Rose can feel this, can feel my sudden hope, hope that I can still save Carmen, hope that impedes the magii pairing even more.
She lifts her stone knife. It hisses and crackles, hungry. It’s the knife that cuts the soul loose, as Cobalt says. The knife that turns shared magii flesh to stone and sky, Dreadlord and familiar.
Leave them to their petty wars and windy parapets, Red begs me. Leave them to their dark mansions and endless quests. You can’t save her. They’ll hunt the two of you to the ends of the earth.
“Teacup!” Lucinda screams, dashing up the risers to the kitchen. “You bastard.” There is panic in her voice, panic like I’ve never heard before, panic because she knows she’s too late. She’s drawing back to throw her sword, but Rose snaps a cage around us, bars of lighting to match our halo of shiny thorns. The lightning bars dance and bend, impossible to predict.
The Dreadlord moves to block Lucinda’s path, pale limbs blinking in the coruscating light of my former home, twin black swords rolling and spinning.
Lucinda is outmatched. Her forms are stiff and out of practice and he’s a Dreadlord, a man scarcely touched by time. He’s as fresh as a glacial stream, while she wears dark rings beneath her eyes and a gaunt look in her cheeks from little food and too much travel. Her sword flashes about like cloud thunder, but it is all she can do to back around the room, desperately avoiding corners and Red’s cage of lightning.
Power pools around Rose and me, reflecting our unity in power. In this moment I know that her stone knife will drink up my soul and bind it to her service. One soft cut and my body fades into wind and silence. One gentle line of blood and we cease to be magii.
She has me.
Rose looks at me one more time, pleading. She doesn’t speak out loud but I can hear her voice in my head, as clearly as a whisper between two sleepy lovers. Run with me, Mr. Steeps. No more Dreadlords. No more Paladins. Just us. Just magic.
I don’t speak to her in my head. It’s too intimate, too tempting. I can’t help laughing, though, babbling like the idiot-savant magii I’ve seen doing real magic. This power is thick and goes to my head quickly. I mumble poems from the crazy magii in the mountains and Rose joins me, the resonance of power flowing through us in giddy swirls.
“Lady Lucy combed her hair,” she says for me.
“Rode the bear to a Nightshade lair,” I echo back.
“Killed the snake with a crooked stake.”
“How many Nightshades will it take?”
“One.”
“Two . . .”
“Three . . . Four . . .” We count together. The numbers are endless.
This seems to bother the Dreadlord. Invisible hands reach through the caged lightning and grab my throat. “Kill him,” the snake whispers, “or I’ll do it for you.” He circles left, keeping the cage of lightning between himself and Lucinda.
I’m okay with that. It’s a better option than being chained to a Dreadlord for eternity. But I know he’s pressuring her, knowing she’ll break while he pretends to choke me.
She feels what I feel, feels his hands choking the life from me, choking off the power I’m feeding her. I have to do something before she breaks.
My arm is weak, but when my knife cuts into my thigh, Red and I both scream. The world explodes and we are thrown to opposite sides of the room. I can feel my pain draining into her, then snapping back as the connection between us crumbles. It echoes in my head, then hers, then mine again, sloshing between us like cream in a butter churn.
A bolt of lightning passes between us, clipping Lucinda on the arm and passing directly through Hawkwood’s chest. He staggers for a moment, then leaps forward to finish me off.
Lucinda is there, looming over me, the scar on her arm bathing the room in light so bright that it hurts to look at. Her blade sinks deep into the Dreadlord’s shoulder.
He takes the blade, twisting sideways to wrench it from her grasp.
A third bolt of lightning flashes between Red and me. It smashes every piece of ceramic in the room and throws Lucinda to the ground. Again Hawkwood takes it in the chest. He doesn’t fall, but he does drop both his swords. He shakes like a gale-blown willow tree and screams through clenched teeth.
In my own body there is pain and static, but there is also clarity. The blood coming from my thigh, and the associated pain, is all my own. I have control again.
I jerk my dagger free and reach forward, stabbing it through Hawkwood’s boot and into the floor beneath, just like my son Timmy did to Sanjuste, the last time a Nightshade tried to kill me in my own house. Only Timmy didn’t use a knife. All Timmy had was his leather awl.
That memory triggers another memory, one that has been sleeping at the edge of my consciousness. There’s something odd about the way my blade seems to drink in strength from the Dreadlord’s foot, pushing it up my arm through Tom’s ring and down my leg. Old words bounce around my head like dice on cobbles. Tom’s words. Words from a dream. “Did you at least stab, maim, blind, pickpocket, or otherwise exercise power over my ultimate person?”
My intelligent half tells me this isn’t the time for introspecting. Hawkwood’s white face glares down at me with hatred. He lifts his other heel to crush me, but across the room, Red whimpers, collapsing at the stairwell, obviously in bad shape, obviously trying to escape.
Hawkwood looks from me to her. “Take him again,” he urges Red.
“It hurts, Jimmy,” she gasps. “I can’t.”
Lucinda breaks the only remaining chair over Hawkwood’s back.
“Take him again,” the Dreadlord shouts, a roar of thunder. He ignores the wood and tears his foot free, leaving behind flesh and bone, stumbling, gesturing with his hands. Cold wind rips at Red, dragging her and her stone knife toward me.
Lucinda slams her Ralfian dagger into the Dreadlord’s back, and as he turns she mule-kicks him against the wall, driving it deeper.
He and Lucinda see the remaining weapons scattered across the floor and both know Lucinda will get them first.
“Do it,” he hisses again to Red.
I can feel her as she reaches for me, can feel her calling me for power from above and beneath, but now there is a resonance there, an echo of pain that weakens the seduction of it. It makes it easier to reject the call for magic.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“This is my house,” I gasp, quietly. “Nobody kills me in my house.”
Hawkwood turns abruptly and gathers Red under one arm as easily as Timmy gathers a boot. “You worthless bitch,” he growls at her as he leaps straight through the wall. Lathe and plaster shatter like hammer-struck clay tablets as they make their exit. I catch a glimpse of Red’s face as she falls away, a mask of utter loss.
Lucinda drops at my side the moment they are out of sight. “What’s wrong, Teacup? You’ve got to get up.”
I try to pinch the wound shut but cannot. It’s deep. The adrenaline of the fight and the rage of magic have drained away.
“I stabbed myself in the leg.”
The room goes shaky as wound-shock settles in.
Lucinda’s hands find the gouge. “Why in Pan’s name would you do that?”
“Nightshade Oaths and house magic,” I babble. “She’d protected herself from me, but she didn’t protect me from me, and the pain bleeds through!” I laugh. It comes out hoarse and hysterical. “That’ll teach her, the little . . .” It hurts too much to finish the sentence. The farther away Red gets, the weaker our link becomes, and the more pain I have to own.
“You’re not making any sense,” Lucinda says, kneeling to gather me up in her arms. “Stay with me, Teacup.”
Where would I go? I think. There are Nightshades everywhere, and now they know we’re here. They won’t let us leave this building. A few well-placed arrows . . .
I drift a bit until I realize she’s cutting away trouser fabric. I can feel where she’s wadded it, pulled it tight. I can feel the sawing motion. Smell her sweat.
“Hey,
my favorite pants.”
“It’s just a little cut.”
I can feel her hand on my wound. “Your hand is warm.”
“Shh,” she says gently. “Don’t get fresh with me.”
Her lips move as her hand presses into my thigh. I can’t see for a moment and then my leg doesn’t hurt so badly. She’s trying to heal me. I’ve seen Magnus do it, seen him take half a stomach wound from my daughter Valery.
“Your arms are warm, too,” I say.
“Shut up, Teacup.” She starts to lift me. “We can’t stay here.” She staggers as my wound takes her in the leg. We both collapse to the floor. I pass out from overload, to the tune of Lucinda praying, “Dammit, Pan. Don’t let them just find us here bleeding on the floor!”
ELEVEN
I wake up to the sound of boots on the risers. I watch them enter the room, dark cloaks rustling and bows drawn. They aren’t Nightshades. Their faces are familiar, but seem out of place in Ector.
Why?
Their hands are bandaged and they move like men stiff from a prior days' exertion. I hear a drum and fife in my head, the cadence of pull, pull, pull, beating with my heart. In my mind’s eye the boat lurches forward. I roll my head on the planking and look weakly at Lucinda. She’s managed to sit up. “How come when you pray,” I say, “the Tax Watch shows up?” I try to smile. “Not a very good prayer, if you ask me.”
Lucinda rolls her eyes. “Oh shut up, Teacup.”
One of the men snorts as he bends over to inspect the fragments of boot and bone still pinned to the floor next to me. His hair is tied up in a top-knot and he’s got a pair of swords strapped to his back and hip. One blade is thick, short, and squat, like a meat-cleaver stretched beyond recognition. The other is longer and thinner. His soot-streaked face is tired, and his leather armor has been cut through in several places.
“Dreadlord,” he says quietly, examining the boot and bone remnants, “but not a very smart one. Got his foot wrapped up in house magic.”
“Not jus’ house magic,” says another man, leaning close and snapping his yellow teeth. He’s dressed in the same skirmishing gear as Top-Knot and is just as dirty. Yellow-Teeth’s grim face also has an ironic smile. “See how the blade has spread an’ run? It’s half-fused into the wood grain. That’s magii work, or reboun’.” Yellow-Teeth looks at me suspiciously, judging the distance from the dagger buried in the kitchen floor to where I’m trying unsuccessfully to stand.
Lucinda’s not having any luck standing either, and appears to be dizzy. “Grimms,” she says to the man with yellow teeth, “why are you here?”
She collapses back to the floor, also unable to rise.
“Collectin’ taxes,” he says with a grin.
“Don’t fluff my skirts, Grimms,” she growls, taking deep breaths to deal with the pain. “This account’s already been paid.”
Grimms shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’ know. All I know is that the Captain called for a second review after visiting the prefecture again. Needs to speak with Mr. Steeps in person, an’ he figgered he could find the two of you here.”
My leg feels a lot better, but it still isn’t ready for pressure. “I’d rather not go into the tax office today,” I say. “It’s been a rough morning.”
Grimms glances at the shattered wall, the mess of plaster, blood, and bone on the floor, and at the two other men inspecting the scorch-marks across the ceiling. He straightens. “Well, can’t say as I blame you. Looks to me like you’re 'spectin’ some company.” He makes a show of looking around. “An’ this trash-heap needs cleaning. Better get to it.”
He turns convincingly back toward the door, spitting on the already messy floor. “I’ll jus’ tell the Cap you were dead when we got here. Be true enough in another ten minutes.” He clears his throat. “Let’s go, boys. Nothing here for us.”
As one body they leave off their examinations and roll back toward the door, strange weapons clanking, tattered armor creaking.
“Hold on,” I say. Grimms has a point. I’d rather not be here when the cleanup crew arrives, and the Dreadlord will send one, if he doesn’t just come back himself after locking up his pet magii. “My friends can just let themselves in,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll just wait patiently while I do my civic duty.”
Grimms grins as he scoops me up. “They don’ strike me as the patient type, but you might be right.” He snorts and spits a bloody clot between his teeth to the floor beneath. “An’ let’s do have another look at that tax record.”
This close, his breath stinks of onioned liver, and he reeks of sweat and other fluids. There are salt lines on his jacket, across his chest, and especially at his collar where his ragged hair meets it. I can smell urine, but I’ve never been so happy to be carried.
I know how this drill goes. They’ll grind me for a few more kings and say I missed this or that fee, but it means that Lucinda won’t die, and we’ll both live a few more hours.
Probably.
There are all kinds of stories about the Greys, fjording both rivers and angry mobs, burdened but not breaking under the weight of the King’s Due. In the countryside it’s live sheep, more often than not.
“Baa-a-a,” I say.
Grimms snickers. If the stories are true, getting Lucinda and me to safety shouldn’t be too difficult for these brawny men. Then again, if the stories are true they’ll just stuff us down a gopher hole when they’re done with us for not paying up faster.
I decide to assume the best and begin preparing my case. “Is this double-billing because of something I said, or is your boss just taking a shine to me?”
“Cap don’t play favorites,” Grimms chuckles, “but he’s as honest as they come. Don’t like his assets bleedin’ out when there’s work to be done.”
There’s a heavier clomping up the risers and another grizzled face appears. “Wut the ‘ell, Grimms? Two minutes, I says! You know ‘ow they work. We got to move.” He barks the last word.
“Easy, Dwighter. Cap picked me for a reason.” Grimms shifts his grip on me so he can carry me down the stairs. “This here’s delicate work.”
I wince as my leg throbs from the jostling, though it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. “Pan’s beard,” I swear, “Obviously you’re not talking about my leg.”
Grimms doesn’t apologize. He accelerates his pace. “Giddy-yap, Mr. Steeps.”
I don’t pester him with my dislike for horses or horse references. We’re halfway down the stairs before Top-Knot tries to pick Lucinda up. She gives him the “innards-clench-up” glare but doesn’t resist when he ducks under her arm anyways, taking most of the weight off her injured leg.
That’s not to say there isn’t some unladylike cursing.
The man chuckles. “Ah, Lucinda, you sure you don’t want to join the Greys?”
We’re all in the street, hobbling along, when a pillar of smoke begins to pile up over the river, near the nicer houses in Lower Ector. A second pillar of smoke joins it almost immediately.
“That’ll teach those bastards,” Dwighter snarls.
Grimms shifts his grip on me, making a contemptuous noise in his throat. The Greys’ faces are suddenly grim again.
“What’s going on, Rhetik?” Lucinda asks.
“Nothing special,” Top-Knot growls. “We denied an indefinite extension request this morning.”
“By burning a house? Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Lucinda asks.
Lucinda’s never owned property. She doesn’t know that there’s no such thing as an ‘indefinite extension.’
“Must have been one hell of an extension request,” I say quietly.
“It was. They poisoned Doburn’s squad last night when they went out for drinks.”
“Oh,” Lucinda says, finally understanding.
She at least knows what the Grey Mules do to tax dodgers. Eastmarchers get those stories in their mother’s milk. There are two things sure in Eastmarch: taxes, and retribution for not paying your taxes.
&n
bsp; “And the other houses?”
“Collateral damage,” he grunts. “There was a shaper-magii in Doburn’s squad. Cap’ wasn’t happy.”
Dwighter, the squad leader who told Grimms off earlier, gives him another look and Grimms shuts up.
We hobble on.
The streets are empty. Quiet. The whole of Lower Ector is waiting with baited breath. It has a nasty feel to it, the silence that exists before a riot. Angry faces peek from a few doors, but nothing else moves.
“Teacup, when has Lower Ector ever been this quiet?” Lucinda asks.
“Never. Even at night Markel and his pals kept things exciting.”
A scream breaks the silence, followed by the scrape of steel on steel. I turn my head, pull up so I can see over Grimm’s shoulder.
A skirmish boils out of a home. A man in all black and a shredded cloak slashes at no fewer than four Grey Mules, their red armbands the only insignia to give them away. The ‘Shade is bleeding in several places, with an arrow shaft sticking from his shoulder, but the arm-banded men swarming around him look exhausted. I give them even odds, at best.
“Keep going,” Dwighter commands as he peels off to help.
Grimm urges us forward.
In a few minutes there’s another house burning back over our shoulders. A disturbing thought crosses my mind. Are they really just bringing me in for taxation purposes? Or do they know what I am? A Nightshade. A magii. A lodestone for trouble.
It isn’t the most logical thought I’ve had in the last few hours, but with the city starting to burn, and a riot brewing, there’s more than enough hysteria for this sort of thinking. I have to be sure. Finding Carmen will be hard enough in this mess, without adding torture and interrogation to my schedule.
“Where are we going, Grimms?” I ask. “What’s really going on? You know I paid my taxes. That’s why Santé let us on the boat in the first place.”
Grimms grunts. “That ain’ the only reason Santé let you on the boat.”
Grimm won’t tell me anything else until I start struggling, get my knife to his neck. “Why’d he let me on the boat? Where are we going?”
Shadowcloaks Page 12
