his pride that was most bruised. Since Shunatar's aching was of the distracting sort, Dailan told him to take the day off. He couldn't perform if he couldn't concentrate.

  Dailan slipped through the attic into the central hallway of the building, which housed some offices belonging to a Master Lawyus, a healer and some other boring documenty types. Because it was a public-visited building, they didn't have to worry much on being caught coming and going, so long as they were careful, stuck to the central hall, and looked like they belonged.

  Dailan fished through the rubbish barrels behind a bakery over for some cast-offs from the night before. He stuffed a loaf in his shirt, then moved on to the butcher down the avenue. He hit up several establishments, finding their barrels to be chockablock of unwanteds. When his pack and shirt were loaded with goods, picked clean of their mold, he made his way back to the roof.

  “We got our own private balcony view, and now we're gonna be feasting like kings,” Dailan reported to the weary Shunatar, who spied the food suspiciously. It wasn't truly much of a feast, but they could pretend.

  “Your loran pouch still bulges. From where did you pilfer it?”

  Dailan thought fast. If Shunatar knew where it had come from, he wouldn't touch it. His finicky mind would assign nasty to the grub, even over his loudly protesting belly. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. “They was giving out to the poor this morning behind Quinning Temple. Donations from philandering do-gooders and the like.”

  “Philanthropic, I think you mean,” Shunatar corrected with a sly grin that looked more like himself than he'd been in weeks.

  “Yeah, them too.” Dailan dumped the loot out for sorting. “We got half a side of streaky bacon. I found an old metal grate to cook it on.”

  Shunatar refreshed the fire and the feast that commenced was as close to Alokien's Table as one was likely to find. They ate at the edge of the roof, overlooking the town from their king's balcony. Dailan figured that an appropriate term, since His Majesty was pretty much a king, even if he hadn't been Ascended yet. It was a feast that filled their bellies and a view that filled their eyes. What more could a man ask for than that? Dailan dared not broach that question with Shunatar, who was likely to answer with a whole long list of things. But for Dailan, the roof was as close to kings and heavens as he could get, and it was just fine.

  They spent a week on the roof. They couldn't stay
in the building's attic on account of the sound carrying downward wrong. Just walking in the overloaded, dusty attic creaked the flooring too much and they didn't want to get caught. Shunatar went back to Jolanock Square after two days, and they returned every evening to their rent-free private balcony. It was the same routine as before, only difference being the open sky above them every night. They pooled their earnings and calculated it would be another few days before they'd have enough collected to put down an advance on a rented room. It was fine going until the seventh night, when the skies opened up. The drenching soggied their spirits and muddied up Tosh the Marvel on the bed sheet sign. The characters oozed like they were bleeding red tears.

  As they were stripping off their drenched duds in the dim morning light, Dailan ran through his head for ideas on how to improve their current predicament. He wished they knew someone in White Tower that could give them a boost, but the only name they'd known of was that Merisha person that Shunatar was hoping to find. Long time past at the Arshenholm Manor, there'd been a fancy-pants scholar named Cressiel Westerfold who'd died fighting a kaiyo storm. Dailan had pulled a letter from his corpsified hand. It read a plea for aid in returning a key to some Merisha lady in White Tower. Shunatar had been guarding the key closely all that time since, but he'd been so busy in High Empyrea, he'd never really gotten around to searching for the mystery person. Since they were coming to Havenlen, Shunatar had brought the key and letter with him.

  From what Ulivall had said, Merisha was a contact in the Underground. It was some sort of super secret group that had a reputation for wanting Dimishuan abolition. It was so secret, even collared Dimishuans didn't know much about it. The Underground had dealings with Ulivall before, but they were still pretty distant with their trust. Seemed like they were all kinds of paranoid, but they must have had good reason to be. Dailan had overheard Ulivall talking once before, about how they'd gone silent for a while, like they really had gone as underground as their name said. Nobody seemed to know if they had disbanded or if they were just laying low. Ulivall had told Shunatar to seek out the Underground when they got to Havenlen, but how they were going to find a group that didn't want to be found was beyond Dailan.

  Sometimes Shunatar hung the key around his neck for safe keeping, which was a good thing because it was made of lumanere. It was worth a whole string of lorans and was liable to be snatched by a pickpocket if it got seen. Other times, he made Dailan keep it in his sock, so there'd be no routine with where it was, just in case someone caught a peek. Dailan had honestly thought about selling it, but he knew Shunatar would have none of that, no matter how hungry they got. There was honor bound up in the prospect of fulfilling a man's last request, so the quest to find Westerfold's Merisha and return the key was an overdue duty that His Majesty would have found important. Shunatar had been putting out the word here and there, asking around about Merisha, but as expected, nobody'd ever heard of her. It was a big city and small odds.

  “Why don't we try to find that key lady in the letter? I mean really try,” Dailan suggested. He flapped and stretched his holey tunic over the ledge to air dry.

  “Considering our current plight, our energies are best directed to a result yielding immediate gratification,” Shunatar said. His voice sagged as much as his soaked underdrawers. “In other words, let us not waste our resources when we have very few resources to waste.”

  “But it's all we got right now. It's got connections to the Underground, and they can help us. What if we find Lady Merisha and she's so overcome with gratitude that she showers us with food and lorans? Or maybe, when she hears about Westerfold's tragic death, she needs comfort and finds it in the tender arms of her kind-hearted messenger, namely you. This key could be our literal key to bulging bellies and dry underdrawers. And warm beds, too, 'cause I know how much you like them. It's worth a shot.”

  “I had not placed much hope or priority in the search, but you may have a point. I suppose it doesn't expend much energy to expand our efforts. I could include the name Merisha in each of my readings and see if it garners any hints. Since I must repaint the rain-washed characters on my banner, I'll add Seeking Merisha to the bottom. Mayhaps it will garner the proper attentions.”

  Dailan shrugged. “However you want to go about it.”

  Shunatar decided not to wait for air drying their rags, since it would take a good part of the day and the clouds were blocking all the sunlight. He hurried up the process with a few Wind Wisps, then set to repainting his sign. They skipped breakfast and said their partings before heading off on their dailies.

  The dewing hour was for exploring, always an important part of any picking expedition. You had to know your escape routes, hiding spots and shortcuts. Dailan had spent the last few weeks getting to know White Tower. Even though they were holing up in the lower part of town, Dailan favored picking in the north. The universities were loaded, and the students were mostly from the uppers, so they had lorans to burn and lorans to spare. The professors were not too shabby themselves, but they were not as green as the young and oblivious students. Dailan worked a different part of the university every day, never allowing for routine.

  After dewing hour and the finding of a good laundry master's rows (the perfect maze for hiding and shifting around, if someone took chase), Dailan made way to the Maylen Green, where students liked to lay about in study. They sometimes fell asleep in their books, making them prime targets. With a muslin sack in one hand, Dailan made like a groundsmaster's servie, picking up stray garbage from the grass—pretending to, really, because there was little rubbish to be found. When he worked himself just close enough without disrupting sleep or lazying, a quick hand snatched his target, then he moved on past like nothing.

  When he was done on the Green, he moved into the Maylen dorms. It was easy to blend in—he just kept his head down and played servie. Most of the students brought at least one with them, so nobody thought to question why a collared Dimishuan would be there.

  The sunspire hour yielded plenty of spoils—enough to be called a good

  day—and Dailan was about to move on from Maylen when he spied a ponytailed student sprawled across a blanket on the Green. His heavy purse was laid out beside him, peeking the shimmer of lorans from its mouth. Dailan couldn't rightly figure why the student was so rattlebrained as to carry around such a loaded purse that he'd leave in broad daylight for the picking. It was duty to relieve dunderskulls of their burdens, so Dailan considered his theft to be an act of mercy.

  He crept on his rubbish-plucking duties, easing ever closer to the swank, sleepy kadda. A flicker of motion beyond the far tree, some fifty yards on, caught Dailan's eye and he bent over a tiny scrap for pause. His eyes found the movement in a flash of wild shoulder-length hair that blazed like a fiery red sunset. An Alakuwai girl about his age, but taller and broader of shoulder, was peeking from behind a tree, staring right at the pouch of booty like a cat on the stalk. She had the biggest eyes Dailan had ever seen on a head that wasn't kaiyo-sized. They were green and shiny as emeralds.

  Dailan studied the girl, wondering what she was about. Her hungry grin answered that question. They were both targeting the same thing. He inched closer, ready to dart forward. That pouch was his prize, and this was his turf.

  The girl noticed him right about then. Her brow fell hard over those green peepers. She had figured Dailan's intention was the same as hers. They traded looks of claim, then challenge, then competition.

  Game on.

  Dailan bolted for the purse. Even though the girl was closer, he was just a tad bit faster. His hand snatched first, plucking the bulging pouch from the blanket just before the girl's did. She had been running so fast, she couldn't stop and her momentum drove her right into Dailan. They slammed to the grass, tangling together in a splay of limbs. The girl grabbed greedily for Dailan's prize. He had to shove her away by the face just to keep her from getting at it.

  The sleeping lummox on the blanket jumped uprigh
t, apparently not a sleeping lummox at all. “So there are two of you?”

  Dailan and the girl jumped at the same time. They paused in their scuffle, craning heads toward the student.

  “I didn't expect children to be the reported thieves. Thought it would be a ring,” the man muttered to himself, then his brow set firm and he made for Dailan. “Hand over the pouch and offer yourself up for judgment. You are bound by the Venlendian Convention Mandates to comply with this order.”

  Dailan blinked, realizing it had been a set-up. He had swallowed the hook right down to the gullet. He turned to run, only to see a line of campus law-arms making quick step across the Green toward them.

  The girl glanced longingly at the pouch, then at the guards, then back at Dailan. She bit her lip like she was contemplating advanced mathematicals and such. It was obvious by Dailan's grip that he was not about to give up the pouch, but her arm thrust forward anyway. She found the scabbard of Deynartrial and it slid smoothly from his belt like it had found its new owner. The girl darted backways, toward the same alley that Dailan had picked for his own escape route.

  “Hey! Avast, you! Thief!” Dailan cried, pointing at the girl in disbelief. How dare she nab from a nabber?

  The crafty setter-upper student (that was probably a law-arm in disguise) made a grab for Dailan's wrist, but Saiya Kunnai had spent a lot of hours teaching Dailan the basics of self-defense. A quick spin with a supporting fist tugged the captive wrist through the weak point of the student's hold. He continued the spin, planting his elbow into a wall of ribs. Dailan skirted the man, who clutched his side, groaning and aching on the ground. He barreled after the thieving wenchlet, praying to any listening Gods that he could catch her before Saiya Kunnai caught him.