Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1)

by D. Wallace Peach

  The person yelped, and the two of them careened to the lane’s smooth surface. Catling’s elbow banged into the base of a statue, and her chin rapped the tier’s floor. The girl she barreled into lay on her backside, propped up on her elbows and blinking in surprise.

  Ignoring the pain in her arm and chin, Catling scrambled to her feet. “My regrets. I’m sorry. I apologize.” She offered a hand to help the girl up just as Kadan, Vincen, and Poet rounded the corner and stopped short of tumbling over them.

  “Leave us alone,” Catling snapped. Her hands shook as she pulled the girl to her feet. She’d use her shield if any of the boys so much as touched them.

  “You three will be whipped,” the girl calmly informed them. She fingered her flaxen hair behind her ears and tugged her jacket into place. Taller than Catling and nearer Kadan’s age, she was lovely with high cheekbones, sunny skin, and hazel eyes slanted like a Farlander’s.

  Kadan stepped closer, his focus on Catling’s chin. Then he turned to the two grinning boys behind him. “Go on. Find me later.” Their smirks melted, and they shambled off, shoving each other as they took the corner. “No harm meant, Minessa.”

  “Then you’re blind to your actions, Kadan.” Minessa daubed Catling’s stinging chin with her sleeve and glanced at the spot of blood. “And I’m not the one who deserves your regrets.”

  He frowned and faced Catling. “My regrets.”

  Before Catling could reply, Minessa touched her arm. “What’s your name?”

  “Catling. I’m Vianne’s… niece.”

  “I’m Minessa. My father is Barrick-Kar, High Ward of Kar-Aminia.”

  Catling hid her shock, her contempt for high wards skewed by the warm smile. A girl with Farlander blood was the daughter of a high ward?

  “I’m studying to be a mercy.” Minessa flashed the violet woad on her wrist. “May I heal your injuries?”

  “You don’t need to ask,” Kadan said. “She’s not an influencer.”

  “Perhaps that’s how you treat people in Mur-Vallis,” Minessa said. “In Kar-Aminia we take no such liberties.” She raised her pale eyebrows to Catling.

  “Yes, please,” Catling said. Minessa left her hand on Catling’s arm and gazed into the sky beyond the pylon. The pain in Catling’s body receded, and when she touched her chin, the wound had vanished.

  “There.” Minessa dropped her hand and smiled. “My father says boys have no sense when it comes to flaunting their affection for a girl.”

  Kadan balked. “I don’t—”

  “Of course you do.” Minessa turned to him. “I don’t believe at heart, Kadan, that you’re a dunderhead and bully. So be careful. The doyen don’t tolerate rogues among the initiates. They’ll kill you if you haven’t learned your lesson by then.”

  “She’s not an influencer,” he repeated. “The prohibition applies to other influencers.”

  Minessa sighed. “How unfortunate to come from a province where people aren’t treated with dignity. It must be terribly confusing to suddenly encounter civilization.”

  A giggle escaped Catling’s lips, and Kadan frowned at her before squaring off with his peer. “You’re breaking the rules by healing her. No influence permitted unless under supervision.”

  “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine,” Minessa said with a smile. She hooked her arm in Catling’s. “I have errands to run. Care to join me?”

  “Yes, please,” Catling said. For the first time since weeping her farewells to Whitt, she believed she’d found a friend.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Qeyon’s small abode stood on the eleventh tier’s bright outer rim. Catling sagged at the round table they used for lessons, the surface littered with books and maps, and scraps of paper splotched with ink. Outside the window behind the man’s head, two blue warblers with yellow wings chirped angrily in a potted tree, its leaves turned russet with the onset of Harvest.

  The lesson in history droned on at a pace a slug could manage. Qeyon had the patience of the dead and a style of teaching that matched. Unable to focus, Catling watched the birds, wondering what they squabbled about; after all, they were free to fly.

  “Ellegeance is an old kingdom, and much of our early history remains a matter of speculation,” Qeyon continued in his soft voice. “Oral reports suggest the planet was settled by highly sophisticated star travelers seeking to populate a new world. The Ellegeans and Cull Tarr call them the Founders. They drilled the pylons into the planet’s rock and constructed the tiers with accommodations for the circulation of light, heat, and water. Nothing Founder-made wears down or corrodes.” He glanced at the ruckus outside the window, and the birds winged off in a dither.

  “Are we the Founders’ descendants?” She propped her chin on a fist.

  “An ongoing debate of the Academian Guild. Some assert it’s the only logical conclusion. Others suggest that our apparent lack of sophistication indicates the Founders inserted us and left us to fend for ourselves.”

  “What does terran mean?”

  “Foreign,” he explained. “Anything that isn’t native to the planet.”

  “The Farlanders and fenfolk lived here before us, didn’t they?” Though human in form, they were taller and stronger with one less digit on their hands and feet. Similar to the Farlanders, the fenfolk were towheaded with slanted eyes and tapered ears. A narrow pattern of pale green spots ran over their shoulders, down their spines and limbs to their fingers and toes. The fenfolk didn’t carve runes into their faces like the Farlanders; they painted their bodies and packed their hair with clay.

  “Why don’t we live together with…?” In a moment of clarity, she understood the larger picture. “We pushed them from their land, didn’t we?”

  “They don’t believe in ownership,” Qeyon replied. “So they would have insisted the land wasn’t ‘theirs.’ A convenient excuse for Ellegeans to seize it, in my opinion. Legend suggests that with the tiers’ arrival, the Farlanders fled Ellegeance, most heading into the colder reaches. The fenfolk slipped into the swamp, the only territory we apparently had no interest in acquiring.”

  Catling stared at the map beneath her nose, tilting her head and tracking the rivers. While Qeyon lectured on, she found the Blackwater, her finger tracing it south to Mur-Vallis and somewhere in the rendering of vacant wilderness, her home.

  “The original rift between the Ellegeans and the Cull Tarr was both political and theological.” Qeyon thudded open a heavy tome. “Close to a hundred years ago, the divisions resulted in civil war. Politically, the Ellegeans had set up a wealth-based system designed around a hierarchy of skills. The Cull Tarr faction, primarily seafarers, fishermen, and merchantmen disagreed, desiring a more egalitarian basis for power.”

  “Hmm,” she commented, her eyes roving the map toward the Cull Sea.

  “The Ellegeans were supporters of indentured servitude, while the Cull Tarr, despite their interest in a classless society, condoned slavery. Though both peoples recognize the Founders’ role in colonizing the planet, Ellegeans don’t believe in divinity. The Cull Tarr saw the Founders as disciples of a male and female coupling god and themselves as the honored descendants.”

  “My mother indentured herself.”

  “Servitude is considered a step out of poverty,” he said without much conviction.

  “What does egalitary mean?”

  “Egalitarian. Equal power among people in political, economic, and social life.”

  “That’s what Gannon wanted for the warrens.” Catling pursed her lips and slouched.

  “He sounds quite noble,” Qeyon said and returned to the book. “The Cull Tarr lost the war and fled to the seas, taking the Ellegeance navy with them. Now, Ellegeance has a commercial fleet but humble in comparison to the Cull Tarr’s. They’re master shipbuilders with settlements along the coast beyond our borders.”

  The mention of Gannon and the warrens drew Catling’s thoughts back to Mur-Vallis when she should have been focusing on Qeyon’s description
of the Cull Tarr Shiplord, shipmasters and their Book of Protocols.

  When he took a breath and turned the page, she propped her elbows on the map and her cheeks in her hands. “Qeyon, why aren’t there any influencers from the warrens? Why aren’t there any aspirants from the warrens training here?”

  He closed the book and folded his hands. “Why do you think that might be?”

  “We don’t have sponsors?”

  “Why else? There’s something I mentioned earlier about Ellegeance.” He smiled. “You might not have been listening.”

  “Power and wealth,” she guessed.

  “A hierarchy, yes. There are many who prefer the tiers delineated exactly as they are, the wards at the top and the warrens below. Influence in the hands of the poor is a frightening proposition.”

  “Fear then.” She sat back in her chair.

  Qeyon nodded. “An extremely powerful emotion on par with physical pain as a motivator.”

  “The mercys are different from the others, aren’t they?” Her thoughts skipped to Minessa healing her chin.

  “Not all influencers are alike, Catling, just as all people are unique. The spectrums operate differently, the mercys most of all. They require touch.”

  “Are you angry at Vianne for hurting you?”

  “It wasn’t pleasant, but I understood the need. I agreed to it.”

  “Why?” She didn’t understand any of it. “Why can’t I simply go home; why can’t you forget me. Everything would stay as it is, the way the wards and tiers want it. If you leave me alone, I’ll disappear and never use my shield again.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I don’t like the tiers, Qeyon. I don’t belong here. I want to go home.”

  “Home is no longer a choice for you.” He sighed, the sorrow in his eyes unfeigned. “Even if it were, you understand why you mustn’t go there, don’t you?”

  “I miss Whitt and dancing with Mouser and cuddling at night with Daisy.” She stared out the window. “I miss sharing a sip of tipple with Scuff and fishing with Zadie. I miss Wenna.”

  The influencer’s hand slid over the blue swirls on his shaved scalp as he met her eyes. “My regrets, Catling. I wish I had the power to release you, but your talent has set your course. You will never be free of who you are.”

  “I’d like to be dismissed,” she said, her feelings ignited inside her chest. She rose without waiting for his reply and left the room.

  In the pylon’s shadow, she waited for the lift that would take her down to the docks. When the portal slid open, she entered the chamber and sighed at her escape. As the conveyance paused at a medley of floors, she squished into a corner to make room.

  The doors opened onto the second tier, and she hurried down the ramp to the first. There the river traders found lodging, tipple houses lined the lanes, and the common markets sprawled with goods from up and down the Slipsilver. Ava-Grea wasn’t the capital of Ellegeance but lay at its hub. River and canal traffic washed into the swamp and moored at the piers that fingered into the liquid light.

  The swamp began at the convergence of the Blackwater and Slipsilver to the south. From there it spread into the surrounding landscape of ridged caliph trees, the leaves golden and fluttering with the eclipse of Summertide. Hummocks bore water-hardy witchwood and an array of saplings, giant ferns, and strangling ivies. To the north, the swamp dried up as the waters bled off into the East and West Canals. Then the Slipsilver continued as a mighty river to the delta of Elan-Sia and the Cull Sea.

  She descended another ramp and hurried along the girding dock, not daring to glance back. Desperation flooded her veins, threatening to drown her. Most of the ferries idled in their moorings with passengers disembarked or yet to board. Barges thumped on the piers, crewmen in the midst of loading or unloading their cargoes. She required a vessel on the verge of departure, one heading south.

  Final destinations distinguished the city’s southern piers: Kar-Aminia, Guardian, Se-Vien, and Mur-Vallis. From the curved dock, she spied a ferry heading home, the crew casting off lines, the foredeck piled with crates and shuffling passengers. Her scurrying pace transformed into a frantic run as she dodged and stumbled through the milling crowd. The pier’s wood planks rumbled beneath her feet. She ran its length and leapt to the moving deck, lost her footing, and tumbled into the men heaving at the oars.

  “Blasted!” a furious man shouted as the oarsmen laughed. The bearded captain stalked toward her, eyes blazing. “What in the Founders’ name. Are you daft?” He grabbed her by the collar, bending her over the rail until her hair trailed in the water’s curling luminescence. “Give me a gold reason I shouldn’t toss you in!”

  “I have a ruby,” she shouted, “for fare.”

  The captain jerked her upright as harshly as he’d thrust her face to the water. She grabbed the rail and with her feet steady beneath her, unclasped Vianne’s ruby stud from her ear. The blood red gem glimmered in her fingers when she held it to his eyes. “Fare to Mur-Vallis.”

  Beyond the captain’s shoulder, a white-haired rivermaster with a coiled line stepped his way around the cargo toward the ferry’s bow. He called in the powerful waterdragons that would haul the craft upstream against the current. The oarsmen rowed, keeping the vessel oriented in a southerly direction, free of the piers and other boats.

  “Not like either of us has much a choice.” The captain held out his hand.

  Catling reached toward him to drop the ruby earring into his palm when his hand retracted. A sudden flash of fear narrowed his eyes. “Back to the pier!” he shouted. “Port oarsmen haul her around, then heave ho.”

  “Why?” Catling asked, the ruby still in her fingers. “It’s real. I’m sure of it. Why are we going back?”

  “Got a bad feeling about the river,” the man said. “Got a bad feeling about you and that gem.”

  “You must take me to Mur-Vallis,” she insisted, panic rising in her chest.

  “To the pier!” the captain growled, backing away from her. “No one’s putting this ferry at risk.”

  “I’m no risk,” she snapped, fear blending with fury. “I’m…” She spun around, eyes scanning the piers. Qeyon stood near a piling, his blue jacket distinguishable against the riverfolk’s plain attire. She swung back to the captain and thrust the earring at him.

  “Step back, or I’ll see you over the rail,” he shouted. Half of the oars sat idle as the men stared at the river or glared at her, eyes thinned in suspicion. The ferry began to spin with the current. Two men on a nearby raft shouted warnings.

  “Toss her!” an oarsman demanded, rising from his seat. He hopped over the bench, stalking her.

  “No,” Catling pleaded, her heart thudding in her chest. “It’s the influence. It’s not me or the river. I’ll show you.” She whipped her shield into place over the captain and crew but too late. The oarsman gripped her by the arms, hefted her up, and flung her over the side.

  She hit the water with a gasp. Flailing and kicking, she fought for the surface, her jacket and boots foiling her efforts. A hand grabbed her wrist, and she rose to the air. Another clamped on her arm as two men hoisted her onto a rocking raft.

  Water poured from her clothing. Bent over on her knees, she stifled a sob and wiped her eyes. Her splayed fingers were empty, Vianne’s ruby earring gone. Not far from her, the ferry’s oars worked in unison, the captain bellowing orders.

  “First time I seen anyone feed a girl to the river.” A rafter knelt beside her, frowning at the ferry. A thin layer of mud matted his flaxen hair and darkened his face and chest. “I’ll never understand your kind.”

  “Not my kind,” his older companion replied. He dipped his paddle as he studied her, staring at her marked face. His long black hair partially hid a leather patch covering his left eye. The look chilled her, too familiar, too intimate, as if he knew her secrets.

  The rafter rose to take up a paddle. “Sit there while we take you back.”

  Minutes later, she climbed to the dock, the spectacle over. Qeyon place
d a hand on her shoulder and guided her dripping body through the market crowd. At the gangway to the first tier, he paused. Catling waited for his lecture, his warning, a caution regarding Vianne’s fury, a reminder of her duty and lack of choice, all words she knew well enough and had no desire to hear.

  He smiled. “Tomorrow, when you attempt to teach me how to fish, I will take greater care not to push you in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Whitt crouched at the water's edge where tangled roots rose in smooth arches, tall and wide as doorways. He’d wrapped his feet and shins in camgras cloth to discourage leeches and protect his skin from curious razorgills. Fiercer predators stalked the swamp, though less stealthy and easily avoided.

  Sheer veils of fog drifted above the water. He shifted his weight, spear comfortable in his grip and poised to thrust. Though the Cull Sea lay hundreds of leagues north, its tides altered the waterways in Ava-Grea’s swamps no less than the Fangwold snowmelt. Nearly two years after entering the world of the Fenfolk, Whitt navigated the changing landscape with minimal need to drag his raft through the mud.

  A pair of reptilian nostrils peeked from the luminescence, two black holes in a sheet of liquid light. Fire-winged blackbirds shrilled warnings through the vaulted branches. Whitt needed to cross the waterway, and the crajek epitomized patience, content to wait a week for a human meal.

  With his free hand, he unhooked the snared river rats from his belt. He’d caught the scaled rodents for supper, but at this point, his need to cross the channel outweighed his hunger. Holding the lead’s end, he dipped them in the water not far from his perch and dragged them from side to side. Razorgills surfaced from below and nibbled at the dead flesh. The lethargic crajek sank from sight, a good sign.

  He braced himself in the roots, eyes peeled for movement in the water around the rats. He hefted his spear. The razorgills flashed and fled as the dark shape neared. Whitt licked his lips, steadied, and when the crajek snapped, he rammed the spear’s sharpened point into the rear of the spiked head. The animal whipped around, dislodging the weapon. Jaws still clamped on the rats, it dove, yanking the lead in Whitt’s hand and ripping him from his roost. He splashed into the water up to his knees and froze. The line floated, slack. His spear cocked at his shoulder, he searched for ripples or bubbles, anything to indicate the creature’s location.