Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  “It would be easier to shoot them.”

  Parrie dispersed the gawkers who flocked to hangings like hungry crows. Elevated to captain, he’d assumed command of the tier guards, and Gannon thanked his own good fortune for taking that first risk on the docks. The previous captain had appreciated the grift weighting his pockets and mounted a modest resistance until his men mistook him for a target and peppered his chest with bolts.

  Guards carted off the underlord’s bodies for burial. For a man surviving on hopes and dreams, Gannon had expected greater cooperation from the warrens, and the violent opposition hurt his head and heart. Power and corruption oozed from the squalid walls, and the underlords had ignored the festering rot.

  His own father epitomized the brokenness of the underworld, appreciating wealth and control even if he lived beneath the boots of the tier wards. That’s how it worked, how they endured in a corrupted society. If Mur-Vallis could change, Bes-Strea could too. The warrens needed futures without laying waste to more lives.

  Anxiety vibrated through the dim alleyways under the tiers, vulnerability like a raw cut, flinching at every touch. Yet, conversations had started; speeches spouted in taverns and inns, between market stalls and on the decks of ferries. He and Mostin knew the script by rote. They’d repeated it a hundred times throughout the years.

  “Time to address the masses.” Gannon peered down at the wary faces in the market. They studied him with a volatile blend of anger, suspicion, and timid aspirations. He knew the feeling, the expectation of betrayal. For a moment, he wished he had an influencer and chuckled at the insight.

  Mostin stretched, the tall man primped and well-attired, his overall appearance less haggard, his bruises less reminiscent of a sunset. “I didn’t know being your temporary high ward would be so time-consuming,”

  “I could give the job to Tiler?” Gannon eyed the big man ambling toward them.

  Tiler patted his stomach. “Could do it in my sleep.”

  Mostin sighed. “Let’s see if we can win this war.”

  His hands raised, Mostin called to the market with a speech they’d all heard before and would hear again. The man from the warrens could pull off a polished presentation, and when inclined, he could wear the sparkle of nobility or sweat of the warrens. He laid out his vision and got down to specifics: a council of advisors including members from the warrens, a trustworthy tier guard, a sledgehammer on corruption, an eloquent commitment to integrating the tiers, expanding the city and emptying the warrens. The market came alive, and Gannon figured his friend had practiced that speech for days.

  The new high ward raised an azure cloth in his fist. “Our future begins today, but it will be ash in the wind if we fail to drive our enemies from Ellegeance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The two most recent influencers to debark on Ava-Grea’s pier bowed to Kadan. Vincen-Lim grinned. “My respects, doyen.” Since the last conclave, Kadan’s old companion from his years as an aspirant had acquired a belly and a thicket of beard.

  Olivan-Bes of Tor sweated in the heat, his blond hair pasted to his forehead and as lank as his enthusiasm. “My respects, Kadan-Mur. Congratulations on your rise to doyen.” He wrinkled his nose. “I forgot about the swamp’s reek.”

  “You’ll adjust.” Kadan returned a shallow bow. “Welcome to Ava-Grea. As you know, the Shiplord’s death voided your vow.” He spoke with as much solemnity as discussing the weather.

  “Pardon?” Olivan frowned.

  “Pay attention.” Kadan waved over two porters for their baggage. “Vincen-Lim, speak your first binding oath to Ellegeance.”

  Vincen blinked at him as if he’d forgotten the words. “Uh, I swear my first binding oath to Ellegeance, to act always for the benefit, safety, and advancement of the realm.”

  “Olivan-Bes?” Kadan swept a palm forward as if engaging in a leisurely stroll through the market with a pair of old acquaintances.

  “Can you require this?” Olivan asked. “The Shiplord—”

  “Your oath was to Tull Airon.” Kadan clasped his hands behind his back and admired a basket of newly caught fish.

  Olivan stared at the fish. “I swear my first binding oath to Ellegeance, to act always for the benefit, safety, and advancement of the realm.”

  In no hurry, Kadan dug in his coin purse for a whole copper. “Vincen-Lim, speak your second binding oath to the Influencers’ Guild.” He handed the fisherwoman the coin.

  “I swear my second binding oath to the Influencers’ Guild, to act second for the benefit, safety, and advancement of my guild.”

  The woman wrapped the fish in a coarse camgras cloth and handed it to Kadan while Olivan uttered his second vow.

  “All further vows”—Kadan started up the ramp to the first tier—“will be subservient to these two. Do you swear it?”

  “I swear it.”

  “I swear it.”

  ***

  The barge floated with the current and wedged into a wide berth in Ava-Grea’s southern piers. Catling adjusted the cloth hiding her eye, her patch lost during her escape from The Sea God. A man with a gap tooth waved her off. He wore the plain garb of the riverfolk, one of a hundred Guardian warriors, most of them crammed into the hull since morning.

  She climbed to the pier with three other passengers, the first to enter the city. Others would dribble from the barge as if the old tub had sprung a human leak. Infiltrate, identify allies, and prepare for the deep of night.

  With pole and pail, she ambled down the curved dock toward the eastern ramp. Ava-Grea bustled, Summertide’s distinctive odors, colors, and sounds familiar. The increased Cull Tarr presence glared, but the larger ships had retreated with Airon’s death and failed to return.

  Children fished from the side of a pier near the ramp. Catling idled with them, eyes alert, her feet dangling in the water, cork drifting on a long string.

  The number of influencers didn’t surprise her. Kadan’s call for a conclave had come to Guardian by bird. She’d spotted his old allies Vincen and Poet, and Tora-Mur arrived from Mur-Vallis.

  Moira-Nor waltzed up the dock toward the ramp, her nose sniffing the air. By all accounts, she retained her snobby aloofness, but she’d also saved Vianne in Nor-Bis, an act of courage that Catling couldn’t deny. Lelaine’s dismissed influencer, another oathbreaker, had saved Vianne so Catling could slay her four years later.

  She spied Sanson debarking from the barge, his white whiskers like a beacon. Kadan strode toward him, the two bowing in cordial greeting and chatting as they contemplated the river and swamp. She handed her pole to a young girl and rose to her feet. Contacting Kadan was her assignment, and she suspected Sanson shared her intent.

  Halfway up the pier, she halted. Farther down the dock in the opposite direction of Kadan, Ardal-Mur paused in his stroll. His face, his erect stature, and aura of superiority hadn’t changed since she’d first encountered him in Guardian. He was an influencer of Tor, a murderer immune to justice and shame, who’d pinned his crimes on Whitt. With his attention on Kadan, he retreated a step, turned, and headed back the way he’d come.

  She was tempted to follow, but Kadan scaled the ramp, and she’d soon lose sight of him. She tweaked him with a pinch on the ear. The influenced prick spun him, and he scanned the dock, his gaze passing over her and arcing back as she ambled toward him.

  He canted his head for her to join him and continued up the ramp. She cast a last glance at the receding influencer and then trailed Kadan to the first tier and into the darker lanes of the interior. He ducked into an alley and beckoned her in. “Catling!” Once in his clutches, he pulled her farther from the crossroad. He tunneled a hand through his hair, his face carved with worry. “Sanson told me Jagur’s on his way. What’s your role in this?”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too.” She hugged him, uncertain if the chance would come again.

  When they parted, she beamed up at him. He chucked her on the chin with a knuckle. “Always, Catling. You have
a place in my heart all your own. When this is finished, we’ll… It will be different.”

  “Someday soon.” She hoped so, though the confidence in her words sounded stale in her ears. That shiny dream had tarnished with disuse. She scarcely indulged in thoughts of home, of peace, of the carelessness of a safe world. Securing a kinder world for Rose consumed her, the only reality that mattered.

  She adjusted the wrapping around her eye. “It starts tonight, second bell, Kadan. Jagur has six hundred men mere hours away. The guild must be prepared. I’m supposed to watch for traitors.”

  His chest expelled a pent up breath. “We planned our first gathering for this afternoon. Not everyone undertook the journey, but most of us are here. Brenna, Neven, and I intercepted new arrivals on the docks and compelled new vows.”

  “Ahead of the conclave,” she marveled. “That was clever.”

  “Yet, it doesn’t guarantee loyalties, Catling. What’s best for Ellegeance always falls prey to individual interpretation. It’s a tired and tireless argument.” He shook his head and brooded in silence. “I wonder if I made a mistake and should have awarded the primary oath to the guild.”

  “There’s no use in second guessing, Kadan. The guild struggles like the rest of Ellegeance.”

  “You didn’t resolve my dilemma.”

  “Because there’s no perfect answer.” She shrugged. “Should I join you at the meeting?”

  “No, too risky.” He leaned on the wall, eyeing the alley’s end. “The tier master keeps a close watch on us. I’ll do my best to prepare the guild. I’ll meet you afterward at the Bottled Sage.”

  Catling grinned, the old haunt a favorite of hers, the place they’d become friends.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kadan stepped onto the dais at the front of the eleventh tier’s cavernous meeting hall. Brenna-Dar and Neven-Kar sat to his left. Tier Master Dalon Naut occupied the fourth chair, to the right of his seat. The stick-thin woman was the last person he wished present at what once might have qualified as a clandestine, albeit sanctioned, gathering of influencers. Lelaine had whittled away at the guarded secrecy of the blunt debates. Now, his enemy’s presence shifted his charge into one of near impossibility.

  When those on the arc of benches ceased their budging and scooting, he raised a hand for silence and bowed to the Cull Tarr guest. “Welcome Tier Master Naut.” He faced the assembled influencers. “Welcome initiates and aspirants to the Influencers’ Conclave. We join in unity to do our duty in forging a new future for Ellegeance. This is not a time to dwell on ourselves but an opportunity to take control of our destinies and act in the best interests of all. I cannot promise what lies ahead, but I expect each of you to persevere and uphold your faith while honoring your oaths.”

  The message as clear as it would get, he nodded to the tier master, and she smiled her approval.

  “Let us begin.” He rambled on until the next bell, avoiding any topics of consequence, and then introduced the young Cull Tarr recruits. They huddled in a tight cluster, intimidated by a roomful of peers who brimmed with resentment and secret confidences. He brushed them with affection and excitement, assuming they were intentionally impure by Cull Tarr standards. The eight of them smiled in return, confirming the fact.

  “Our new aspirants have pledged themselves to our guild, intending to learn our craft. We will treat them with respect as we would any other aspirant. As every one of you knows, our guild forbids unauthorized influence, and the punishment is harsh. I know this from my own experience, and I wish I jested.” Nervous laughter tittered through the room, Kadan’s influenced torture bordering on legendary.

  “Kadan-Mur,” an initiate asked from a middle row, “aren’t they immune? If they can’t feel it, how can they learn?”

  “They’re impure,” the tier master replied, a faint sneer on her lips.

  Kadan flinched at the disdain. “Remember the warning. My experience will not spare you. I will not hesitate to teach any one of you a similar lesson.”

  He glanced at the tier master, and she waved him on.

  “When do they get their first woads?” Moira-Nor stood in the back, her arms crossed over her chest. Kadan had earned his scar during the same battle in which Moira saved Vianne’s life. What did she think of the doyen’s death, of Lelaine’s, the Cull Tarr, her new oaths?

  “They’ll earn their woads like the rest of us,” he replied, “when they show some aptitude for influence. We won’t require them to endure that duration and intensity of agony until they are ready.” The Cull Tarr aspirants blanched no less than their Ellegean counterparts. Neither realized that day would never come.

  The introduction dispensed with, Kadan reviewed the agenda for the conclave, which added up to a long rehashing of old tarnished teachings. With new oaths sworn and his best effort at an artful message communicated, the balance would prove tedious beyond imagination.

  Brenna replaced him with a lecture on the sensorist spectrum that left influencers rubbing their faces to remain conscious. Half-listening, Kadan fidgeted in his chair and tapped a numb foot. Neven took over at the third bell and droned on until the tier master found the door. Moments later, he concluded the day with a wish for a good evening.

  His brain half-asleep, Kadan stood and worked some blood through his legs. Brenna collected her notes and leaned close. “A most enlightening speech, Kadan-Mur.”

  He winked at her. “I suspect it will keep you and Neven up all night.” She studied him, glanced at the Cull Tarr aspirants as they filed from the room, and elected to leave whatever else pressed on her thoughts unspoken.

  Moira-Nor lingered as the room emptied. She smoothed wisps of her dark hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck and marched up to him. “Kadan-Mur, a few of us would appreciate an hour of your time.” She smiled with little reverence. “To discuss the nature of oaths and other… obligations.”

  He peered past her shoulder at the vacant room. “Where and when?”

  “Over a tray or two of tipple at the Bottled Sage. Now.”

  He studied her face for a hint of motive. She’d chosen the same tavern where he intended to meet Catling. Was it pure coincidence? On any other day, the choice wouldn’t have alarmed him.

  “Our concerns require your attention,” she said, the firmness of her words mirrored in her eyes. “If not now, name another time.”

  Another time would be too late. “Now is fine, for a mug or two,” he said, and the woman twitched a smile.

  They rode the lift to the second tier, descended the stairs, and walked the promenade to the inn. If Catling waited for him, she elected to remain hidden, a choice that filled him with relief though it frayed his confidence.

  Vincen waited for them near the entrance. “Second floor.”

  Kadan followed Moira in and up the stairs to a large private salon. Almost twelve faces looked up when he entered. Vincen tapped the panel and sealed the doorway.

  “Kadan-Mur.” Moira offered him a tipple and a seat. “We’re here because we mean to know the doyen’s plan.”

  He sipped the drink, using the delay to assess his audience. Brenna and Neven weren’t there. He knew most of them, but not all, and few well. They formed a half circle around him, some sitting on tabletops, some draped over seats. “We choose what’s best for Ellegeance.”

  That statement elicited nothing but frowns. “Too broad,” Moira said. “Forgive my impertinence, Kadan-Mur, but you didn’t invite us here to swear new oaths for no reason. You want us to support a rebellion, don’t you?”

  “Oaths to Ellegeance are more than sufficient reason,” he replied. “But you’re correct; it’s not the only one. Little is certain. Nor-Bis is in Cull Tarr hands. Rho-Dania is resisting. You’ll notice their influencers are absent.”

  “Elan-Sia?” Moira-Nor asked.

  “As far as I know, other than Catling, they’re all dead.”

  “We all know about Catling’s shield,” Olivan said. “It’s no secret. The Cull Tarr want he
r, and they can have her.”

  “We’re not here to debate her shield.” Moira glared at him. “I grew up in Nor-Bis. The Cull Tarr situation borders on dire.”

  Olivan faced her. “All this started when Vianne betrayed the guild and offered our power to the queen. Catling weakens the guild. She uses her shield against us. Why is that any different than using influence? She’s an oathbreaker.”

  Kadan tamped down the heat flushing his skin. “Her talent has risks no less than ours. She has saved lives and will save more. And I assure you, there is more than one oathbreaker in the guild.”

  “The Cull Tarr want her under their control,” Vincen said.

  “To manage us,” Moira-Nor huffed from the back.

  “Better than killing us,” Olivan said. “And why are we training Cull Tarr aspirants?”

  “Trust me, we aren’t.” Kadan didn’t dare tell the whole truth. “Any woads, should they get to that point, will be lovely pictures, nothing more.” Several sighs gusted about the room.

  “We mean to stage a rebellion,” Moira blurted out, “while we’re all here. The Cull Tarr aren’t all immune to influence. We have the numbers to slay every one of them and retake the city. Then we do the same in Elan-Sia. From there, Bes-Strea and the coastal tiers. We hit each city until Ellegeance is ours.”

  “All sixty of us,” Olivan mocked. “Have you considered what happens if we fail? They execute every influencer in the realm and wash their hands of us.”

  “What stops them now?” She glared at him.

  Kadan raised his hands. “Indiscriminate carnage serves no one, Moira, and Olivan may be correct regarding their response. They expect us to control our own people. Not terribly reassuring, but it gives our forces time.”

  “And what forces are those?” another influencer asked. Well-attired and precise in his grooming, he left an impression.

  Kadan couldn’t place him. “I don’t recall meeting you on the docks,” he said, an oversight he needed to correct.