The Rebellion

by Isobelle Carmody

  “It did not—until Salamander came on the scene. Once, it was only the odd ship that stole people from the Land and sold them to lands over the seas, which were supposed not to exist. Then a ship with a flag showing a flaming salamander began to attack and sink any vessel known to trade in slaves. Invariably, one crewmember would be kept alive, tortured, then cast ashore to tell the story of a ship with Beforetime weapons that spat fire. In no time, the trade virtually ceased, for no one wanted to make themselves a target for such a nemesis. It had seemed for a while that someone wanted to end the practice completely, but instead he was only ensuring he would have no competition.”

  I had a sudden vision of the hatred that had flared so unexpectedly in Idris’s mild eyes when Reuvan had said Salamander was in Sutrium.

  “Idris’s family was taken by slavers, weren’t they?”

  “His father and his sisters,” Kella said. Her shoulders were hunched forward, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. Whenever she looked at her bondmate, there was pain in her eyes.

  Domick was oblivious. “If Idris has been taken by the slavers, he will be tortured for information that could be used, before he is sold. Blackmail is another of Salamander’s specialties, and you can be sure he knows the value of a seditioner with inside knowledge of the rebel organization. He would sell it dearly to the Council. Perhaps he would even sell Idris himself. So we are back where we started.”

  It was a grim prospect, for Idris and for Obernewtyn, and we fell into a weary, staring sort of silence contemplating it. This was broken when Domick slammed a hand on the arm of his chair.

  “Look at us sitting here and yawping into the fire like a herd of defectives! Don’t you see that it doesn’t matter who has Idris? If I am right, someone may be on their way here now! How will we escape with Dragon, and the gypsy unable to walk?”

  He was right. I stood up and flung the dregs of the fement onto the fire. It gave a vicious hiss and belched a sullen cloud of smoke.

  “All right,” I said shortly. “Let’s get everything down to the wagon.”

  Kella continued the last bit of packing while Domick and I transferred the boxes downstairs. Matthew took them from us and packed them into the cramped interior of the gypsy rig, sweating freely in spite of the chill air.

  “If Idris is made to talk, won’t he mention this room you keep?” I asked.

  Domick shook his head and motioned for Matthew to take the other end of the box he carried. “He knows nothing about it.”

  “But he knows about you.”

  “He knows about Domick,” the coercer corrected. “Not about the Council worker Mika. Even a physical description of me will fit a number of others. And if he does tell them of a spy in the Councilcourt, I will know they are seeking me long before they realize which one I am and will vanish.”

  He had it all worked out, and no doubt he was correct, but part of me wondered if this new Domick was not pleased for an excuse to hurry us all out of Sutrium.

  “But why risk it at all?” Matthew demanded, shoving a box in place against the others.

  The coercer’s voice was curt with dismissal. “Because my position is too valuable to abandon lightly. Apart from that, if Idris is brought to the Councilcourt, I might be able to wipe his mind so he would be unable to speak of the rebels or of us.”

  The ease with which he proposed to erase the boy’s mind shocked me. I stared at him for a moment, half tempted to loose a farseeking probe in case any surface thoughts drifted free of the coercer’s mindshield. It would not be ethical to probe him, but if he was careless, I might learn what had so altered him. What stopped me asking him outright was the fear that whatever was wrong arose from his relationship with Kella. And no matter how it hurt her and chilled me to see him this way, the changes did not seem to be affecting his work for Obernewtyn and therefore were none of my business.

  The sleepless night and the long day that had preceded it were taking their toll, and I thought longingly of my bed upstairs. It was hard and lumpy, and bits of straw poked into me in the night, but I could think of nothing more wonderful at that moment than to sink into it and pull the covers over my head while there were still a few hours of night left. Sometimes I longed fiercely to have only myself to worry about. “After what happened with Dragon yesterday, all the gypsy greens will be under observation. It would be safer for you to go straight back to Obernewtyn,” Domick went on relentlessly as we made our way back up to the kitchen.

  I lost my temper. “Do you suggest we take the gypsy back with us to Obernewtyn? And if the greens are watched, then the gates will be watched, too, which means the risk of being identified as we leave will be doubled.”

  “Returning her to her people is surely less important than keeping Obernewtyn safe,” Domick persisted. “As for the gates, you can coerce yourself past them, because you know who to coerce. In the city, you will have no idea who watches with hostile eyes, and if you are recognized, you will still have to pass the gates to escape.”

  I shook my head in exasperation and brushed past him to enter the kitchen again. Domick went on and on like water dripping on stone. Everything he said made sense—if Idris had been taken by someone who would ask about us.

  “The gypsy cannot be taken on the trip back to the mountains just yet,” Kella said, having heard my words. “After a couple days of rest and quiet—”

  “I am sure she would prefer a little discomfort to being captured along with us and burned at the stake!” Domick interrupted coldly. He looked around the bare kitchen. “Surely everything must now be packed, Kella, or must you also bring such necessities as the bathing barrels?”

  The healer’s shoulders slumped as Domick turned on his heel and stalked out, and I wondered how long her love for the coercer could survive his insensitivity.

  “He is rough in saying it but right,” I said gently to her after a moment. “It will do the gypsy no good to be healthy if the soldierguards get hold of her. There are times when we must endure what comes and take our luck. Go and prepare her to be carried down to the wagon.”

  “A trip into the mountains might kill her.”

  “We are not taking her back to Obernewtyn. I will return her to her people. She must be back with them before we leave.”

  Kella’s eyes widened; then she nodded soberly, remembering Maryon’s deadline. Or Atthis’s. It was possible I had already done enough to save myself and Obernewtyn in finding the gypsy’s people and learning that Swallow was a person, but there was no way of telling.

  Therefore, the gypsy must be taken to Maire. The trouble was that Kella and Matthew would have to come as well.

  I was still trying to decide if it would be best to have them wait somewhere for me when Domick departed, saying he was expected at the Councilcourt.

  Dragon trailed into the kitchen. In spite of the muddy dyes Kella had used to disguise her hair and skin, and a wan, woeful expression, she was lovelier than ever. She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed at it fretfully.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She blinked at me, her blue eyes pink-rimmed. “Head hurts.”

  Small wonder after the ruthless jolt I had given her, I thought ruefully, drawing her to warm herself by the fire. It was not much of a reward for her courage in defending the woman and her children, yet what else could I have done?

  Kella entered, frowning. “The sleepseal on the gypsy will hold only a little while longer. Seals are progressively less effective when applied in succession, and her mind is fighting it. It will hold for a few hours. No more.”

  “It will do. I’ll get Matthew to help me bring her down in a minute.” I nodded at Dragon. “Is she all right? She says her head hurts.”

  Kella examined the girl, looking intently into her eyes and touching her temple lightly. Rummaging in a basket, she made a soothing herbal mixture, and we both watched as Dragon drank it.

  “She’ll be fine once the herbs begin to work,” the healer said softly. She
glanced around the kitchen at the bare walls and sighed. “I suppose we might just as well go at once. I have sometimes longed for something that would send me back to Obernewtyn, yet now I am sad. I cannot imagine this place without me.”

  “Nor can I,” said a gruff, familiar voice.

  We both whirled to see Brydda Llewellyn standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Brydda!” Kella cried gladly, and flung herself into the rebel chief’s arms. The big man hugged her, then gently put her away from him. His voice was grave.

  “The soldierguards are searching the city for a gypsy girl and boy who freed a woman from a burning in Guanette. They are picking gypsies up all over the city and questioning them. The descriptions they are giving fit you and Matthew too well to be anyone else. They also tally with reports dozens of people gave after an incident in a city market where two gypsies and a red-haired Landgirl attacked Herder priests about their business.”

  I felt sick. Not only had they connected the market incident to the one in Guanette, but also Dragon’s description was now being bandied about.

  “Brydda—” I began, but he cut me off as if he had not heard me.

  “I thought it must be you, so I came to … to warn you.” There was an odd twitchiness in his manner.

  “Has Idris come back yet?” I asked with sudden foreboding.

  He shook his head.

  “Then we must leave here at once in case the soldierguards come,” I said firmly, and tried to propel him back toward the stairs. It was like trying to push a mountain sideways.

  “The soldierguards won’t be coming,” he said.

  Matthew came into the hallway behind us, but his welcoming smile faltered as he took in the strangeness of the older man.

  “Something is wrong, but let him tell it how he will,” I sent, forestalling his questions.

  Dragon was staring up at the giant rebel in wonderment. Clearly, Kella’s medicine had done its job. He stirred under her gaze and frowned down at her. “So it was you in the market, Dragon. What a little beauty you are.…”

  “Bir-da,” she said shyly.

  The rebel’s eyes lost their feverish look as he dropped to one knee to make himself her height, but she would not be coaxed nearer.

  “Brydda, if the Council has Idris, they will force him to tell them about this place.…” I spoke more in an attempt to draw the rebel back to normality than in expectation of an answer.

  “Idris will not talk,” Brydda interrupted.

  I bit my lip. After Domick’s chilling assertion that a skilled torturer could make anyone talk, I did not understand Brydda’s conviction that Idris would not be made to speak. Especially since a friend had once before been tortured to betray him.

  Unless his suppressed Talent had told him something.

  I was trying to decide how best to frame a query when the big rebel rose with catlike grace and moved past us to the dying fire. Kella and Matthew exchanged worried glances as he lowered himself onto a chair.

  Dragon sidled gradually nearer until she came to lean against his knees and stare into his face. He did not appear to be aware of her at all.

  “I am so tired …,” he said, rubbing his fingers in his eyes.

  “Brydda, how can you know the soldierguards won’t come here?” I asked, coming to stand by the fire, too.

  The rebel did not answer, but, fascinatingly, Dragon’s face twisted with the emotions she was receiving from the big man. Her ability to receive emotions had been slower to develop than her power to transmit them, but physical contact enhanced all Talent. Brydda had no idea of what was happening, because the empath-coercer’s face was turned slightly away from him. It was disturbing and oddly grotesque to read the movement of a grown man’s thought in Dragon’s mobile young face.

  First there was grief and guilt, then anger and frustration, and at last a sort of wretched despair.

  “It does not matter how I know, only that I do,” he answered at last, his face impassive.

  “Do you know who has Idris?” I asked, keeping one eye on Dragon.

  Her face again mirrored the rebel’s inner turmoil, and I felt a deepening disquiet. Who could have taken Idris for Brydda to react so strongly?

  The big man was staring into the red embers of the half-extinguished fire, still redolent with fement. “Idris was investigating something for me when he disappeared,” he murmured at last. “He asked me to use him. But I should never have done it.”

  A terrible weary despair dragged at Dragon’s youthful features forming a grotesque mask.

  “You have heard of the disappearances in Sutrium?” Brydda asked.

  “Yes. Do you think that is what happened to him, then?”

  He gave a croaking laugh. “My curiosity is what happened to Idris. My infernal hunger for knowledge. I found the man Reuvan had told us about—a sot at an inn, boasting about knowing Salamander. I bought the fellow a drink, and it took me no longer than that to know he had lied. The slavemaster would never trust his face to such a ninnyhammer. I needled him a bit just for the sake of it, and he wound up telling me that his master knew Salamander. I had a feeling there was some truth in this, so I decided to have him watched. He shut up after a bit, as if he realized he had said too much. I did not want to frighten him off, so I played the gull for him. I got roaring drunk and let him rob me before I was thrown outside.”

  The rebel’s eyes had grown as cold as sharpened icicles. “Idris volunteered to keep an eye on him while I organized a roster of watchers. The sot was lodging at the inn, and Idris had only to watch him and note the name of anyone who spoke with him while I was gone. I did not expect anything significant to happen.”

  He gave me a bitter look. “ ‘Stay put and watch,’ I said. But the sot went out about an hour after we left, and Idris followed. I was so busy gloating over having finally caught hold of Salamander’s elusive tail that I took no account of the fact that Idris’s passion to have the slave trade destroyed was far greater than mine.…”

  “Do you think this man realized Idris was following and took him prisoner?”

  “He was a drunk, and for all his smallness, Idris was strong and tough.”

  He fell silent.

  “Then … what?” I asked.

  Brydda did not answer. His face was as still as a carved image. Kella pinched me and pointed to Dragon. The flame-haired girl was staring out blindly, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  A heavy dread settled in my stomach as I realized that Brydda had been speaking of Idris in the past tense.

  Kella had reached the same awful conclusion. “Idris is dead, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  The big rebel jerked convulsively at her words. “Dead? Yes,” he said flatly.

  Dragon’s face twisted, revealing the emotions the big man would not express, and she began to tremble. I signaled Kella to get her away from him.

  “Are you sure?” I whispered.

  The rebel turned dry eyes, hectic with self-hate and grief, on me. “I am sure. His body was found this morning washed up on the banks of the Suggredoon.”

  Dragon let out an anguished howl, voicing the jagged spike of Kella’s shock.

  “We’ll find whoever did it,” Matthew vowed through gritted teeth.

  I gave him a pointed look. The last thing we needed was high drama at such a moment. He rose and went out, muttering that he had to unpack the wagon. Kella went, too, taking Dragon out of the range of Brydda’s searing anguish.

  “Salamander killed him,” he said when we were alone. “I have sworn I will crush the man and his foul trade once and for all, in the boy’s name.”

  I bit my lip, but I knew I must say the unspeakable. “Brydda. Idris might … still … have been made to speak, before …”

  The rebel shook his head emphatically. “His body did not show signs of torture. And he would never … never betray me willingly or easily.” The last words were voiced in a savage rasp, and I blinked my own sudden tears away.

  Brydda w
ent on after he had regained control of himself. “No doubt the slavemaster killed Idris because the boy saw his face; killed him as a routine precaution, thinking him no more than a curious lad who had seen more than was good for him. If he had suspected Idris was a spy, Salamander would have had him tortured. That he didn’t tells me Idris was killed as thoughtlessly as if he were a fly or an ant in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “How can you be so certain it was Salamander who did it?”

  Brydda’s face was grim with certainty. “A tiny lizard shape was carved into his forehead—Salamander’s murderous trademark.”

  I felt a sick wave of horror. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, knowing there was no way to console the rebel for the loss of a boy he had loved like a son.

  Brydda took a deep shuddering breath and seemed incredibly to compose himself to a bleak serenity. “I will not grieve while Idris’s killer breathes. Salamander will pay for the boy’s life with his own blood.”

  I shuddered inwardly at the mad, cold fire in his eyes, dismayed by the notion that one death could compensate for another. But I understood the guilt-driven anger that motivated him.

  The rebel chief turned burning eyes on me. “That is the other reason I came tonight. You can help me to trap him.”

  I blinked, startled. “Salamander?”

  He nodded grimly. “You can use your powers to lead me to him.”

  “When?” I asked warily.

  “Now,” the rebel said.

  19

  “NOW?” I ECHOED, incredulous.

  Brydda inclined his head and rose slowly, as if his bones were stiff and pained him. Yet the ember glow from the dying fire rendered him mysteriously younger. “Come, I will explain as we go.”

  “I won’t go without knowing what I’m getting myself into! You are my friend, but I have a responsibility to Obernewtyn.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then sat back down, grief and fury extinguished with visible effort. “Listen well, then, for there is not much time. There was information on Idris’s body about a meeting.…”

  “Surely, Salamander would have found any message Idris carried? It must be some kind of trap.”