I turn, rest my face along her shoulder.
I’ll cross that road when I come to it.
13
“Here, put these on.” Oranna bangs through the tavern’s rear door and shoves a blue and yellow pile of clothes against my chest. Then she sits beside Emeree, who kicks her legs against a squat crate, her inky armor clanking the wood.
I look around, bewildered. “Here?” The alley is deserted, save the three of us, and Oranna’s assured us that the resistance will keep it so.
“Absolutely,” Oranna says. I swallow. Emeree’s hand goes to her mouth, stifling a laugh.
“Uh, maybe I’ll just dart up to our room…”
“Bad idea,” Oranna grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Too risky, you might be seen.”
I look to Emeree for help, but she just shrugs, almost red with stifled mirth. Oranna stares at me frankly, not even turning away.
“Oh, get on with it, son. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Recently,” Emeree adds.
Fine. Screw it. If they want a show...I strip off my tunic, then my leathers, shivering in the morning chill. My smallclothes are not a barrier against the cold.
“You’ll have to change those, too,” she says, nodding at my homespuns. “Anyone catches a glimpse of those ratty things will know you’re not quality, lad.”
Perfect. I angle away and strip.
Oranna clicks. “Not a bad bit of meat,” she says, elbowing Emeree.
“I’m rather fond of it,” she winks.
“Oh, we know. The whole inn knows.”
Emeree has the grace to blush for once. So do I.
They laugh merrily while I fight into clothes belonging to a somewhat...thinner nobleman.
“Nonsense,” Oranna snaps at my grunting. “He was nearly as fit as you.”
She’s having me on. “Nearly? Where is he? I want to ask him how he keeps so lean.”
“Hounds and whores and a stony case of the male pox. And you can’t ask him about this. He switched horses at sunrise. Horses and trunks.”
“He might guess where it was stolen.”
Oranna reaches out and pats my cheek. “It’s worth it. Real change requires risk.”
“Hear hear!” Emeree adds.
She hops down from her crate, sidling up to me. She pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll be ready if you need me.”
“I know.” I fit my hand in hers.
She mists away into her blade. I sling the scabbard onto my back and put on the greatcoat Oranna’s pinched for me.
“Pella?” I ask.
Oranna nods, fiddling with her pipe. “Aye. She’s in the lower rooms. Cleaned up real pretty. And easier to size than your oaf body.”
“Flirting now that Emeree’s gone?”
Oranna chuckles around the pipe stem clenched in her teeth. “You wish.”
No mayor or portreeve would fool anyone without at least one guard. Mine lumbers into the dooryard. Another procurement from the resistance. My eyes widen and I take an involuntary step back when I realize that it’s one of Chomarr’s thugs that we beat down a few nights before.
He towers over me, a mountain of a man with short-cropped, black hair, a missing eye, and arms like tree trunks. An axe and spear jut from above his shoulders, and both are well worn but still dangerous. “Valk,” he says, extending a hand like a side of beef.
I can’t tell if his single word is an introduction, a swear, or a threat.
We shake.
“Thanks for the help,” I say, wincing at his grip, and the dark bruise blackening the side of his jaw. A gift from Emeree’s boot, if I recall correctly.
He notices me noticing, and thankfully stops crushing my hand. He rubs the bruise, nodding in approval. “Beauty mark.”
I laugh. “You could say that. No hard feelings?” I glance to Oranna, wondering why in the hell they’d trust him.
“No,” he grates. His voice sounds like he eats broken glass every day of his life. “My sister is one of the taken. If you can get her back, there could never be hard feelings between us.”
I clap his shoulder. It’s like smacking a boulder. “Let’s hope I do.”
“Now,” Oranna interjects, retaking control. “Your horses are on the bakers’ street. It’s only a few away from the gates, far enough away to not be suspicious, but you’ll have a bit of a run if you’re being chased. We have men and women on the rooftops that’ll make trouble for anyone on your tail, and groups in the square and nearby to help if you can get the girls out. We’ll split them as they leave, send them off with different groups to lie low.” She eyes Emeree’s hilt where it juts over my shoulder. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”
“I have no idea what we’ll find in there, but we’ll be careful.”
“Good. My people can’t stay in their positions long without the guard getting suspicious. If they start sniffing around, things could go bad, fast.”
“Got it. We’ll be careful and fast.”
She takes a step back, face grim. “Good luck. You have our prayers.”
I say one of my own, to Varin and Ora and Cailleach, and strap on a jeweled dagger, donated by a resistance member.
“Follow,” Valk rumbles, moving off without waiting for Pella to come out, or to see if I’ll follow. “We’ll take back ways until we get close to the central square.”
“Now or never,” I say to Oranna, heart in my throat.
I feel a single bright word from Emeree: Together.
***
We pass through alleys and side streets. When Pella starts to catch too many eyes in her sky-blue silk, we pass into a basement that travels under at least four buildings. Oranna was right, she does clean up. Her hair is dark chestnut and braided in a thick crown it makes a prettier frame than her hood. She has small, pert features, and every bit of her is lively inside and out.
Valk is a solid presence, and Pella’s idle whispered snark makes me laugh. Despite this my hands still shake.
The plan has so many ways it could go wrong, so many things we don’t know. I’ve never been much of an actor, and so much of this hinges on my performance. “Humble, polite, and well spoken,” Emeree had said.
“I don’t know any of those things you just said.”
She shrugged. “You’ll know what to do.”
Have I known what to do at any point since the slavers came? Thom knew what to do; be brave and do the best he could to send help.
Here; I have my answer: Don’t act. Don’t try to be some invention I can never believably sell.
Just be Thom.
Thom would walk into the lion’s den by choice, for his villagers.
Emeree, at my back, senses my fear. She’s soothing, and her unwavering confidence eases things, somewhat. I know she can transform in an instant, that we could probably battle our way out of the castle if we have to, but so much more is at stake now. Hearing the stories of families dying, living in poverty, their daughters or wives stolen in the night; this is about so much more than finding Siri.
At least I can defend myself, now. I may not be on Emeree’s level when it comes to swordplay, but with her power, that doesn’t matter. At least not in the short term. I exhale, caress the thread that connects us, take comfort from it. Emotion crackles m along it, like lightning on a dry day.
We can do this.
I feel Pella’s eyes on me. She’s been watching me while this plays out in my thoughts. She smiles at my smile and claps my back.
Valk’s hand goes up suddenly, interrupting our silent exchange. “Hold,” he says unnecessarily.
An old man, bent like a question mark, shambles up to us. “Got a pence, lad?” he begs, his voice thin as a reed. “Just a pence or two.”
Valk gestures to me.
“Did you tell him I have coin?” I mutter at Pella.
“I’d never!”
I drop a coin in the man’s chipped stoneware cup.
“Father bless you. He imparts his w
isdom on the generous.” The beggar sidles close. “Bored mercenaries roughing folks up on the north end. Stay clear. Otherwise it’s the usual; petitioners, guards, rich fuckers waitin’ to tongue the Duke’s asshole.”
“Good,” Valk rumbles. “That it, or you have some lice for me, too?”
“Sod yourself, Valk.” The man flips a vulgar gesture and shambles past.
He hesitates, then turns back when he reaches Pella. “There is something. Half hour or so an odd group came through the bailey gate. Black armor. Only four of ‘em with outriders, but they was let right in the gates.”
“And Marin climbed up my backside for saying there was wickedness in the castle.” Pella folds her arms.
More slavers. “Did you see anything else? A symbol on their armor?”
“Went past too quick. Horses was lean and long-legged.”
Distance mounts. I think I know whose. “Thanks.”
“Sorry you have to put up with Valk. Maybe one of them riders will shank him and spare you the misery.”
“Never again!” Valk bellows. “Next time you land pissed in a trough I’m letting you drown.”
“Mmhm. See you at the safe house.”
Pella gives me a look and we shake our heads.
“This ups things a bit,” I tell Valk. “Hopefully their business is done when we arrive.”
“There’ll never be a good time,” says Pella. “We’re already in the shite.”
I nod. “Let’s do it.”
Emeree approves, feels ready to leap off my back right now. I send calm along our bond, and then move out after Valk, trying to ignore the little voice telling me that this has already gone sideways.
14
“Petitioners, approach the gates one at a time. State your business and then move off! If His Grace desires more, you will be called. Do not approach more than once.”
Or else. This threat is unspoken but clear.
The herald’s voice rings out from beyond thick iron bars, the same where the scraps of missing bills are pasted. He stands on a round stone platform, his red and grey finery mostly obscured by a half-wall. The structure resembles a tower collapsed on the back side.
He speaks to us through a wide arched window in the tower’s face.
Allegedly, this makes him look very official and his perch, an extension of the fortress. But I can’t help notice his body is protected from the bits of offal and rotten fruit that cling to the turret’s base. His face is a few degrees too high for a blade or arrow. Not that he has much worry. He stands between six pairs of iron-clad hulks who stare out at the crowd through empty-eyed visors.
With Valk at our backs, Pella and I linger in a dense throng of commoners and nobles. There’s scant space between our bodies, but the sweat-damp, electric charge is so heavy there could be miles. The crowd shuffles like a horse at bridle, ready to charge. These people won’t be held off by the Duke’s arrogance forever. What will happen to them when they surge inside to discover a magus or two? What will happen to those girls?
At this thought, Emeree vibrates with anger and contempt. I want to express it, too, but the sense of being watched is palpable. Not by the herald, nor the guards. Some force beyond the walls has sorted up before our requests are even made. Which group are we in?
“Pella?”
“Aye, Ewan?” she mutters, smile over-bright.
“No matter what, look as happy as you’ve ever been.”
She hugs her rebec in its balding velvet case. “Having a merry-pin!”
“That’s believable; keep that up.”
“Oh, I’m not pulling your ear. This is the best. I’d rather stand here all day than weed the garden, wash vomit-soaked sheets from the hospital, and recite the hours.”
“Not a nun and your parents left you at a convent, of all places.”
She grins, eyes watching everything before us. “I’m never tired at bed. Most every night I lay up for a while and imagine my parents.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“That my ma was ill when they came to the church, and a week later she and my da were dead. I was an orphan from my first breath.” Pella says the last with a dramatic flair that comes from practice. “I like to imagine them as great adventurers. They caught some fever in the jungle lands. Or a warlock cursed them and they came to the church hoping to be healed. But however they died, I have so many imaginings about how they lived.”
“That’s really incredible.” I watch her eagerly watching the tense stalemate around us. “You should write it someday.”
She nods, smile blooming. “I think I will. When I’m old and settled, yeah? When my adventures are over. Not that I’ll have any with Mother lead-drawers and the Gloom Sisters.”
“Hah. You can’t be sure. I thought I’d spend my whole life in the High Wilds and never know anything more exciting than a near-bear mauling. Adventure found me.”
“Has it been amazing?” she breathes.
Emeree vibrates with mirth at the question.
“It’s been...enlightening.”
“Oh, I’m jealous. You should write your stories, too.”
“Like you, when I’m old. Something tells me I haven’t gathered them all yet.”
As if on cue, one particularly loud woman in a dress made of enough material to clothe my entire village lets out a keening wail. She stands at the gate and quivers.
I assume she’s been denied entry.
She marches back to her gilt-piped carriage, clutching a tiny dog. “How dare he! I am Lady Elayne Burrock.”
“Oh, of course!” whispers Pella.
“You know her?”
Pella grins. “No.”
Lady Burrock’s words are pitched more to the crowd than to the guards, and I get the impression she’s used to having an audience. “Perhaps I shall take my custom, and taxes, north to Landerry if…” Her words muffle as she stuffs herself into the cab.
Valk nudges me. “Now’s our chance.” I straighten, adopting a Thom posture, shoulders back, head up, all proud arrogance, and adjust the myriad weapons at my sides.
“Good luck.” A woman stares straight ahead, her face lined with old grief. I remember her from our first night, the mother with her sign held high.
“Where is your son, lady?”
“Burying my lord.” Her lips thin, sealing shut.
Does she know our purpose? Maybe she just hopes someone here today will change things.
I clutch her arm as we pass and Pella whispers something of the Church.
Our walk to the gate feels like a thousand miles. The guards watch us approach. The aura within the castle watches. The crowd watches.
I sweat beneath my wool greatcoat.
The herald doesn’t look up, shaving well-manicured nails with a silver knife. “You?” he drawls.
I swallow one last time, throat dry.
“I’m the portreeve of Braemar; we’re passing through on our journey home. My daughter would like to perform for His Grace.”
The herald yawns. “Precocious children with talents. Father help us.”
He still hasn’t raised his eyes.
“Trust me,” I say, “this is something truly spectacular.”
The herald opens his mouth to retort.
One of the guards nudges him.
“His Grace is not receiving.”
This gets him a pike butt to the flank.
“What the –”
Pella steps from behind me.
“Oh. Ohh.”
The herald straightens, eyes measuring, weighing. He examines Pella like a prize filly.
“Respectfully, ser portreeve, the Duke doesn’t admit visitors. Well, he may – that is, I’m certain he would love to hear your girl play...whatever that is. Perhaps you could rest the night and continue your journey in the morning.”
“Oh, my. Well,” I murmur, trying to sound overwhelmed by generosity.
Pella tucks her case under an arm and claps.
The herald prods his long brown mustache with the tip of his tongue, lean body twitching. “Unfortunately, His Grace has visitors at the moment.”
“It’s a pleasure to wait.”
He wavers. Pella may not be enough. Whatever Carven has done with the girls, maybe he’s too busy to do it now. Perhaps he’s finished with whatever it was. I need insurance.
“Maybe we could view his artifacts, while we wait?”
This brings the soldiers to attention, defensive stances all around.
“I’m something of a collector myself.”
I pull Emeree’s blade from my back and draw it half from its scabbard. “Ceremonial, of course. But the alloy? The detail? I wonder if His Grace would know the origins of such a weapon; no one yet has been able to identify it, even though it was found in the Tyral Gap.”
Guards murmur at my prize. The silver channel down her center glints in the morning light, making the sword hypnotic.
The herald stares. “Found by…?”
“My man here.” I gesture at Valk. “Supposedly it was an ancient witch cave but…” I laugh to say What a mad idea.
“A merchant in Cor Torvan thought it was magic, but I’ve tried everything; incantations, potions, rituals…” I slide the blade along one of the gate’s pitted bars and slice off a curl of iron. “In any matter, it’s remarkably strong.”
“So much of interest in one visit...” The herald drums his fingers atop his wooden lectern.
“You know, His Grace is so occupied. I’m sure he rarely has a moment to himself. We shouldn’t have imposed. Come, Pella. Valkar,” I sweep a hand toward the steps.
Three...Two...One…
“Portreeve!”
“Yes?” I say, turning slowly and not ascending just yet.
“I am confident the Duke will want to see you. Come into the hall and wait; someone will come for you the moment he’s free.”
“Oh.” I frown at Pella. “Are you sure? We don’t want to be a burden. You know...that’s gracious, but I think we’ll be on our –”
“I insist.” His last word hits like a whip.
Steel Sirens Page 17
