Bannan raised a brow. “And how do you propose we get up there?”
Lila merely smiled.
A short while later, the truthseer rested his chin in his hands, arms supported by his elbows. “I was afraid you’d go for the roof,” he admitted.
His sister grunted something uncomplimentary. They lay on their stomachs, stretched out on a pile of crates, those crates beneath a canvas Lila had considerately untied rather than slit before squirming into place. The manor was in view; they weren’t.
More importantly, they were steps from both the side alley and the building front, the only way, Lila had assured him, Emon and his companions would exit.
An excellent vantage point and a fortunately uncomfortable one, given neither of them had slept.
Not that Lila would. “Back in the alley,” she whispered without preamble. “That nonsense. What should you have known?”
Bannan told her of those who remembered, and those who forgot.
“Interesting,” was all she said at first.
Which it was, he gave her that.
Then, “So that’s why they meet here.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
Lila nudged him with her shoulder. “Really, little brother. Isn’t it obvious? If so few can remember this magic beyond the edge, the lords of the Shadow Sect have to be among them. If I were one of them, I’d take full advantage and—” slower, as if thinking aloud, “—I’d not take seriously anyone who can’t prove they remember too.”
“Emon.”
He felt her shrug. “If he senses they’ve secret knowledge, my so-clever husband will be the last to reveal his own ignorance. Besides,” comfortably, “he’s been here before and come back full of tales for the boys. I’d not bet against him.”
“I never would,” Bannan said fervently.
She chuckled. “At last, wisdom. Now, little brother. To keep us from nodding while Emon does his part in things, tell me of Werfol and Semyn—as well as what you didn’t put in your letters about Jenn Nalynn. How you came here from Marrowdell is also of great interest to me. And—” another low laugh, Lila being well-pleased after all, which eased Bannan’s worries immeasurably, “—more concerning toads.”
So he did.
“M’lord couldn’t have done better,” Dutton said quietly.
Herer nodded, his eyes bright. “He was brilliant. Timed each revelation to counter the next naysayer, not that any denied what you’d brought us, Bannan.”
“When those shadow lords laid eyes on the tokens, it went so quiet we could hear one of m’lord’s birds outside the window. Forbidden magic, that’s what they called it. Foul.”
And the man who’d been willing to use them had escaped—news no one had been pleased to hear.
Emon Westietas didn’t have the look of a man freshly triumphant. He’d left his companions with Bannan to go to his wife, dropping his head to her shoulder.
“M’lord’s exhausted,” Herer explained in a low voice, his eyes on Emon.
Dutton looked to disagree, then rubbed a hand over his face. “He’s not alone.” After battle, came its cost. Bannan knew it. They all did.
The three had come out of the manor through the main door, unescorted, just as dawn drew its fiery promise along the horizon. The crows had swooped down to circle Emon, then flown to where Lila and Bannan waited; a sign they could trust, Lila said, climbing from their hiding place at once.
By mutual consent they’d moved down the bank until out of sight of the manor. Racks of barrels waiting to be shipped made a convenient shelter. More racks than should be. The barges swaying with the river’s current were loaded and ready. They’d been that way for weeks now.
Bannan leaned against a barrel, eyeing Emon’s companions. Did they remember? Should he even try to ask?
Before he could, Herer chose his own barrel, made himself comfortable, then said with a casual air, “Ancestors Witness. Seems a rare number of moths, hereabouts.”
Dutton, pretending great interest in a loose button, shot a keen glance at the truthseer.
Why—they were testing him?! Bannan grinned. “It’s the lady who sends them I love best.”
The two men chuckled. “Good to know,” Dutton said, then grew serious, nodding toward Emon and Lila. “Our lord baron brought seven of us on his last visit to this city of magic. Only we three—” a pained pause, then he went on determinedly. “—That’s why m’lord chose us for this mission.”
“We hope,” Herer added, “to speak as freely before our lady baroness.”
Not a question, but Bannan was glad to answer. “Lila remembers.”
Their faces lightened at this.
Lila and Emon joined them, the baron waving to dissuade the crow intent on landing on his head. “My friends. Brother,” this to Bannan, with warmth. “We’ve done what we came to do, thanks to you. Hearts of my Ancestors, I am truly Beholden for such—”
“Idiocy,” Lila interrupted pleasantly. “Or should I use a stronger term, Dearest Heart? How does madness suit?”
Emon shook his head. “My lady wife worries how my failure will be received at court.” One crow landed on his shoulder. The other chose to perch atop a barrel, bending its head to caw in disapproval.
“‘Failure,’ m’lord?” Dutton broached, after a quick look to Herer. “But we thought—”
“Oh, Mellynne will vote to restore normal relations with Rhoth. Given the public will, I expect a courier, perhaps a noble delegation, underway as early as this afternoon. Matters needed but gentle encouragement in that direction. No one is as relieved as I.”
“After your ‘failure,’” Bannan observed grimly.
“Exactly. I did nothing that was expected of me.” A peaceful smile.
Lila began to pace, outrage in every step. “You’ll lie to the prince. You’ll expect us to do the same. And when he publicly accuses you of being a fool and coward? When he tosses you from court?”
Still the smile. “I’ll miss a session at most. I’ve friends in the House and Commons, dear wife. Ordo’s one voice—granted the loudest—but just one. He’ll call me back to my seat, pleased no doubt to mention at every opportunity how miserable an envoy I was and how he alone kept the peace.”
She walked up to him, eyes green with fury. “You saved it!” The crow soared up and away in a flurry of wingbeats.
“Lila. The Shadow Sect cannot be exposed as having dealt with Rhothans. Nor would any Naalish thank me for showing them the rot in one of their noble houses.” Emon cupped her face in his hands. “To sink in the estimation of a fool is no lasting loss to me or Vorkoun. This was the price set by the shadow lords, Dearest Heart, for their cooperation. I gladly pay it.”
“I don’t like this,” she said so softly Bannan barely heard.
Emon’s smile grew tender. “I never thought you would.” He kissed her soundly.
“—then we’re off to Avyo,” she stated when they stepped apart, her cheeks decidedly pink.
“As quickly and quietly as possible,” the baron agreed. “We’ve arrangements in place. Herer?”
“About that, m’lord.” Herer pulled out a leather-wrapped document. “Bish vouched for the boat and crew.”
“I’d prefer,” Emon said dryly, “to survive my skulking home, tail between my legs.”
With a nod, the other man removed the document, tearing it once, then again.
“‘Skulking,’ husband-mine?”
“The best way across the border—given none of us entered Channen legally,” the baron pointed out.
“There is that.”
“I’ve a smuggler who owes me a favor,” Bannan said ruefully, “but he’s in Avyo—wait.” Ancestors Dear and Departed. He’d carried the brooch through everything. Could it be? “I may have a way.” He caught Lila’s eye. “I’ve the name of someone who worked
the river barges, years ago. Who might be willing to help.” If they could find him. A dead woman’s lover, who’d—how long ago?—taken a barge to Avyo. That was likely half the adult population of Channen. Left, right. Either way were barges. Dozens. Hundreds, more likely. Moths. He could use moths, right now.
“Who?” Lila pressed.
“Baldrinn. Baldrinn Duart. We’ve mutual friends.” He gave a helpless shrug. “But I’ve no idea where he is.”
Emon’s eyes widened, then he broke out in the most wonderful laugh. When he was done, he wiped his eyes. “Ancestors Rare and Remarkable, brother of my wife. Are you sure? Baldrinn the Bargemaster?”
“You know him?”
Dutton and Herer had cheered as well. “We know of him,” the latter said with a relieved grin. “And well know where to find him.”
Emon nodded. “I should have thought of Baldrinn myself—”
“Bish spoke against him, m’lord. Said he was feeble-minded.”
“A recommendation if ever I heard one,” Lila snapped.
Bannan looked from one to the other. “You know him?” he repeated, feeling left behind.
“Your pardon,” Emon said. “Baldrinn’s famous—or infamous, depending who you ask.” He chuckled. “Despite his years, he remains a force in Channen. The man’s written daily—or more—to the prince about the embargo. A correspondence neither flattering nor pleasant, believe me. He’s sent, among other things, a package of spoiled meat from a shipment held at the border. And demanded, loudly, nothing less than an envoy from Avyo come straighten out the mess.”
Dutton’s eyes gleamed. “Such a man would be glad to hear things are about to move again on his river.”
“News we can’t give,” Herer protested.
“No matter.” Bannan took out the brooch, handing it to Emon. “When you meet Baldrinn, return this before asking for passage.”
The baron examined it, then glanced at Lila. “It’s an endearment.”
“Yes.” The truthseer found himself smiling. “Tell Baldrinn Frann wore it with love until she joined her Blessed Ancestors.” His smile widened. “And Lorra sends her regards.”
That those formidable ladies of commerce would help the baron and baroness of Vorkoun, who’d ended the choke on trade caused by the very prince who’d exiled them?
Something to savor, Bannan decided, for a very long time.
He wished he’d dared tell Lorra Treff.
She’d neither meant nor wanted to fall asleep, but Jenn startled awake to find her bed covered in sunshine.
And Bannan Larmensu snoring, very quietly, beside her.
Though it was day and, as Aunt Sybb was fond of saying, sunlight was for working by, lamplight for finishing, and candlelight a poor substitute for either, Jenn Nalynn rearranged the covers over them both.
Then curled herself around the man she loved and went back to sleep.
“I believe you’ve killed him this time,” the dragon observed calmly.
Scourge bent his great head to the boy’s chest, nostrils flared, lips working. “He’s not dead.”
They spoke in breezes to include the boys. Perhaps a mistake, Wisp decided, as Semyn came running through the snow. “‘Dead!?’ Weed!!”
“Not dead!” the old kruar reiterated somewhat nervously, backing away.
Not fast enough, so the boy simply dove beneath his belly to reach the too-still form in the snow.
“Weed! Werfol!” After a look into his brother’s face, Semyn pulled him up and over a knee, then began striking him between the shoulders.
~Shouldn’t we stop him, elder brother?~ The agitated house toad, watching from the porch, actually hopped into the snow.
“Wh—?” The word garbled in a wheezing cough.
Semyn grabbed Werfol’s shoulders, sitting him up. “One breath at a time, Weed. It’s just like when I fell from the tree. You’ve the air knocked out of you, that’s all. By a bloody idiot!” With a glare at the kruar. “How many times must we tell you? He’s too small!”
“Am—am NOT!” Werfol struggled to stand, accepting his brother’s help only after it became clear he remained wobbly. “With Uncle Bannan gone, Scourge is mine and I’m to ride him.”
Semyn glared a second time at the kruar, who was doing his utmost to appear blameless. The result was more like Wainn’s Old Pony, a conniving creature at the best of times, the dragon thought with amusement, not that the boy was fooled. “Weed can’t get up on you without help,” the baron’s heir stated, making his case. “That makes this your fault. Again. This has to stop!”
“He’s MINE!” Werfol punched his brother.
Semyn pushed him back into the snow. “Listen to your elders!”
Werfol launched himself at Semyn’s knees and they both went down, fists flying.
“What’s all this?” roared Tir, coming out of the house.
Spoiling everyone’s fun, in the opinion of a dragon.
Scourge, the old coward, twitched his tail and bolted from the farmyard. He left not a dimple in the snow.
But two red-faced, angry warriors.
Who, after Tir did nothing but look down at them for a long moment, became two shivering, pale, and ever-so-contrite little boys. A trick worth learning, Wisp thought with envy, the disciplining of the truthseer’s nephews having become something of a sore point.
Tir shook his head. “Dragon, you were to stop this.”
He’d have pretended not to hear—or even be in the vicinity—but the truthseer looked right at him, lower lip trembling. “Wisp, it wasn’t your fault.”
So of course it was. “Scourge cannot resist the boy,” the dragon began.
“Oh, and you’re better at it?” Tir scowled where he thought the dragon to be, then turned back to the boys. “In the house. The pair of you,” he ordered gruffly.
Inside was warmer. With biscuits, Tir being the better cook. But when Wisp tried to slip through the door behind them, the man stepped in his way, then closed it, leaving them outside.
Where it was colder. Wisp wrapped himself in light, Tir being annoyed by invisibility.
“There you are,” the man said unnecessarily, then spat to one side. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Any sign of them yet?”
Efflet and ylings having taken up posts at each crossing, with the little cousins eager for their reports, the dragon would know before anyone. “No.”
“I thought they’d be home by now.”
He wanted reassurance. Wisp had none to offer. “They went swiftly through the Verge. They must still be in Channen, delayed by your kind, not mine.”
Tir seemed pleased by the answer. “Sir’s no fool,” he declared. “Between him and the baroness, I can’t see any Naalish stopping them.”
If that were true, thought the dragon, would Bannan and Jenn not already be home?
Perhaps it was time he crossed. Looked for himself.
Tir opened the door. “C’mon, dragon. There’s biscuits.”
He would cross tomorrow, Wisp decided comfortably. And—
“Tir! Wisp!”
Man and dragon rushed inside, the dragon veering up and sideways to avoid a crash in the doorway sure to end his chance at more biscuits. Together, they entered the house.
Semyn knelt beside his brother, crumpled amid a pile of jackets and boots. “He just fell,” the boy said tearfully. “I didn’t push him, Tir. He just fell.”
“Don’t move him,” Tir cautioned the dragon. “I’ll have a look. Semyn, go stand by the fire.”
The boy took two steps away before he stopped and turned, arms wrapped around his middle. Tir took a look at his face, then nodded. Wisp flew to a rafter where he could watch without being in the way.
The house toad eased closer. ~Is this a new game, elder brother?~ An understandable confusion, the little cousin h
aving witnessed innumerable tumbles, fights, and—yes—games in which the winner was the one who remained motionless the longest while the other made faces.
This was no game. The dragon lowered his head. Werfol’s face was sickly pale and covered in sweat. Beneath blue-tinged eyelids, his eyes were in constant motion. ~Something’s wrong, little cousin.~ But what?
“He fell from Scourge. More than once. The last time knocked his breath out, but he was fine after,” Semyn said all at once, his voice cracking with worry. “Why isn’t he fine?”
“Give’m time,” Tir said gently. Finished his examination, he gathered the child in his arms. “Your uncle’s bed.” That was a mattress in a corner of the room and Semyn ran to pull down the covers. After putting Werfol in bed with great care, Tir looked up. “Dragon. Bring the healer.”
A snip of thread, touched by skin and warmth . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .
And the dream unfolds . . .
Falling . . .
Falling . . .
No. A road, blinding white, stretching to a point of darkness.
Darkness widens. Opens. It’s a mouth!
FALLING FALLING FALLING
The dream shatters . . .
“I need my things.” Covie dried her hands, trying not to look at the dragon. He may, Wisp thought regretfully, have been a bit precipitous, snatching her into the air as she stepped from the larder. Yes, a basket had tumbled, but she’d been dressed for the cold, so he’d been pleased overall. Covie, by her shriek, had not.
“Tell the dragon what to fetch,” Tir said, by his tone more concerned with speed than manners.
Wisp sent a polite little breeze. “A list would do.”
“Ancestors—” She closed her mouth, nodding. “First, I’ll take a look. Poor lad.”
Semyn looked up. “He’s dreaming. He can’t stop.”
The healer frowned, then bent over Werfol. She ran a fingertip between his brows, to the tip of his nose.
A Play of Shadow Page 55
