Ashling

by Isobelle Carmody

  "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 to them before we leave."

  Kella's eyes widened, then she nodded soberly, remembering Maryon's deadline. Or Atthis'. 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 make up my mind if it would not 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, woebegone 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 they are applied close together and because she woke as I was setting it in place, 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.

  "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 out 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 Land-girl attacked Herder priests about their business."

  I felt sick. Not only had they connected the market incident to the one in Guanette, Dragon's description was now being bandied about. Thank heaven, we had thought to disguise her.

  "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 soldier-guards 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 farsent, 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 the empath. "So it was you in the market, Dragon. What a little beauty you are.... "

  "Bir-da," she said shyly, coming toward him as if beguiled.

  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 have 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 his 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'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, 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."

  "Who do you think took him?"

  A terrible weary despair dragged at Dragon's youthful features, making of them 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 overheard 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."

  This sot must be the drunkard Reuvan had spoken of when he burst in on us that night at the burned-out-way-house. The rebel's eyes had grown cold as sharpened icicles. "Idris volunteered to keep an eye on Salamander 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 wanted the slave trade destroyed with a passion far greater than mine ..."

&
nbsp; "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."

  "Then ... what?" I asked, when he fell silent.

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

  A heavy dread settled in my stomach, as it came to me 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 unsayable. "Brydda. Idris might... still... have been made to speak, before..."

  The rebel shook his head emphatically. "His body was unmarked and he would not have spoken unless they had forced it from him. 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.

  "If Idris was not questioned, why was he killed?" I asked. "Surely Salamander would have sold him as a slave?"

  "Idris followed the sot to a meeting with the slave supplier, who, in turn, must have been watched by Salamander," Brydda said, 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 tells me Idris was killed as thoughtlessly as if he were a fly or an ant in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "Why are you so certain it was Salamander that 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' 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, revolted 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 why 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.

  XX

  "Now?" I echoed, incredulously.

  Brydda inclined his head and rose slowly, as if his bones were stiff and pained him. Yet the emberglow 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' body about a meeting.... "

  "Surely, Salamander would have found any message when he searched the body. It must be some kind of trap.... "

  The rebel shook his head emphatically. "It was not a message to any eyes but mine. Idris and I have a special code in case..." The momentary eagerness in his face faded to a grim recollection of the boy's loss. "The message said that a Councilfarm overseer, called Evan Bollange, had approached the sot just before he left the inn, offering five able-bodied Councilfarm workers whose deaths had been staged. The poor wretches had been smuggled into the city, dragged and hidden under the boards of a manure cart. A time and place were named for a meeting between Bollange and the sot's master to discuss terms. The drunk claimed there was a high demand for slaves in the lands beyond the seas, and seemed to feel his masters might pay a higher price to ensure a steady supply of them."

  The Council had in the early days maintained the Land was all that remained unpoisoned of the world, while the Herders preached that it was all Lud had seen fit to spare of the corrupt Beforetime. Seafarers had long known this to be a lie, but they had a rigid code of silence imposed by the Council—even so, word had leaked out. The red-haired Druid armsman, Gilbert, had told me once that there were many places in the wide world other than the Land.

  Brydda went on, "I am certain the sot went out of the inn that night to let his master know of the meeting date with Bollange. He was a minion, chosen precisely because he would boast, for an organization that is too secret will have no clients."

  Brydda's eyes were hard and suddenly purposeful. "Like all such, he was disposable. He was found the day after Idris vanished with his throat cut—no doubt payment for his carelessness in letting himself be followed. Such culling is not uncommon among Salamander's people. There was now no trail to the slavemaster but, in his arrogance, he made a mistake. He let us find Idris' body, never knowing there was a message on it, telling the time and place of the rendezvous that had been set up between Bollange and the slaver supplier. That rendezvous is before dawn this day, in an inn on the other side of the city. If you will help me, we must leave at once."

  "Are you going to spy on the meeting ..."

  "I have no intention of spying," Brydda interrupted, his eyes aglitter. "I intend to intercept the Council worker before he arrives at his meeting with the slave supplier, and take his place."

  "You would pass yourself off as the overseer?"

  He shook his head. "There is every likelihood that the sot described Bollange to his master. Therefore, I will be his brother, Arkold Bollange."

  "You must be mad! The slave supplier will never believe such a far-fetched story!"

  "I do not expect him to," Brydda said calmly.

  "Then what is the point of it? If he does not believe you, he will tell you nothing about the slave trade or Salamander."

  "I doubt he would tell me anything if he did believe me. But fortunately it does not matter, because you will come with me as my assistant and read his mind. He must know enough about Salamander to reach him at need."

  I gaped at his audacity. "What if the slave supplier decides to just kill the overseer's unlikely brother and his gypsy assistant?"

  "That is a risk," Brydda agreed, sounding as if he were admitting that it might rain. "But I doubt he will do that, even if he is extremely suspicious, because Salamander will want the slaves." He stood up suddenly. "Will you help me?"

  I sighed, then stood too.

  "Rushton will be furious. He will like this no more than that I have decided to take your advice and meet with your rebel leaders."

  Brydda's eyes widened. "Good on both accounts! Opportunities must be seized upon when they arise. We need leaders, truly, but sometimes decisions need to be made on the battlefield in the heat of the moment by rankless fighters. Without those capable of making suc
h decisions, any force might founder. Rushton would appreciate the need and your ability to rise to it and make a decision without consultation."

  "I wonder," I murmured dryly, pulling on my boots.

  I went to my chamber, donned a hooded cloak and plaited my hair.

  When we came down into the wagon-repair shed, Gahltha stirred in the wagon harnessing and farsent a stem reminder of my promise not to go out without him.

  "He insists I ride him," I told Brydda, unbuckling the straps that bound the black horse to the wagon. "If there is trouble he is a savage fighter. Jaygar has been trained to fight as well and he offers to bear you too."

  Brydda shrugged. "I had thought to walk, but if we take the horses, we can get away fast if something goes awry." He signaled his thanks to Jaygar.

  I was silent, impressed that the rebel did not simply accept Jaygar's offer as his rightful due. He genuinely regarded the horses as equals. Though he rode Sallah often, and in fact had stolen her from a Herder cloister, he never took her for granted. Sometimes I was convinced he had accepted my Misfit powers solely because, through me, he had been able to devise a finger signal language that enabled him to communicate with horses. He had been delighted when the Beasting guildmaster, Alad, had asked to learn the language so it could be taught gradually to all at Obernewtyn who were not beastspeakers, and to the beasts themselves.

  As we rode out into the early morning, I wondered if Alad was right about Sallah being the lowland beast-leader and, if so, whether Brydda had any idea of it. It would not surprise me at all to find he had allied himself with the equines over his own kind.

  The streets were all but deserted at that hour, and we did not see any soldierguards, but nonetheless I was unable to rid myself of the feeling that we were being watched.

  Certainly we made a strange enough couple, a gypsy boy on a magnificent, if dirty, black stallion, and an enormous dark-haired man wrapped in his oil cloak and mounted on a stocky roan.

  "I scent no funaga," Gahltha assured me.

  I relaxed fractionally, reporting this to Brydda.

  "Nor should there be," he said quietly. "I am taking us through parts of the city that are virtually deserted except during trading hours."