She was seated on the edge of her desk and Neenahwi slumped unbidden into a chair before her.
“Good afternoon, Neenahwi,” said Chalice. “You seem to be a little damp.”
“Yes, I do. I should probably have just flown in through the window, but I thought you might prefer to talk to me clothed.”
“Thank you,” said Chalice, smiling. “That is appreciated. Now I don’t think you’ve come here to just say hello. What’s on your mind?”
“Mareth. The Lord Protector. Has he spoken with you recently?”
The leader of the Hollow Syndicate looked at her appraisingly, but did not speak.
“I suggested he talk with you before I had to leave on business. Did he?”
Chalice nodded. “He offered a contract. The girl behind the election, Alana, he sent her to go and treat with Ioth. Guards were sent of course. He also confided that your brother and his friends, including that rather fine specimen who bested Sir Frederick, would also be going.” Chalice actually licked her lips when she mentioned Florian, which sent a little shudder up Neenahwi’s spine. “But he wanted to include an insurance policy in the delegation.”
Neenahwi was glad that Mareth had been listening to her, at least until recently. “Good. Who did you send?”
“It was a new partner.” Reacting to Neenahwi’s raised eyebrows, Chalice hastened to explain, “Don’t worry, she is very good and knows Ioth. Reminds me a little of myself.”
“Are you sure she’s good? And trustworthy?”
It was Chalice’s turn to raise an eyebrow as she fixed her with a glare. “Do I ask you if you know what you are doing when it comes to magic? I know my partners; even the new ones.”
Neenahwi sighed and raised her hand in apology. “I’m just feeling a little on edge. Pyrfew is up to something more than usual the cat-and-mouse around Redpool, and I’m afraid it’s coming here. That it’s already here. I know you don’t owe me anything. By Crask, I probably owe you. But will you do me two favors?”
“It depends.” Chalice crossed her arms. “What might they be?”
“Depending on whether my suspicions are true, I might not be back in Kingshold for a while. So remember me. If I need to contact you, I’ll do so through magic but you’ll need to be open to seeing me.” She shook her head at the thought that she might need to flee. Just when she thought she was catching up to Llewdon’s schemes she was ambushed by other long laid plans. If ever she saw her father again, she was going to have to ask him what the fuck he was doing when he was supposed to be aware of what was going on.
“The second is just to keep an eye out for strange things that are happening. Take a second look at the contracts you are offered, especially if they come from the palace, and especially if you don’t see me or Motega around. Can you do that?” She knew she was being vague, and though she trusted Chalice, there was only so much she could trust anyone who sold their services for coin.
Chalice sighed. “I suppose this is all in the ‘best interests of Edland.’” Neenahwi nodded wearily. “Your father would play similar games sometimes, though I must admit that his were rather more transparent than yours. I am, unfortunately, still a patriot so you can count on me. But you will have to start paying back on some of these debts soon.”
Neenahwi agreed as she rose from her chair. Chalice slid down from her perch, and the two women had a slightly stiff farewell embrace, though Neenahwi was glad for the human contact. She had warmed up just enough that heading outside into the cold and the never-ending drizzle introduced a new level of misery, but she strode briskly toward home, her mind whirling with the many pieces.
Her thoughts occupied her all the way back to her tower. The fire was roaring and the bath full of clean water stood nearby, but she didn’t have time for a soak today. After talking with Chalice it was obvious that Mareth had taken her previous advice to heart; she wondered if he had also reached out to Sharavin, though she had no intention of traipsing through the sewers to check. But now he was being stand offish, not interested in further private counsel. She considered the fact she hadn’t been able to see his aura while in her astral form, and she worried what this could mean. Is it possible he could have been replaced somehow? Her mind wandered back to the attack on Uncle Uthridge and the shapeshifter that had assumed Chatterwick’s form… She obviously needed more information to be able to determine what was going on.
Neenahwi placed her bag on the bedside table, taking out the Librarian and balancing him on the surface. He wobbled slightly as she found the right part of his severed neck to rest him on. She would have to make a stand for him if she was going to keep him around. She sat on the edge of her bed as the head of the wight commenced complaining about his dark leather home for the much of the past week they had been traveling. Neenahwi ignored him.
Tuft jumped on to the bedside table to inspect the strange, wrinkled object that Neenahwi had brought home. He rubbed against the Librarian’s face purring and while Neenahwi laughed the wight cursed his new feline friend. Tuft took offense at the harsh tone of what he had mistaken for a paperweight, and made to bat it off the table. Neenahwi snatched up the cat with a delighted giggle.
“I’ve missed you,” she said rubbing behind his ear.
She knew what she had to do. It was going to have to be astral projection again, even though she preferred not to. That would be the best way for her to explore the palace undetected, and she should be safe in her own home.
“Tuft.” The cat looked up at her, tilting his head. “I need you to guard me. Make sure I’m alright. Can you do that?”
The cat slowly blinked at her. Meow.
“And leave the Librarian alone. He’s a guest.”
Meowww.
Throughout Kingshold, people were wending their way home in the dark from long days at work, the wintertime festivities behind them. Heading back to families and evening meals, or stopping at pie shops and taverns to get some sustenance. But the palace was a still hive of activity as Neenahwi floated unseen through the corridors. She started in Mareth’s apartments, gliding in through a window; everything was neat and orderly but he was not there. Passing through doors she slowly explored the upper floors, finding naught but servants or administrators going about their business. Neenahwi slipped down the stairway as if she traveled on foot. She could have slid through the floors but that was one aspect of astral projection that always freaked her out—stone was not something one wanted to see from the inside, and if you ever saw what actually lurked beneath the floorboards of an old place like this, you could never un-see it.
Downstairs was where the privy council met and the most likely place that Mareth would be if not in his rooms. The door was closed to the interior chamber, but that was no obstacle. Inside she found the Lord Protector, seated with his Chancellor and Lord Marshall Uthridge, her adopted Uncle, sat across the table from the pair. Uthridge looked perplexed.
“I left Redpool with clear instructions on preparing their defenses and the new governor should be in place now. You may like to believe we are not yet at war, Lord Protector but I am of the opinion that we have been for some time. There could be new fronts that open up that I need to respond to. I’m not sure I agree on why I should go back.”
“I now agree with your opinion. And we are concerned once more that it is the most likely place of an initial Pyrfew attack,” said Mareth.
“After all, we are confident that Ambassador Narring will do her job and Ioth will see the error of letting the snake into their bed,” added Chancellor Grey quickly. “Once the Pyrfew fleet has lost its home on the Sapphire Sea, what other options will it have besides taking another port? And we know their longstanding interest in Redpool.”
Uthridge narrowed his eyes. “The fleet could attack Edland.”
“We are aware of that. But the navy will blockade the mouth of the Sapphire Sea and keep them hemmed in,” said Mareth, leaning over the table. “If we can dangle Redpool before them, lure them into attacking,
then we can come behind them from the sea and crush them against the red cliffs.”
“A trap. The city might not come out of it too well, and I can’t pretend that I’m excited to be the cheese. But it might work.”
“It will work,” said Grey, “but only if you are the one keeping the defenses strong. We need to have you there.”
Uthridge stroked his chin as he thought. Since when had Mareth and Grey become military masterminds? thought Neenahwi. Didn’t he sense something strange here?
“When shall I leave?”
“No more than a week,” said Grey. “You can take your pick of the companies, although I expect you’ll take the second.” The Lord Marshall agreed.
It surprised Neenahwi that Uthridge agreed so readily. Surprised and concerned her. All the people Neenahwi trusted were no longer in Kingshold, except for her Uncle. Now he was going to leave too. Intrigued, Neenahwi shifted the spectrum of her vision so she could see their auras.
The bright white light of Uthridge’s soul looked the same as he always had to her—streaked with lines of a deep cool blue like a mountain lake. She turned to look at Mareth, and recoiled when she saw his was not the white and red she expected, but instead a putrid shade of green. Shit. This was not the Songweaver. As Neenahwi began to float out of the room, Chancellor Grey turned in her direction. For a moment, she could have sworn that the woman looked straight at her; but that was not possible. Surely.
Neenahwi left the privy chamber and found a quiet room. That was not Mareth, but what had been done with him? Was he dead? Had they already disposed of the body or did they have him held somewhere else? She had to assume that Grey could be involved given the evidence that her brother had told her, not to mention Grey’s sudden change of opinion on military matters. So Neenahwi could not consider talking to her. If Mareth was alive, there would only be one place that she could think of where he might be.
She flew quickly through the corridors, eager for her suspicions to be proven false, to the stairs that led down to the inner workings of the palace, where the kitchens and pantries and wine cellars resided. Where the things that made the above-stairs tick were, and where she found the long passageway that delved deep into Mount Tiston.
She hadn’t been here before, but Jyuth had told her about it after Hoskin had taken Aebur captive. Her father had spoken grimly about Bartholomew and she had not been anxious to see the place where he lurked. Apparently, the man never left his dark little corner of hell, and only a few select servants went as far as the steel door she now came upon. Neenahwi passed through the door, surprised that it wasn’t locked, and found herself in a square room, maybe twenty feet across, walls opposite each other inset with similar steel doors. Opposite her was an open doorway, and from it she could hear sounds of snoring. Bartholomew must be taking an afternoon nap, or maybe he had no idea of the time—forever staying in his own little tomb. Whatever the answer, she didn’t care. He wasn’t going to hear her anyway.
Upon inspection, each of the cells were empty; until at last, in the cell furthest away, she found two figures chained to the walls. The light was too dim to be able to really see from the doorway, just a small crack of illumination filtered under the door. She tentatively approached one of the figures, her fear mounting, unable to make out who it was until she was face-to-face. Petra. The young woman was slumped on the floor but held upright by chains that stretched her arms into the air. Her eyes were closed, her face gaunt, and her lips were chapped; but Neenahwi was relieved to see that her chest still rose and fell.
Moving over to the other figure, she saw a man who, at first, she did not recognize. His hair was ragged where it had fallen out in clumps, and was the pure white of a snow-bear; his face was hollow and sunken. He too was thin, his breathing shallow and labored; his bare chest hardly moved. But as she looked at him, she realized in horror that this was Mareth. What had they done to him? Had the shapeshifter sucked the very life from him?
Neenahwi cursed Chancellor Grey. She had to be involved if Mareth and Petra were being held in the palace. How had she been so stupid not to spot her from the beginning? Just because others trust someone did not mean that she should have forgotten her natural skepticism of people. It brought back the memories of how she had trusted the coastal Alfjarun when she, Motega and Kanaveen had fled their homeland, only to be sold to the Pyrfew traders for a few baubles. Now, her gullibility had put things in a precarious position. Only six months since Jyuth handed her the reins of secretly protecting Edland, and she’d only gone and fucked it up, allowing Pyrfew agents access to rule.
She was going to have to come and get them. She had no intention of letting friends rot because of her mistakes. But should she try to talk to them now and risk Bartholomew hearing? Before she could decide she heard a new sound. What sounded like a cat hissing. Neenahwi slid out of the cell, searching to see if the torturer had a feline companion—which could be concerning as they were often more sensitive to arcane occurrences—only to find no evidence of a cat.
The sound came again. Definitely a cat. Hissing. Spitting. Warning someone away...
Oh, shit! It’s not here. It’s Tuft.
Neenahwi yanked on the thin blue thread back to her own body, and the dungeon, the palace, the inner city, all raced before her eyes as she fled back to herself.
Her eyes opened, and she wondered for a moment if she had woken into a nightmare.
The window to her tower bedroom was smashed open and the heavy rain lashed through, drops of water even reaching where she sat cross legged on the floor. The Librarian behind her shouting “Shoo!” in that weedy voice of his. And in front of her, her small tabby cat, patchy fur on end, tail straight as a rod, facing down a beast many times its size. The thing was straight out of a nightmare, one where your favorite dog starts coughing up a hair ball or a bit of bad food, but coughs hard enough they accidentally turn themselves inside out. Revealing their opposite side and that they actually hate you.
The beast had a mouth full of wicked-looking fangs, slobber streaked with blood dripped down from its jaw. Its eyes flicked back and forth from her to the cat and back, not knowing what to make of the puny thing that was standing in its way. Good cat. Then its eyes fixed on its target, filled with evil determination. The thick muscles in the beast’s shoulders tensed; she could actually see them contract with intention, given that there was no skin. All this took just a couple of rapid heartbeats.
Then the beast leapt for her.
Vicious looking mouth. Outstretched claws. Neither fate seemed good, and she had no time to respond magically. Thankfully she was able to fling herself to one side, and the evil dog mostly missed her, a scratch on her upper arm drawing a scream and ribbon of blood to show for being a touch too slow. It crashed into the bedside table, sending the Librarian spinning to the floor with a yell of indignation, but it turned instantly and stalked slowly toward her. She scuttled backward, trying to put some space between her and the creature, still failing to get to her feet.
A streak of mottled brown fur launched through the air and latched itself to the side of the demon dog’s face. Her cat clamped on to the little stubby ear. Tuft—First of His Name, King of the Neighborhood, Father of Hundreds, Purger of Rats, Scourge of a Thousand Toms—was not about to let anything happen to his Alfjarun. Tuft scrabbled his claws against the face of the dog, probably no more than a distraction to this thing; but it allowed Neenahwi time to stand and prepare. She fractured her consciousness and reached out to the demon stone still gouging a hole in her chest. But she waited. She’d seen little terriers take down wolves before, so knew not to assume that size necessarily predicated the victor. She did not want to take any victory away from Tuft, however slim his chances. The beast tried to snap at the cat, but it couldn’t close its jaws on the tenacious little creature.
However, the demon dog was not the usual kind of hound that Tuft might face on the street. This monstrosity had intelligence gleaming behind its evil red eyes as it thre
w itself at the wall, stunning Tuft then flinging him through the air with a savage flick of its head. The cat spun through the air, a piece of ear falling from Tuft’s open mouth as he tumbled.
That did it.
“Nobody fucking messes with my cat!” she screamed.
Neenahwi flung out a hand, five searing lances of white-hot fire, one from each fingertip, shot forward to hit the demon dog before it could even finish moving its attention back to her. The fire pierced all along the length of the beast, burning straight through. The lances hit the wall of the tower, turning each stone struck red hot and shattering them; splinters of stones exploded across her bed chamber, slicing her arms and face.
When she opened her eyes, the demon dog was gone, broken into countless bloody pieces from the explosion. Behind it gaped holes in the tower that whistled in the wind.
Neenahwi blew out a long breath as she surveyed the mess, releasing her mental grip on the demon stone and letting her rage subside. Thankfully, Tuft was already back on his feet.
But with some chagrin, Neenahwi realized that her maid was not going to be happy about what she would find tomorrow.
Chapter 23
The Walk
Gwil walked hand in hand with Tynir at the front of the procession that spiraled around the city of Fymrius. She wore the same dark green robes as the rest of the pilgrims on this, the last day of the celebrations, a remembrance of the elves that had been the first to lay down their lives to protect Llewdon. This was the day she would join her god and all the heroes of Pyrfew from the centuries before. The good citizens lined the parade route and Gwil waved to her friends she saw along the way, and even to people she only knew in passing. Her chest swelled with pride at the culmination of all her hard work and it was capped by the honor to be at the head of the thousands of people who marched.
Ioth, City of Lights Page 22
