“How far up have you been?” Talbun asked.
“Here.”
“Here?” Brasley said incredulously. “This spot?”
“No, milord, sorry,” Olgen said. “I wasn’t trying to be that specific. I meant here in the buffer zone. I bring in first-year engineering students to look at the walkway and the other architecture.”
“Why?”
Olgen gestured at the walkway beneath his feet. “Look how smooth. All the roadways, most of the architectural features, all superior to what builders can do now. The first-year students come to have a look for themselves. I show them around.”
“You’re not worried about it?” Brasley asked. “Going up to the dangerous levels?”
Olgen’s grin wilted. “Should I be?”
For the love of Dumo, we’re all dead.
“Never mind,” Brasley said. “Just take us up.”
They trudged in relative silence for an hour, Olgen pausing just once to mark the fact they were now leaving the buffer zone. It didn’t mean much. Most of the expeditions had come this way. They passed the sixth, seventh, and eighth levels, doorways at every landing that led a different direction into the inner reaches of the Great Library. At each landing, Brasley glanced at Talbun, and the wizard shook her head. At the ninth landing, she nodded.
“Here.” Brasley gestured at a doorway no bigger or any more interesting than any normal doorway found in a hundred other castles.
Olgen frowned. “Are you sure, milord? It’s my understanding most of the expeditions go to the top of this tower and then proceed from there.”
“Right here,” Brasley said. “Let’s explore.”
They moved through the doorway into a narrow hall. The goat cart cleared with six inches on each side. On the broad walkway as they’d spiraled upward, it was as if they’d been in a large indoor city. Now in the close quarters of the hallway, they might as well have been in Castle Klaar or the manor house of some nobleman.
Olgen led the way, although he’d clearly never been here before. He seemed not to know the difference. He was the guide, so he went first.
“I’m supposed to turn back once we hit unexplored territory,” Olgen said. “But I can’t resist going a little farther. I just want to find a good place for a map reference.”
Brasley let him edge ahead, hung back until he was walking shoulder to shoulder with Talbun.
“This the way you came before?”
“Yes,” she said.
“On the way in, or on the way out?”
“Out.”
Olgen rounded a corner and screamed.
Brasley and Talbun left the goat cart and sprinted after the guide.
They rounded the corner and found Olgen backed up against the wall, holding his chest, panting and bug eyed. He pointed at something across from him. “H-he surprised me.”
Brasley’s eyes fell on the corpse across from Olgen. It had been there a while. Skin gray and shriveled, almost a skeleton. A crossbow bolt stuck out through rusty chain mail just over the heart. A notched sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
“He startled me,” Olgen said.
“He can’t hurt you,” Brasley said. “A member of some long-forgotten expedition who didn’t make it. That’s my guess. Name lost to memory, I expect.”
“Edgar,” Talbun said. “His name was Edgar.”
CHAPTER TWO
Fregga stood on the porch of the Hammish hunting lodge and watched the riders come. Three of them galloping toward, the late-afternoon sun glinting off armor and weapons.
She cradled a cup of hot tea, tried not to feel nervous but failed. Who would they send if something happened to Brasley, she wondered. Or her father. Or both. Something could have happened to them on the road. These were dangerous, upsetting times.
Furthermore, she didn’t really trust Brasley too long on his own. She’d barely begun the process of wrapping him around her finger. Brasley was the sort of man that was a long-term project. Such a handsome rogue, but he knew it was the problem. Yes, she had her work cut out for her, but she’d whip him into shape.
Of course he’d actually have to be around and not off getting killed with Duchess Veraiin for her to be able to do that. Oh, please don’t be off getting yourself killed, you ridiculous man.
She sipped tea.
The riders were close enough now that Fregga could see they were women. A trio of—what were people calling them now? Oh, yes. The Birds of Prey. The all-female guard unit that protected the duchess and Castle Klaar.
Not that Rina Veraiin needed protecting.
The riders reined in their horses ten feet from the porch, and the one in the middle offered a curt nod, which Fregga had come to understand as a legitimate gesture of respect here in the northern wilderness. In Merridan, a messenger would be expected to dismount and offer a proper bow. Fregga was getting used to the informal, rustic atmosphere of Klaar.
“Hello, Baroness Hammish. I’m Darshia.” A tall redhead with broad shoulders. She seemed a little too pretty to don armor and swing a sword, but she certainly wasn’t small. “I’ve been sent by her ladyship Stasha Benadicta, steward of Klaar.”
Oh, Dumo help me. Brasley’s dead. He’s dead and they’ve come to tell me. A hand went reflexively to her round belly. She was beginning to show just a little more. The baby would be all she’d have left of Brasley.
“Lady Benadicta knows that the baron is away on business with Duchess Veraiin,” Darshia said. “She asked me to say that if you’re enjoying your peaceful solitude here at the lodge, then please just consider this a courtesy call. On the other hand, if you feel you would enjoy some company, she invites you to be her guest at Castle Klaar.”
Fregga stared at the redhead for a long moment. “What?”
“You’re invited to Castle Klaar,” Darshia repeated. “If you’ve a mind, milady.”
They hadn’t come to tell her about Brasley. A gesture of courtesy from Klaar’s steward. That was all. She wasn’t a widow. Not yet.
She blew out a ragged breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and started to laugh.
The Birds of Prey exchanged curious glances.
“Forgive me, ladies,” Fregga said. “It’s just that it’s such a delightful invitation and unexpected. I accept, of course.”
“If we leave now, we can make it by dinner,” Darshia said. “Although if you’d prefer a fresh start in the morning and time to pack . . .”
“No,” Fregga said. “I can pack quickly. It will be pleasant to dine in the castle this evening.”
“Forgive me, Baroness,” Darshia said. “But can you ride? I mean . . . uh . . . in your condition.”
“I’m not so far along quite yet,” Fregga told them. “If I could trouble one of you to saddle the brown mare in the stable, I’ll just duck back inside and pack a few things.”
“Of course.” Darshia gestured to one of the other women, who dismounted and jogged toward the stable.
“Uh, Darshia, is it?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Darshia, have you by any chance heard anything of my husband, Brasley?”
Darshia smiled. “If you mean recent news, I’m sorry, no, milady. However, I have heard a thing or two about him.”
“Oh?”
“He is extremely fond of his own hide,” Darshia said. “And in all of Helva there is no one more adept at preserving it.”
A moment of hesitation and then Fregga smiled deeply. It was just what she’d wanted to hear.
“The trip down to Lake Hammish and back was good?” Stasha Benadicta asked.
“If you mean uneventful, Lady Steward,” Darshia said. “Then yes. I think Baroness Hammish is relieved to be here. I think she’s looking forward to dinner and some company. It was good of you to invite her.”
“I should have before this,” Stasha said. “A pregnant woman alone. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I would have.”
“She’s worried about her husband.”
“As are
a great many women these days,” the steward said. “How goes recruiting at the Wounded Bird?”
The castle guard—the so-called Birds of Prey—had all once been prostitutes at a brothel called the Wounded Bird. Circumstances were such that many of them learned the sword and gave up life on their backs. Stasha Benadicta had once been madam of that brothel.
“Two last week,” Darshia said. “None this week.”
Stasha raised an eyebrow. “So few? I’d predicted more would seek an alternative to letting sweaty men ride them every night for coppers.”
“There were more,” Darshia said. “I refused them.”
“Oh?”
“They were whores.”
Stasha Benadicta narrowed her eyes. “You were a whore.”
“Yes,” Darshia said. “I’ve been there. I’ve lived among them, been one of them. There were some I’d call ‘sister’ all the way to my grave. There are others who’d call me sister, and then steal my last copper when my back was turned. I won’t stand shoulder to shoulder with any woman I don’t trust.”
“Two last week and none this week,” Stasha said.
“That’s right.”
“What does that bring us up to?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Not much of an army, is it?” Stasha said.
“The Birds of Prey are the castle guard,” Darshia said. “Klaar has an army.”
“Klaar does,” Stasha said. “I don’t.”
Darshia let that comment settle a moment. “The new general?”
“My previous credentials running a brothel are not enough to inspire confidence in him, it seems,” Stasha said. “For the time being, I’m not forcing the issue.”
“I see,” Darshia said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Stasha said. “If I can’t accomplish what needs to be done with fifty-eight, then it wasn’t meant to be.”
Darshia hesitated, not wanting to ask. She couldn’t help it. “Accomplish what, Lady Steward?”
Stasha opened a desk drawer, pulled out a folded piece of parchment and placed it on the desk between her and Darshia. “You recognize this?”
“Yes.”
Darshia and the Birds of Prey had been tasked with rooting out all of the traitor Giffen’s minions left in Klaar. She’d chased them down alleys and into dank basements. When she’d cornered and killed the last one—a brute named Bolger—he’d been carrying that parchment. She’d brought it back to the steward, intentionally not reading it, hoping she wouldn’t be asked to. She didn’t want to know.
“You didn’t read it.” Not a question.
“Not my place.”
“Isn’t it?”
Darshia wasn’t sure what to say. “Milady?”
“What is your place exactly?” Stasha asked. “As you see it.”
“The Birds of Prey guard Castle Klaar. We guard the duchess,” Darshia said. “When she’s here.”
“And what’s guarding the castle been like?”
Darshia shifted her feet. She wasn’t sure where this was going. “Keep the wrong people from stumbling in.” She smiled weakly. “Keep drunk nobles from stumbling out.”
Stasha laughed softly. “Is that all, really? You’re a leader.”
Darshia shook her head. “A leader?”
“You’re captain of the Birds of Prey, no?”
“I’m no captain.”
“I realize the Birds have no formal command structure,” Stasha said. “There’s been no time to establish one. I guess everything has sort of evolved. But Tosh is gone and the girls look to you. You might not wear a badge of rank, but you’re their captain. And that’s how I think of you too.”
Darshia didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
“So you’re a leader, and you’re important,” Stasha said. “And I need you.”
“I’m no captain,” Darshia said again. “I’m just . . .”
“What? A whore? None of us are anything until we decide to be. A captain. A steward. We’re living in a dangerous and confusing time, but also a time that’s letting us step up and be exactly who we say we are. We just have to be brave enough to state it in a calm, clear voice, and damn anyone who says otherwise.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them.
“Tell me what you need,” Darshia said. “And I’ll do my best.”
Stasha pushed the folded parchment across her desk at Darshia. “Read it.”
Darshia plucked the parchment from the desk, saw that the wax seal had been broken. She unfolded it. A single page, but it felt like lead in her hands. She read:
I have the final component. I’ll be at the usual place on Dumo’s Day. If one of your people can’t make it then, I’ll show up at the same time the next three days in a row, but I can’t linger longer than that. Make sure your man knows the password and has my gold.
The note was unsigned.
“A mystery,” Darshia said. “And not a lot to go on. Dumo’s Day is next week.”
“Except we know who has the answers,” Stasha said. “I’m paying a visit to Giffen later. We’ll see how he’s enjoying his cell.”
“I suppose you have some dirty work for me,” Darshia said.
“Not so dirty as mine,” Stasha said. “Please find Lubin and Bune and ask them to join me in the dungeon. I have no intention of leaving Giffen’s cell without the information I want.”
Giffen heard the keys jingle and the footsteps. Torchlight growing gradually brighter as they approached his cell door.
What now? Giffen wondered. Can’t they leave me in peace?
He didn’t mean that. Day upon day in utter darkness. Even the most hostile visitor was a welcome change of pace. And each visit was an opportunity. Giffen gathered information. He was biding his time. Somehow he’d get free, and then he would make every man, woman, and child in Klaar pay for their abuse of him.
The lock rattled, and the cell door creaked open, sudden torchlight making him wince.
It was that whore peddler Benadicta again. Two enormous bruisers in tow. His bruises still ached from the pasting they’d given him. He’d see those oafs dead as well, although he’d likely have to hire a gang of ruffians to make it happen. Benadicta he’d gladly kill with his own hands.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“We caught your man Bolger,” Stasha said.
“Congratulations,” Giffen said dryly. “Am I meant to be impressed?”
“You’re meant to listen,” Stasha said. “Because this involves you.”
“Please do go on,” Giffen said. “I’m aquiver with anticipation.”
“Bolger had a note on him when he was taken. Sealed. He was delivering it to you.”
Stasha took out the note and read it to Giffen.
As he listened, he kept his face carefully blank, not wanting to react. He immediately realized his mistake. She was used to seeing him sneer. A blank expression was a dead giveaway. Giffen rolled his eyes as if he were bored, but it was too late. A hint of a smile at the edges of Stasha’s mouth. She knew. Giffen had the answers she wanted, and she knew it.
“We already know how this goes,” she said. “You can tell us or be beaten and then tell us anyway.”
“A beating. You’ve done that already,” Giffen said. “What of it?”
“It can always get worse,” Stasha Benadicta said coldly. “We can take your thumbs. We can leave here with arms and legs. We can make you go away a little piece at a time. It might take all year.”
Giffen tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry.
CHAPTER THREE
Hot and steamy and uncomfortable.
That’s how Alem felt lying facedown on the mossy rock, his clothes clinging wet and heavy, the morning sun already baking the world. He’d been told this was still a mild part of the year in the tropics, the real heat coming deeper into the summer. But these were minor concerns.
Alem was alive.
Maurizan had fallen overboard the previous night when Miko’s scow had been caught in the grip of a tremendous storm. He’d seen her topple over the gunwale and then dove in after her without thinking.
Because you’re a stupid thick idiot thicko, he thought.
He’d lost track of her, bobbing in the water, waves crashing down on him. He’d lost track of the boat too. Lost track of the land. The currents took him at their whim. He’d finally bumped up against something that nobody would call a proper island, just a stretch of rock humped up out of the sea with moss and lichen growing over it. He’d sprawled there, rain lashing him, until he’d finally fallen asleep.
He sat up now, limbs aching, and shaded his eyes against the rising sun. Alem stood, turned a slow circle. Open, empty sea stretched in almost every direction, but there was a small island east only a couple hundred yards away. He could probably swim it but would have preferred not to. And who knew what sort of creatures lurked the depths? Sharks were a common enough terror, but he’d heard of a lot worse. Things with tentacles that wrapped around a man and dragged him to the bottom, for example.
And there could be strong currents. He might try swimming straight for the island only to find he was being carried sideways out to sea. His boots were soft leather. He could take them off and tuck them into his belt. They’d hamper his swimming, but he’d need them again when he made land. Yeah, it was doable.
Still, he wasn’t up for it.
On the other hand, Alem couldn’t live on thirty square feet of rock in the middle of the ocean for the rest of his life either. He’d need water eventually. Food.
And if Maurizan washed up on some island, maybe that was the one. He had to find out.
So. Boots tucked into belt. He eased back into the water.
At least it was cooler. He swam toward the island, forcing himself to go slowly. Getting a cramp or tiring out halfway there wouldn’t help him.
Arms stroked. Legs kicked. Head above the water for a gulp of air. He fell into a rhythm. After a while he paused to get his bearings. The island didn’t look one inch closer.
Damn it.
Tosh knelt at the prow of the scow-schooner, eyes peeled for any foreign objects floating in the water. Kalli scanned the ocean to port, and Lureen and Viriam were doing the same thing starboard and aft. Miko manned the tiller, uncharacteristically quiet and somber.
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