Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1)

by D. Wallace Peach

  If Dalcoran attempted to hide his annoyance, he did a poor job of it. Her relationship with the senior doyen had smoothed out after a tumultuous start. A decade ago, when she’d fled Guardian and Jagur for a life of duty, she’d broken her own heart. Dalcoran hadn’t been so stiff or severe at the time, and a friendship had bloomed. He was dedicated and principled, committed to Ellegeance with the same fervor as she. For him, the friendship had grown into desire, a sentiment she’d never shared.

  Then his illness progressed beyond any hope of healing. If not for Tunvise’s unique touch, pain would have racked his body, leaving him twisted and as dependent as a newborn. He’d withdrawn from her, from them all, his duty attended to with intelligent and calculated design.

  The first order of business was always an account of the guild’s mundane workings: finances, stores of luminescence, training progress, schedules. Piergren enjoyed his power over the day-to-day activities but disliked detail, another prick to Dalcoran’s controlled demeanor.

  Vianne gritted her teeth and held her tongue. Her concerns regarding Piergren were of an entirely different nature. He was abusive, using his skill with pleasure and pain to molest and maltreat his charges. She complained, Dalcoran threatened, and Piergren ignored them both. The only way to expel him from the guild was to kill him, and none dared consider that step.

  The accounting of Ava-Grea’s undertakings laid to rest, Dalcoran moved on. “How is our king faring?”

  “Little change,” Tunvise reported. “Influencers in his employ will send a dove if they note a dramatic decline. Otherwise, they offer comfort and clear his head as best they can. He will continue to wane.”

  “And the heiress?”

  The old man pursed his lips. “No interest in suitors.”

  “Do you blame her?” Vianne regarded the three of them. “Algar or his drunken sot of a son, Sienna’s middle-aged offspring, the Cull Tarr Shiplord, or a Far Wolds clan chief.”

  “She bears a duty,” Dalcoran said.

  “Perhaps if she is allowed more agreeable options, she’ll consider it. We do ourselves no favors by allowing influencers to tug at her emotions at every encounter.”

  Piergren dismissed her protest. “The high wards’ influencers are beholden to their oaths.”

  Unfinished lace resting in her lap, Vianne cast him a stony glare. “Their first oath is to Ellegeance, and this is an Ellegean matter. Their second oath is the guild. If we believe some restraint is in order for the realm’s benefit, we take precedence.”

  “A moot point,” Piergren said, “since you maneuvered the king into granting her a choice.”

  “Ellegean law allows her a choice,” Vianne replied. “I provided a reminder. We should discourage the practice of influence in bonding as a whole. A bond based on influence guarantees a catastrophe.”

  “I agree.” Dalcoran raised a hand, ending the debate. “However, overriding the high wards isn’t without repercussions.”

  “It’s a matter of ethics.” She locked eyes with Piergren. “One of several we must address.”

  Piergren smiled at her, leaned back in his chair, and crossed an ankle over his knee. His hair was braided, a change in style due to the Summertide heat. If he wasn’t such a pompous predator, his swarthy looks and muscled physique might have been attractive.

  Dalcoran pinched the bridge of his nose. “Despite our censure, Algar continues to hang Farlanders. He maintains that Ellegean law only applies to Ellegeans.”

  Her eyes shut, Vianne let a breath ease from her chest along with an excess of exasperation. Dalcoran had changed the subject, his tactic for avoiding her challenges. “What does the Justice Guild have to say?”

  “They’re hedging.”

  “Unwise,” Tunvise said. “Justice cedes its authority to the high wards. They’ll find it harder to take back than to give away.”

  Vianne sighed. “According to Algar’s reasoning, we may do the same to the Cull Tarr. Little wonder what the Shiplord would think of that! And perhaps the rafters next, since they share the same ancestry as the Farlanders. And if Ellegean law only applies to Ellegeans, are the Cull Tarr free to do as they please in our tiers?”

  “You’re twisting the argument,” Piergren said.

  “Am I? We bend the laws when Ellegeans are the perpetrators, yet they apply when we’re the victims. Rather convenient.”

  “She’s correct.” Dalcoran massaged his stiff fingers. “It’s no secret that Algar has instructed his influencers to manipulate Justice. We’ll send a dove overriding any such orders and face his wrath when it comes.” He sat back in his chair with a wince of pain he sought to hide, one Vianne pretended not to notice.

  “I have another piece of business,” Piergren said, abandoning his seat. He opened the door to the hallway, and Vincen shuffled in, his eyes pools of fright.

  Vianne’s gaze shifted from the pudgy boy to Piergren. The way the man smiled at her sent a chill skating across her skin, so cold she wondered if he plied her with influence. He wouldn’t dare. Even he wouldn’t risk it. The ill ease had to be genuine, instinctual.

  Piergren resumed his seat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Vincen visited me yesterday with some interesting information he wishes to share.”

  The boy trembled before their scrutiny. Vianne dabbed on a dose of love and pleasure to ease his discomfort. She didn’t doubt the others employed their own combinations to suit their means.

  “Have you broken our rules?” Dalcoran asked.

  Vincen shook his head and rapidly bowed, addressing his oversight. “My respects, doyen.”

  “I advised him that any wrongdoing on his part would be forgiven as a reward for coming forward,” Piergren said.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Vincen’s voice cracked.

  Dalcoran signaled to break off any influence, and Vianne complied. She glanced at Piergren, wondering if he did the same.

  “Piergren-Rho spoke the truth, Vincen,” Dalcoran said. “You will incur no penalty for your part. What do you have to tell?”

  The boy scratched his nose and sniffled. “I was on the fifth tier with Kadan two days ago.”

  Dalcoran’s jaw tightened, his charge once again the subject of conversation. “Go on.”

  “We followed Minessa and Catling. Kadan meant to tease them after what happened. I didn’t want to, so I hid, but she saw me.”

  “Who saw you?” Vianne held her breath, fingers throttling the spool of silk.

  “Catling.” Vincen wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Kadan made Nessa sick.”

  Vianne sighed with relief. “Are you certain it was his influence?”

  “Yes, Vianne-Ava. He told me he was going to and he did.”

  She slipped him a small taste of comfort. “Thank you, Vincen, for your honesty. We—”

  “Then what occurred?” Piergren spared a smile for Vianne.

  “I couldn’t tell very well.” The boy stared at Vianne.

  “Try,” Dalcoran said.

  Vincen swallowed. “I think Catling can influence.”

  “What?” Vianne drew back in shock. A smile creased her face and she burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous!” She pressed a palm to her chest as a tear of hilarity rolled from her eye. “Bless the Founders, whatever made you think so?”

  “I… I… I was watching them.” Vincen wrinkled his brow. “First Kadan influenced Nessa, and then he switched to Catling, and then back to Nessa. I think it wasn’t working, so he starting influencing other people to see what happened. It would have an effect for a moment or two, and then it shut off. Then it didn’t work on anyone at all. I think he didn’t know what was happening. Then Catling used it on me. My skin was stinging, and I yelled for her to stop.”

  “She can’t influence, Vincen,” Vianne insisted, her heart going out to the boy. “It must have been Kadan.”

  “Vianne-Ava.” Vincen met her eyes and spoke with utter sincerity, “Catling did something. If you’d seen them, you would know. She inf
luenced or stopped it or something I can’t explain. But I saw it.”

  “Thank you,” Dalcoran said. “You may return to your room.”

  Vincen sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing. He bowed and scurried to the door.

  “Vincen,” Dalcoran called after him. “Not a word to anyone.” The boy’s head bobbed and he slipped out.

  Vianne resumed her tatting as if the whole report regarding Catling were ludicrous.

  “I want Kadan and Catling brought here,” Dalcoran said. “The boy isn’t lying. I need to know what occurred before we contemplate executing one of my charges.”

  “I would never support slaying one so young,” Vianne said, ignoring the truth. “Punishment, of course. Delay his advancement if you will but not death.”

  “I’ll learn the truth from them,” Piergren said. “Count to thirty and you’ll have your answers.”

  “No!” Vianne turned on him. “I won’t have you torturing my charge. She has no influence. The accusation is inane.”

  “I concur,” Tunvise said, his soft voice slicing through the tension. “Yet we may question her surely. Gently persuade her if need be.”

  Vianne sighed. She had no choice but to acquiesce to a reasonable request. “When shall we reconvene?”

  “Does the sixth bell suffice?” Tunvise asked, retaining control of the meeting.

  “Seventh,” Vianne said. “Catling is with Qeyon. I need to locate them.”

  “Seventh bell?” Tunvise received nods from the other men.

  With a huff for the absurdity of the task, Vianne rose and glided from the room. She maintained her composure as she breezed through the top tier’s gardens, ignoring the sweat dampening her forehead. Her white jacket and wide belt felt suffocating, and she clutched the forgotten lace in a fist.

  Once in her own quarters, she ran down the hall to her salon and tossed her tatting onto a chair. From a locked chest, she grabbed a handful of whole silvers and then rummaged through her desk for a scrap of camgras paper and ink. “Founders’ foul!” She wiped her damp palms on her underdress and composed two identical missives. Hands shaking, she rolled them and inserted them into tiny tubes.

  She left her home, strolled to the lift, and rode down to the eighth tier. There she whipped down a flight of spiral steps to the domain of the Artisan and Academian Guilds. Her white clothing stood out, but there was little she could do. To change would have invited suspicion.

  The tier also housed the less prosperous of the Merchants’ Guild. She marched through the crowded lanes and slipped into a modest storefront. Through the open back door, she spied the stacked dovecotes, the promenade beneath them peppered with droppings. The coos of two score doves sang through the shop.

  “I wish to send two messages.” She handed the two diminutive tubes to the elderly birdkeeper.

  “Where to, Doyen?”

  “Elan-Sia, please. To the palace. Private.”

  “And the other one?” the man asked.

  “The same.”

  “They’ll fly today.” The birdkeeper placed the tiny tubes on a shelf and opened his palm for payment.

  “Now, please.” Vianne extracted two silver coins from her pocket.

  The man’s white eyebrows soared like cottony clouds. “Then now it is.”

  Vianne tapped her foot while the man fiddled with the tubes and birds. The sixth bell rang when finally he set the creatures free.

  With no time to spare, she fled the seventh tier, riding the lift to the second and hurrying down the stair and ramp to the floating docks. Before her foot hit the planking, she saw Piergren strolling the weathered surface. She touched down and darted in the opposite direction.

  Summertide meant crowds: crofters and traders, rafters selling bottles of luminescence, servants on errands, thieves preying on everyone, and guards keeping the peace. Twitchers lounged on the piers, eager for a handout of godswell, and children ran without a care for the destruction they wreaked.

  She couldn’t amble along or mingle for a moment; she hadn’t the time. Instead, she rushed between them, jostling, ordering, and apologizing. She kept her eyes on the piers, searching for Qeyon’s woaded head and blue jacket. How hard could he possibly be to find?

  Her toes jammed into an uneven board, and she stumbled, the pain lifting tears to her eyes. She needed to find them, send them to Elan-Sia… anywhere. After witnessing Piergren’s delight in cornering her, she didn’t believe for a moment that Catling was safe. They would slay her if they caught her. Everything Vianne had planned, all the time she’d exhausted for the benefit of Ellegeance would vanish.

  She dashed along the dock’s edge on the cusp of a fall should the wind change. A stack of crates blocked her path, and rather than skirt around them, she climbed. The height expanded her view. She shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the docks. Not far from her, a handful of piers to the south, Qeyon sat cross-legged on the planking while Catling fished, legs draped over the edge and toes in the water. A group of tier guards stood casually near the pier’s start.

  Vianne hopped from the crates, lifted her chin, and sauntered toward the guards with her customary air of authority. Heart pounding, she pushed her influence through them. Though younger than she, the emotion peeled back her years. A young guard grinned at her while the others turned. She smiled, infusing them with warm pleasure and tides of adoration. She waltzed by them with a coy backward glance.

  “Qeyon, Catling,” she called lightly. Both of them scrambled to their feet, her disheveled elegance fooling neither. “They know about you and Kadan. They’re here, seeking you.” A surge of anger blistered her skin, and she wanted to slap the girl for the defiance in her eyes. “I ordered you—”

  “Vianne,” Qeyon interrupted her.

  Vianne pivoted toward him, tears welling in her eyes as she dug in her pocket for silver. “Protect her. Take her from Ava-Grea. I've sent a message to the heiress. Don’t return unless our guest arrives."

  “Vianne,” Qeyon whispered, looking over her shoulder.

  She froze and turned. Piergren stood with the guardsmen, the youngest of them smiling and gesturing her way. The swarthy influencer broke from the group and strode toward her. “Qeyon-Ava.” He bowed respectfully before facing Vianne. “I thought it wise to aid you in your search for Catling. It seems you found her without my assistance. Now we might learn the truth.”

  ***

  The seventh bell pealed. Vianne stood at the conference chamber’s window, feigning an expression of unruffled serenity, her anxiety edging for control. Tunvise napped where they’d left him earlier, and Piergren reclined in his seat, drinking cool lissom juice and ignoring her. She tapped a finger to her cheek, relaxed her shoulders, and sipped from her glass.

  The truth would finally breathe. Any attempt to conceal it would breed greater peril. Piergren wouldn’t waste a moment wringing answers from both Catling and Kadan, and he’d relish every moment of it. The man was becoming more of a problem than she could tolerate.

  They’d locked Catling away. She’d remain so until the council was satisfied with the facts and decided how to deal with her. Vianne longed to blame Kadan for the whole incident, though in her heart, she knew it would make no difference. His infraction would be insignificant compared to her own.

  The door parted and Dalcoran entered. He nodded at Piergren, an apparent indication that Kadan was in custody. Fury hardened the sharp features of his face, and yet, as his dark eyes swept over her, she glimpsed his deep disappointment. Though they were guarded friends, as doyen they’d been solid allies, a coalition forged by mutual respect. She’d betrayed him; she deserved his censure.

  His hand fell to Tunvise’s shoulder, stirring him to wakefulness. Tunvise blinked and yawned while Dalcoran paced. Vianne waited without a sound.

  “I hardly have words, Vianne,” Dalcoran said. “You ghosted an aberration into the very heart of our guild. Without our knowledge or permission. You deceived your peers, betrayed the tr
ust of the council of which you are a part.” The muscles in his jaw twitched as he turned on his heel. “I assume Qeyon is part of this?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “None others.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dalcoran raked a hand through his smooth hair, a gesture unlike him. “I’m inclined to recommend we slay the four of you and be done with this calamity before it spreads any farther.” His eyes darted across her face. “Convince me why I shouldn’t.”

  Vianne dismissed the threat. Not that she questioned his sincerity, but fear would undermine her poise. “Catling has the ability to sever influence. She can shield one person or many. It’s a skill we might find useful in the right hands.”

  The initial shock on her peers’ faces morphed into a shifting array of anger, suspicion, and horror.

  “You can’t be serious.” Piergren’s chin drew back. “How do you know? What does she do?”

  “I am quite serious,” Vianne replied. “Qeyon and I have tested her skills, honed them—”

  “Honed them?” Dalcoran challenged.

  “Yes.” Vianne faced him. “To test the limits of her capability. She visualizes influence as threads reaching from the influencer outward. Then she cuts them at the source or at the target. She can shield herself or others.”

  “How in Founders’ Hell is this useful?” Piergren barked.

  Vianne stiffened. “There may be instances where it serves the realm for certain parties to believe their influencers are effective when they are not. Algar is a perfect example. She’s a tool, a precise tool we can employ strategically when it suits our needs.”

  “A tool with flaws,” Piergren said. “She’s a weapon that can round on its wielder.”

  “Until this incident, she has obeyed me,” Vianne snapped. “Even when you’ve groped her for your pleasure.” She swiveled back to Dalcoran. “Nor would this have happened if you’d tightened your reins on Kadan right from the start.”

  “Kadan will learn,” Dalcoran said.

  “Do you plan to eliminate him?” Vianne stared at him, silently pleading for a reprieve. She would argue for mercy all around, or her own life might end in a noose.