Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Page 10

  They hurried through the warrens, the darkness deep and blinding after the sunlight. Her breathless pleas choked on her tears. She saw and heard nothing, mute to all but her panic and grief.

  “Catling. Catling!” Gannon’s harsh demands for attention filtered into her consciousness. “Catling!”

  She slumped in the arms holding her, her body crumbling as a wall of sorrow tumbled on her head. “Keela.” The cry slid into a forlorn wail. “My mum.”

  “Put her down,” Gannon said.

  When her feet touched the dirt, her legs wilted beneath her. She knelt on the ground, sick and reeling. Her fingers shook as she caressed her ear, the copper earring scraped from her lobe.

  Gannon touched a knee down beside her and rubbed his face. “We’re taking you back to Scuff,” he whispered. “For good, Catling. No more Mur-Vallis. No more hangings. We’re done.”

  “I want to go home,” she said, her lip trembling, body cold to the bone. Tiler paced beside them, wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve.

  Gently, Gannon turned her face toward him. “We can’t leave yet but soon. I need you to stay quiet. Tiler will hire us a horse, and we’ll leave tonight. Until then, we’re… quiet.”

  When she nodded, he helped her up. He eyed Tiler, the big man’s shirt smeared with blood. “Once we’re in the pylon, clean up and get us a horse. When Clio rises, we’ll meet you near the trenches. The smell alone should keep even the most curious away.”

  Gannon pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket. “Use this if you need to worm past a few guards.”

  “One horth comin’ up,” Tiler said, holding his tender nose.

  “First, scout ahead, will you?” Gannon said. “Whistle if… anything.”

  “Dunno if ah can withel.” Tiler looked cross-eyed at his nose.

  “Just warn us,” Gannon said.

  Her head thick and thoughts muddled, Catling paid little attention to the winding route deeper into the warrens. Gannon clasped her hand and towed her stumbling behind him, an occasional worried glance cast over his shoulder. She’d ruined his plans and didn’t care, her only desire to go home to the stead and never leave again.

  Once they stepped into the pylon, Tiler loped off. Gannon swung the heavy door shut, closing them inside. Back to the wall, he sat on the narrow walkway and beckoned her to his side. He placed an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Catling. I’m sorry about Keela.”

  New tears sprang to her eyes.

  “It’s nothing we did,” he continued. “She… she was Keela.”

  “I lost her earring,” Catling cried, sorrow bubbling up from her chest. Her mother had vanished, every remnant of her old life gone, every illogical and childish dream dead. She leaned against him and watched the luminescence ascend through the tubes. The rainbows of light whirled, blended, and scattered. The sight was lovely, soothing; the gentle heat from deep within the ground rose to embrace her. Her eyelids sagged, her body shutting down.

  “Try to sleep,” he whispered. “We have a long night ahead.”

  ***

  Movement woke her with a start, and for a heartbeat, she’d forgotten where she was and how she’d come to sit there. Her bones felt creaky, head foggy, and eyes swollen. She licked her dry lips and wiped lank hair from her face.

  “It must be after moonrise,” Gannon said, rising to his feet on the narrow walkway and stretching his back. “Time to go. Quiet and keep up.”

  They slipped from the pylon into the dimness of his father’s underworld. Catling followed on his heels, careful not to make a sound, halting and hiding at a flick of his hand. They worked their way through the twisting maze into the warrens’ darkest and poorest sections. Here the alleyways were less perilous, inhabited by stray folk and the random thief preying on loners soggy from too much tipple. Anyone with an interest disappeared when Gannon warned them away.

  As they neared the trenches, the reek forced Catling to breathe through her mouth. They turned a corner and Gannon stopped short, pushing her to the wall. She gasped as a knife flashed in his hand. He crouched and slid a second blade from his boot, his gaze straight ahead

  The young influencer, Qeyon, stood alone in the alley.

  Without moving a muscle, Catling shielded herself and then shifted her protection to Gannon, severing the strong influence emanating from the blue-woaded man. The emotive’s touch soothed her senses. Fear slipped from her like rain down the gutters.

  “Let us pass,” Gannon said, the warning in his voice clear.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” The man tilted his shaved head at Gannon. “How do you block the emotions?”

  Qeyon’s gaze swung briefly to Catling. A grin crossed her lips and she giggled. Her body relaxed and pain faded, leaving behind a serene heart. The man seemed trustworthy and gentle with the power and authority to help.

  “My talents are none of your concern,” Gannon snapped, drawing Qeyon’s attention. “We’re leaving. The tiers are yours.”

  The influencer arched an eyebrow. “They’re not my tiers, Gannon. I serve the realm. Come with me to Ava-Grea. The guild will protect you.”

  “I’d be a fool to trust an influencer.” Gannon stepped forward, his knife’s edge leading him. “Move aside or I will remove you.”

  “Do you intend to kill me?” Qeyon asked.

  “Do I need to?”

  “Algar will hang you when he learns of your power.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Gannon said. “Perhaps I’ll come to trust you.”

  “I suppose if one of us is dead, that opportunity is lost.” Qeyon stepped aside, his back to the wall.

  Gannon slipped his smaller fish-knife into his belt and beckoned to Catling. They walked toward the influencer, and when Gannon came abreast of him, he swung an elbow. The blow caught the man in the jaw, slamming his head into the wall.

  The emotional sway vanished, and Catling gasped, fear flooding her veins, her body rigid. The man crumpled to the ground. Gannon rapped his temple with the knife’s hilt. He dragged the body around a corner, deeper into the shadows.

  “He’s not dead,” he assured her. “What you felt isn’t real, remember that. You can’t trust them, Catling; you can’t trust your feelings. Never forget that.” Without waiting for her acknowledgment, he grabbed her hand and they fled.

  ***

  Doves cooed in the barn’s rafters. Motes of dust shimmered like flying insects in the shafts of light lancing through the wall’s cracks. Catling hadn’t slept long, and before rising, she would sleep again, nestled in the hay.

  The barn smelled familiar, like home. She rolled to her side and pulled the blanket over her shoulder. Mouser and Daisy slept with their mouths open, petal-thin eyelids rambling with dreams. Whitt smiled at her from the other side of his sisters, his blue eyes open. He reached toward her, and she stretched out her hand to meet his.

  “You don’t have to go back?” he confirmed, a question she’d answered more than once since her arrival in the middle hours of night. Gannon had left her at Scuff’s door and reined the horse around, eager to return to the tiers.

  “I can stay home,” she said. “I’ll never leave again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The relayed message offered a meeting with Algar the night prior to hanging day. Gannon had all but given up on his dream, yet it appeared he’d earned his audience. Perhaps the high ward wished to avoid another riot. Gannon had surrendered his means to make that happen, an unfortunate development only a handful of his most trusted allies knew.

  “Could be a trap, Gan.” Tiler scratched his jaw, lumbering along like a giant crag bear. “Half the warrens saw that cockup last hanging day, never mind those watching from the tier.”

  “Could be,” Gannon admitted.

  Hale scowled, and Banda’s eyebrows bounced to his hairline. Gannon had invited the three enforcers in an effort to discourage trouble, figuring it might prove harder to murder four men than one. Not that any of them would survive if death were
the high ward’s intent.

  “Brightest Night tomorrow,” Tiler nagged. “He’ll know you’re blowing hot air up his hole.”

  “I’ll make a gesture of goodwill,” Gannon replied. “Let him hang anyone he wants to tomorrow.”

  “Like us.” Tiler shook his head. “Don’t care for this whole set up.”

  The north ramp to the first tier lay within sight. A score of guardsmen stood sentinel beneath the three moons, casting shadows across the pavers. Gannon halted, his friend’s misgivings snaking under his skin. “Tiler’s right. For all I know, I’m not coming down those steps. I won’t blame you if you wish me good luck, turn around, and go swig a tipple or two.”

  “Aw, Gan,” Tiler said. “That’s not my meaning. Just thinking we should all give it a rest. If you’re going up there, I’m with you.”

  “This is our chance, right?” Banda asked, a glint of madness sparkling in his eyes.

  “This is our only chance.” Gannon blew out a breath, and when none of them backed out, he strode to the incline, his companions falling in behind.

  Four guards descended the ramp to meet them, one of them Nial. “I’ll take your weapons,” he said, meeting Gannon’s eyes. “You’ll get them back on your way down.”

  The word “liar” whispered in Gannon’s head as he handed over his blades. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Just…” The hairy man glanced at the other guards who stripped the remaining trio of knives. “Maybe, turn around.”

  “What do you know?” Gannon asked under his breath.

  “Nothing.” Nial shook his head. “Just… this is Algar. That’s all, a feeling.”

  Gannon faced his companions. “I can take two men with me. Tiler, you’re down here until we get back.”

  “Bull-bugger, Gan,” Tiler protested. “I’m with you. One of the others can stay.”

  “No argument.” Gannon started up the slope. “Tell my father where we are if we’re not back in two bells.”

  “You’re a damn shaft-slapper, Gan,” Tiler shouted while Nial and two other guards restrained him. “Let me go, you bung-loving asspipes!”

  Gannon swung back to the climb, ignoring the string of colorful slurs. Behind him, Banda chuckled.

  Their escort of guards kept a steady pace, scaling the straight path to the first tier and then the wide spiraling stairs connecting to the levels above. Gannon’s thighs burned, unused to the hike, and the higher he climbed the harder his heart drummed.

  With the moons mere slivers from full, he caught a fair view of the tiers. The first four he knew intimately, having pilfered enough loot through the seasons to line his jacket with silver. At first sight, the fifth and sixth looked little different, all Founder-made sleek and gray. Only the lanes grew broader, the fountains loftier, and abundant blooms lined the promenades. He breathed the intoxicating perfumes of ornamental trees.

  Panting for breath, he emerged on the high ward’s tier. Banners woven with thread of gold billowed in a temperate breeze. An entire potted garden graced the center courtyard with ancient trees of terran wisteria, graceful statuary, and a bubbling fountain fit for a bath. Even more impressive, overhead arched the unimpeded dome of the sky, the three moons hanging like paper lanterns close enough to touch.

  A dozen armed men took over, and those who had delivered them to the height pivoted for their return to the lower tier. Without a word, the new guards pawed them for weapons. “They’re unarmed,” a tall man reported, his statement directed beyond the banners and rustling leaves.

  The hair on Gannon’s arms prickled. High Ward Algar ambled toward them through the garden, swaying beyond the reach of a blossoming branch. A boy lingered in the shadows behind him. Dressed in black, Algar seemed a wraith, the grace of his movements oddly sinister. “You have your orders,” he said.

  Hands clamped on Gannon’s arms. A guard grabbed Banda’s hair from behind, wrenched his head, and slit his throat. Blood splashed to the tier.

  “No!” Gannon jerked his arms, attempting to twist free, his heart thundering in his ears.

  Hale threw an elbow into the knife-wielder behind him, snatched the blade, and stabbed a guard. Banda dropped to his knees, blood pumping through his groping fingers, eyes wide with shock.

  An iron fist smashed Gannon in the jaw. His head snapped, stars erupting in his eyes as another blow ripped into his cheek. The grip on his arms tightened; another punch rammed into his gut, air bursting from his lungs. With a rasp, he bent forward and caught sight of Hale throwing fists, the knife lost, another guard down.

  A knee slammed into Gannon’s face, his nose exploding with blood. The pain blinded him, and a metallic tang filled his mouth. The hands holding him up released him, and he dropped to his knees. Scarcely able to breathe, he scrambled mere inches before a boot to the ribs knocked him to his side. He rolled and tried to rise. A heel connected with his back. Flat on the tier, he covered his head as the guards kicked his legs and ribs.

  Five paces distant, a group of guards pummeled Hale. Gannon cried a muffled threat as they picked Hale up by his arms and legs. The man twisted, cursing and howling as they shuffled to the tier’s rim and pitched him off the edge. A hand grabbed Gannon’s hair at the back of his head and bashed his forehead to the smooth surface of the high ward’s tier.

  ***

  The ferry’s sway floated into Gannon’s awareness before the voices took shape. Somewhere above a captain, polers, and a rudderman navigated the river’s deeper channels. He pried open his eyes, managing a blurry slit. The dimness of his surroundings revealed a shallow bunk in the vessel’s hold; the reek told him he’d lain there for days.

  His face felt gorged with blood, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. Hands shaking, he tried to touch his cheek. The chains on his wrists rattled, and pain tore the breath from his body. For the moment, he was, at least, alive.

  The hold felt damp, and he shivered with the cold, fever sapping what little strength he claimed. He groped blindly for a blanket and found none. Each minute movement spawned a new wave of pain. Too much to bear, he closed his eyes and surrendered to a restless sleep.

  The touch of a hand woke him. He cracked his eyelids and focused. A familiar face peered at him in the dim light, the young man’s head shaved and patterned with blue runes. The influencer nodded in acknowledgment of the unspoken recognition. He squatted by the bunk, the ceiling too low for anyone but a child to stand.

  “I’m Qeyon,” the influencer said. “By the caution in your eyes, I believe you remember me. You’ve lain unconscious for four days. I imagine you’re thirsty.”

  His throat parched, Gannon croaked his response. The man held a flask to his lips and water dribbled over his chin until his head fell back to the hard bunk. He groaned and shivered despite the woolen blanket shrouding him.

  “I had no idea they would beat you and kill your companions,” Qeyon said.

  Gannon closed his eyes, shutting out the vision of Banda’s bloody fear and Hale’s writhing body disappearing over the edge. He wondered if his father knew what happened. Had Tiler met the same fate? Farrow?

  “I suspect your high ward wished to make a harsh point.” Qeyon unlocked the manacle encircling one of Gannon’s wrists. “It was not my desire. Influencers prefer to exert our will with less overt brutality.”

  Under different circumstances, the truth in the wording would have drawn Gannon’s smile. Essentially, the man confessed to the emotional, if not physical, brutality employed by his guild. Qeyon offered more water. Gannon clutched the flask with a quaking hand and poured the contents down his throat.

  “Can you heal me?” Gannon rasped, every breath a resurgence of pain.

  Qeyon shook his head. “I’ve been instructed to keep you alive, no more. I staunched your internal bleeding but cannot remove your pain.”

  “Why?” Gannon asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Ava-Grea,” Qeyon replied. “I believe you know why.”

  Gann
on didn’t need the influencer’s answer. In his father’s den, Qeyon had seen him free of emotional control. Too many people knew his agenda, had witnessed his actions and heard his complaints. He’d deflected Qeyon’s attention from Catling and brought this upon himself. Now, they wished to know how he interrupted their influence, how he toyed with their power. And he couldn’t tell them.

  “I can’t heal you,” the man said. “Yet I am free to infuse you with love or pleasure if you so desire.”

  “No, leave me.”

  “As I thought.” Qeyon rose to a crouch. “I’ll leave your wrist unshackled and send down food and more water. There’s little else I can do to make you more comfortable. However, we arrive in Ava-Grea in two days.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s not for us to know.” Bent over, the influencer staggered to the short steps leading up from the hold. He climbed into the sunlight and the hatch closed. Gannon turned his face to the hull.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ferry’s hull thumped against the fenders by Vianne’s slippered feet. She retreated from the pier to the wide dock skirting Ava-Grea. Around her, the midday market bustled with vendors, shoppers, and visitors from the far reaches of Ellegeance. Beyond the dock’s lip, piers jutted into the green swamp like sunrays. The tier city hosted scores of barges and ferries, rafts and skiffs, many of them lashed together into colorful, floating islands.

  She stood clear of the commotion, untroubled by the stream of humanity passing her by. Though Ava-Grea citizens were accustomed to the presence of influencers, the tendency to lend them a wide berth persisted. Whether out of fear or respect, she couldn’t say. As doyen, she stood out, the creamy white of her pearled jacket hard to miss. Its slit sleeves and skirt were trimmed with lace she’d tatted herself during Winterchill. Even the silver streaks in her cinnamon hair added to her mystique.

  Two young aspirants idled beside a thick piling, patient for her call. The first woads marking their shaved heads were still noticeable beneath the bristle of new hair. Hands clasped behind her back, she waited for the ferry’s passengers to debark and nodded to Qeyon where he stood on the rocking deck. His communications from Mur-Vallis had worried her, and she smiled to find him safely returned.