Balaam startled awake, eyes bulging in terror, as Amos bore down upon him. Amos forced a ragged breath into his lungs and leapt astride the donkey. Grasping the lead rope in both hands, he drove his heels into Balaam’s flanks.
Hard.
The donkey stood still. Ears quivering, tail twitching, he flipped his head around to stare at Amos through eyes steeled with rebellion.
“Amos!” The innkeeper stood on quivering legs in the doorway, clutching the doorframe for support. “What do you mean to do?”
Madame appeared at his side, trying to pull him back inside.
Amos kicked and the donkey jumped but refused to move. Fury rose in his throat and burst forth in a strangled cry. “I’ll tell ye what I’m not goin’ t’ do. I’m not goin’ t’ sit around like some stuffed goose an’ allow ’em t’ harm my wee little girl! I’m goin’ t’ get her back.” He punctuated each of his last words with a sharp kick. “An’ . . . no . . . fool . . . donkey . . . is goin’ t’ stand in my way!”
Balaam heaved a deep donkeyish sigh and continued chewing the wad of hay in his mouth. Blackness swept across Amos’s vision, a hideous cloud fueled by wrath. He fingered the end of the rope, and his limbs sprang to action. Kicking again and again in a frenzy. Whipping the fat donkey with the rope.
Amos heard his own voice as though it belonged to another, screaming like a mad man. “Come on. Come on. Come on!”
From the stoop, Dalton implored him to be silent, to calm down, and be careful. Be careful! Amos’s ire rose at the thought.
Balaam lurched forward, submitting to the barrage of blows first with a staggering walk, accelerating to a drunken trot, and then a bone-jarring lope. Amos whooped, swiping the feathered cap from his head and fanning it in the air. His heels brushed the knee-high grass with each wobbling step the donkey took, but he traveled on Birdie’s trail and that was enough.
“Amos.” Dalton’s choked voice reached him as he turned out onto the main roadway. “It was . . . he . . . knows . . .” Then the innkeeper collapsed, and Madame’s screams burned Amos’s ears.
He brushed all thought of Dalton from his mind. There was naught he could do to help, and Birdie needed him. He had to save her.
Reason spoke against it. It wasn’t his responsibility. She was just a wee lass he’d befriended—a special lass, to be sure, but no duty of his. And now that he’d learned who she was—what she was—he ought to be riding as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
“No,” he whispered. “I have t’ get t’ her. I have to.”
He had to save her from Artair’s fate. At least he knew where Carhartan was taking her. North, to Serrin Vroi. He had passed within a league of the great stone city several times. Even ventured inside once—a horrible experience that still haunted his darkest nights.
The rumors were enough to keep any sane man away, and his own memories were more than convincing. Once taken within those walls, no one ever returned. And that was where Carhartan would take her, as the Takhran had taken all the others.
As he had taken Artair.
The name rose unbidden in his mind, and he shoved it away.
Curse Dalton for dredging up the past.
He drew in a ragged breath. “Birdie lass, don’t worry. I’m coming’ fer ye.”
PART TWO
6
“Catch the little thieves!”
Ky gritted his teeth and lunged forward, bare feet pounding against Kerby’s cobblestone streets. His extra burst of speed brought him even with Dizzier. The older boy glanced at him, and a grin flashed across his face, sweaty beneath a tangle of thick black hair that flopped over his eyes.
“Keep up, little brother,” he gasped. “Cause I ain’t stoppin’ for you.”
Inwardly railing against Dizzier’s longer legs, Ky strained to run faster. His jacket flapped awkwardly against his ribs, pockets weighed down by the afternoon’s take.
There were three simple rules in the Underground: be invisible, look out for yourself, and no going back. Ever. They all added up to the same thing:
Keep up or get left behind.
Dizzier had drilled those rules into him with knuckle and fist. His ears still rang with Dizzier’s recitation after each muffed run, each rule punctuated with a punch, repetition broken by repeated outbursts of “You got it yet, Shorty?” and “Can’t nobody be that stupid!”
Until he did get it and could recognize the rules playing out a dozen times over every day among the other runners. It was the way of the streets, of the Underground. The young fell behind and were caught, while the older and stronger escaped.
Ky grunted and pushed up beside Dizzier. Not this time!
Angry shouts split the air.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, and the dark figures of armored men filled his vision. Instinctively, he reached for the leather sling looped like a belt around his waist, then pulled his hand away. It was a good enough weapon as far as it went, but hardly a match against an armed man.
The shouts grew louder. Ky knew without having to look that more soldiers had joined the chase. Fresh soldiers.
No time . . . we’ll be run down in no time!
An idea blazed in his head, and he acted upon it, spinning to the left and darting down a side alley. “Come on, this way!”
Dizzier stopped hard. “Naw, don’t do that.”
“Come on.” Ky raced down the alley, dodging puddles of dark water and leaping over piles of refuse, jacket tails slapping against his hips
Dizzier easily caught up to run alongside. “Idjit, this leads to the marketplace.”
“I know.” Ky grinned. “Keep up.” His grin widened at the look of frustration that passed over Dizzier’s face.
Behind, the pounding feet grew louder. Dizzier glanced back and his face turned white. He picked up speed until he passed Ky and disappeared around the corner of the alley into the marketplace.
No! Ky forced his aching legs to churn faster. Wind tore at his throat, and he could hardly find enough air to fill his lungs. He put forth his final reserves of strength, and tucking his head, he sprinted forward and dove into the market day crowd.
Startled cries rang out above. Crawling on all fours like a wild cat, he darted through the milling river of trailing skirts and leather boots. At last, an opening appeared before him, and he scrambled toward it. Just then, a man wrapped in a billowing cloak stepped into the gap. The sea of heavy fabric engulfed Ky. He kicked to free himself, knowing the man’s indignant shouts would attract the attention of the dark soldiers.
Whack.
Ky clutched his head, blinking to see through the tears in his eyes. Should have known he’d be carrying a cane. He tumbled free of the cloak and slipped back into the crowd, steering clear of a glimpse of black armor to his left.
At least the crowd impeded the soldiers’ progress as much as it did his.
A grin tweaked his lips. A fellow had to appreciate the small gifts in life, or he’d wind up just like Dizzier. Bitter. Rude. Foul-mouthed. Ready to pounce on anyone who got in his way.
“Psst . . .”
Ky spun around.
“Pssst . . .”
He studied the churning sea parading past. A stout farmer narrowed his gaze and gave Ky a wide berth, a basket of apples hugged to his chest. A few fashionable ladies glared down at him, contempt marring their powdered faces. But there was no sign of the speaker.
“Hey! Slowpoke. Over here.” Dizzier’s grimy face poked out beneath the crooked sign of an empty seller’s stall. His head jerked in a sharp gesture and then dropped out of sight.
Dizzier never waited on him. Had he hung back this time to ensure Ky’s silence about another muffed run? He knows I wouldn’t blab. Ky forced himself to maneuver casually over to the stall, then ducked under when he was certain no one was watching.
Dizzier pressed to one side to make room for him. “Where ya been, Shorty?”
“Hiding. Where were you?”
“Watching.” Dizzier grinned. “Come on. Time we disappeared.” He yanked on a rope that stuck out of the boards lining the floor of the stall, and Ky jerked back as a two foot square hole opened between them.
A wide-armed V-shaped mark was carved into one of the boards. The hawk winging its way to freedom—the Underground symbol marking an entrance. After three years out on the streets, Ky had come to know the hidden passages fairly well. This must be a new one.
He traced the symbol with a finger. “Risky place to put a tunnel, isn’t it?”
Dizzer cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him and slipped into the hole. “What d’ you mean?”
“What if someone moves the stall? Or starts using it again?”
Dizzier’s head and shoulders reappeared as he pulled himself back up. “Who’s goin’ to mess with an old wreck like this? You worry too much. C’mon.”
Ky rolled his eyes and dropped down. Now who’s the idjit? There was a difference between worrying and actually thinking things through. He’d never dare say it aloud though. Dizzier was too unpredictable. One moment, he’d be grinning ear to ear. The next, you’d be flat on your back in the mud.
As Dizzier pulled the trap door shut, Ky closed his eyes and counted to thirty, knowing it would take that long for them to adjust to the dark. Then he and Dizzier set off at a shuffling run, arms outstretched to keep from bashing into the walls.
“This is a new tunnel.” Dizzier spoke over his shoulder. “Cade wants you to learn it. Provides the perfect in and out for the marketplace. Hidden but close to the action.”
Perfect, right. So long as no one spots it.
For a long time, the only sounds were their measured breathing, the soft thud of their bare feet on the packed dirt floor, and the jingle of newly acquired coins lining the hidden pockets of their coats. Then Ky heard a creak and a light flared.
In that brief moment of visibility, a boy—Paddy—dove into the tunnel. He wore a heavy cloak tucked around him, but there was no mistaking that mess of red hair. From the odd lumps and bulges beneath the cloak, Ky guessed that he had been out apple bobbin’. Looked like he’d brought in a good haul, too.
The trap door thudded shut and the light blinked out. After his eyes readjusted, Ky could make out the dim form of Paddy running ahead.
A short time later, the tunnel joined a familiar larger passage and began sloping down underfoot. A gradual change, but unmistakable. They were nearing the Underground.
Five more times, trap doors opened high above and runners clambered down the entrance shafts, hastening home with their spoils. Then a dim light appeared ahead, casting flickering figures dancing on the walls. The chatter of voices filled Ky’s ears and brought a smile to his face. Silence might be a good rule of thumb in the tunnels, so shallow and close to the city streets, but in the heart of the Underground, secreted far below the earth in caverns where brave men once fought, laughter and loud conversations reigned.
Here, they were free from fear.
The tunnel bent to the left and then spilled out into a cavernous room lit by dozens of torches and a large fire blazing in the central ring. Runners flooded from the tunnels pockmarking the walls and collected around the storage room to add their contributions. Apples, bread loaves, and cheese wheels dropped from sleeves and coat pockets into the food bins. Kerchiefs, belts, hats, articles of clothing, and other miscellaneous items were packed in barrels for later sorting by the storeroom keepers. Coins and other objects of value useful for bribery were taken to a large chest at the far end of the store room.
Ky pushed through the swarming children, casting an appraising eye over the quantity and quality of the crop.
“Good harvest today.” Rab, one of the older Underground runners, leaned against a barrel, elbows resting on the top, a half-eaten apple in his hand. He grinned, and his blue eyes twinkled behind unruly strands of curly brown hair. “Reckon Emhran’s been good to us.”
Ky grunted. He wasn’t sure what Emhran had to do with it, but the harvest had been plentiful yet again.
“Oi, Ky,” a voice called from his left.
“Oi, Paddy.”
Something whooshed through the air toward him. He flung up his hands and caught the apple just before it smashed into his nose. The sudden reaction threw him off balance, and he bumped into the girl behind him, knocking her to the ground.
“Sorry, Aliyah.” He helped her to her feet and retrieved her crutch from where it had skidded when she fell. “You all right?”
A wispy smile parted Aliyah’s lip. “Fine, thank you, Ky.” Tucking the crutch under one arm, she hobbled over to help at the food bins.
“Well done, laddy-boyo!” Paddy bobbed toward him, a grin wrinkling his freckled face. “Wait ’til Cade hears you knocked his sister over.”
Ky chucked the apple back at Paddy. “Case you didn’t notice, that was all your fault.”
“How was harvestin’ this morning?”
“Wait an’ see.” Ky winked and led Paddy over to the chest. He pulled his coat open and upended the large pouch sewn inside. Coins spilled into the chest, along with a lady’s necklace, a brooch, and two rings. Paddy whistled his admiration.
“That’s not all.” Ky reached for the treasure stowed in his belt, but a voice from behind arrested the action.
“Not bad.”
Ky spun around. A tall boy stood before him, clad in a ragged white blouse and tattered breeches, with a fine leather vest on top and a sword belted at his side. His arms were folded across his chest and his chin lowered so that his eyes seemed to look straight through Ky. Cade, the leader of the Underground.
Dizzier peered over Cade’s shoulder. “Eh, I got more ’n him. Guess that means I’m still your second in command.” He guffawed.
The laughter rankled Ky. Wasn’t it Dizzier’s fault their run had been cut short? If he hadn’t insisted on sneaking into the fine goods shop, Ky might have had more to show for the day.
He tugged the dagger from his belt and shoved it toward Cade.
Dizzier’s jaw dropped. “I never saw you take that.”
“Guess I’m better ’n you give me credit for.”
Cade’s eyes lit up, and he snatched the dagger from Ky’s hand. Slowly, almost reverently, he drew the weapon and held it up so the torchlight played on the blade. “It’s well crafted. Couldn’t ask for better. How did you get it?”
“Slipped it off a soldier’s belt.” Disbelief registered on their faces, and Ky crossed his arms. “It’s true.” Sure, the soldier might have been occupied talking to a lady at the time, but he saw no need to mention that.
Cade grunted and studied the dagger, massaging the grip with his fingers, then his eyes flickered back to Ky for a moment. “Good work.” He jerked his head at Dizzier and strode off toward the armory.
Paddy whistled, doubling over in an elaborate bow. “Allow me t’ congratulate you on those rare words of approbation from our worthy chief! You’re a master runner, laddy-boyo! Care t’ share a few trade secrets? Given a few years, you might even become as good as . . . as Hawkness himself, and he had the Takhran’s price on his head.”
Unlikely.
Ky shrugged and turned away. When it came to Cade, “good work” was high praise. So why wasn’t he satisfied? What else had he expected? A clap on the back, maybe an independent thieving run without his assigned older brother watching his every move? No, that was asking too much. Gratitude wasn’t Cade’s way.
Or the way of the Underground.
7
“Uh oh,” Paddy said around a mouthful of bread. “Trouble’s comin’ and it’s staring straight at you.”
Ky didn’t bother looking. He scrubbed the last traces of mud from his sling and tied it around his w
aist. “Who is it?”
“Cade and Dizzier.”
Ky popped the last of his bread and cheese into his mouth and finally glanced up. He and Paddy sat with the rest of the forty or so children in the Underground around the central fire ring to eat supper. Already, those who had finished were drifting away to complete their assigned tasks.
Several of the older boys had been working in the armory through supper, trying to coax bows and arrows and sling stones from the raw material gathered during the day. Cade and Dizzier had detached themselves from this group and were coming toward him.
“So long, pal. ’Twas nice knowin’ you.” Paddy slipped away.
Ky squelched a tremor of anxiety as Cade and Dizzier sat down on either side.
But Cade simply reached inside his vest and pulled out the dagger Ky had stolen, turning it over in his hands. “This cavern used to be the hideout of a band of outlaws led by Hawkness, did you know that? My father told me about them, about him. Back then, Hawkness was the only one strong enough to stand against the Takhran and his soldiers. They were brave men, those outlaws, all of them heroes who fought against tyranny and died because of it. Like my father.” He raised the dagger so firelight played across the blade. “Do you know what this means to us, Ky?”
Ky nodded. Real weapons were scarcer than one of Dizzier’s good moods. Cade had his father’s sword, and there were a few other blades scattered about, most in the possession of the biggest boys and girls. He glanced over at the armory where a dozen open barrels and crates lined the wall, filled with makeshift bows, arrows, clubs, and the other simple weapons they had been able to fashion themselves.
“It means more than you think.” Cade rested his elbows on his knees. “It means hope. Freedom. Vengeance. You’re ready to know the truth about us, about the Underground. We’re not just collecting weapons to make thieving easier, we’re building an arsenal for war.”
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