Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 13

  He tapped the panel by the door, and when it slid open, he stepped into the corridor. The guard stationed outside glanced in the room, and his face paled.

  “I collected the information,” Kadan said. “Advise Tora that there’s no need to torture any more prisoners. Algar can hang them in the morning.”

  The guard cleared his throat and nodded, his words strangled.

  “I’m headed to the warrens.” Kadan strode down the hall and paused. He glanced back. “Have someone clean up in there.”

  As he walked, he splayed his hands before him, checking for blood. A few drops spattered his wrist and the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped in his chambers to wash and change into baser clothes, a short cloak with a cowl similar to those worn by the men of the Far Wolds.

  Cool night winds curled their whiskers around the tiers and shook new leaves on the potted trees. He descended the flights of stairs thankful, for once, for the lack of a lift, the time spent breathing and clearing his head. His mind felt numb, his body exhausted. The guards at the ramp’s peak let him pass with a wave, and he crossed the moon-bathed market.

  The warrens were a patchwork, shadows hard-edged by the pale glow of luminescent tubes and lanterns. He took a bearing and strode into the darkness as if he belonged to it. The lanes twisted, nothing ordered or marked, yet he stayed a straight course, as straight as the labyrinth allowed. When a random soul stumbled into his path or lingered at a corner, a simple stroke of fear cleared his way.

  The warrens began to change, the walls sturdy and plastered, the light brighter. He paused, the underlords’ world unfamiliar to him. Far enough in, he edged into an alley and walked a circumference of his target, counting the ways out and seeking a glimpse of the inner pylons. The scarred prisoner had recently arrived in Mur-Vallis and pain had garbled his directions, useless this deep in the warrens.

  Kadan stopped and waited, unsure of his next step. Backtracking, he returned to one of the wider corridors where he’d encounter a number of late-night wanderers. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed and head down, face guarded by his cowl.

  A distant bell rang the new hour. He contemplated moving when the young woman he’d pulled from the Ship’s Fate walked toward him. A bandage swathed her arm, her face drawn, short copper hair disheveled. She glanced up as she passed and quickly looked away, continuing at her weary pace. When she turned a corner, he followed, allowing enough distance to avoid spooking her.

  She turned again, and he strode after her. They left the underlord’s den behind. He trailed her around another corner, losing his sense of direction and tempted to give up. Movement ahead startled him, and his eyes snapped into focus. His momentum ceased and he stiffened.

  Gannon stood facing him not ten paces distant. To his left, the sandy-headed enforcer tensed ready to charge.

  The woman nodded to Gannon and backed away. “He’s the one. The influencer.”

  Kadan stared. He could flatten them that moment with a mere surge of his will. Killing the three of them would be easy, painless. Gannon would be out of Algar’s way, permanently, and Kadan’s life would be… no different.”

  Gannon’s fist rose to the big man’s chest, a signal to hold.

  “Glistering piff lover, Gan. He’s got Dev and Kamas.”

  “I don’t have anyone,” Kadan said. “Algar has them. He sent me to kill you.”

  “Are you going to?” Gannon waited.

  Kadan couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away from the gray eyes, the life in his hands. His choice vibrated through him. “I searched for you and couldn’t find you. I believe you’ve fled Mur-Vallis. It’s what I would do.”

  Gannon nodded, turned, and walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The massive ferry anchored off the northern piers of Ava-Grea. Queen’s Guards in their azure cloaks cleared the moorings of rafters and riverfolk to allow for the safe debarking of the royal retinue. Catling stood at the rail with her fellow Elan-Sia influencers, watching the city rise from the morning’s swirling mist.

  The doyen had summoned their influencers from the far reaches of Ellegeance for a conclave, Catling’s first since her initiation and only the second in five years’ time. If she guessed correctly, these gatherings would occur more frequently now that the realm’s authorities could no longer ignore the trouble brewing in the provinces and the Far Wolds, not to mention the Cull Tarr’s looming presence.

  “How does it feel to be home?” Lelaine dallied at the rail beside her. She wore a silk jacket the color of the sky, her curls piled on her head like a golden crown. Brightest Night coasted two days away, marking the dawn of Summertide and the return of sweltering weather.

  “I don’t have a home,” Catling replied. Her home had vanished the day Algar murdered her family. “Yet, it’s good to be here.” Kadan would be traveling from Mur-Vallis and Minessa from Kar-Aminia. Between her duties to the queen and the guild, she would finagle a handful of hours with her friends.

  “I require your shield anytime we are not alone,” Lelaine said. “I don’t trust this place in the slightest.”

  “As you wish.” Catling drew her shield around the queen. She doubted the doyen would allow any influencing of the monarch in light of Catling’s ability to detect all but the subtlest of sway. The guild benefitted from an alliance with the imperial house, a rapport Piergren once jeopardized, but the others vigilantly preserved.

  The guards busied with ferrying them to the pier. Vianne, Dalcoran, and Brenna, the newest doyen, greeted them on the dock.

  “Welcome to Ava-Grea, Your Grace,” Dalcoran said, and the three doyen bowed. “Tunvise sends his regrets; his age requires that he rest in preparation for tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “I’ll greet him then,” Lelaine said. “Until that time, I shall rest from my travels and make myself at home. No doubt, Catling has influencer duties.”

  Vianne kissed Catling’s cheek, the gesture both formal and intimate. She looked no different than when Catling had last seen her: statuesque, her auburn hair pinned up, and attire assembled of layered shades of ivory. “Our first conclave meets this afternoon. You are nearly the last to arrive.”

  “Have you seen Kadan and Minessa?” Catling asked as the party turned for the ramp to the tiers.

  “They wander about. If the queen frees you for the morning, I’m certain they will be delighted with your company.”

  The doyen and Queen’s Guards ushered Catling, Lelaine, and her servants to the eleventh tier. They displaced the assortment of dignitaries who quartered there and complicated the lodging for eighty or so initiates traveling from the tier cities and the Far Wolds.

  A small group of influencers and servants stood ready to assist with any last moment needs or smooth over any dissatisfaction. Catling spied Kadan and Nessa in the gathering and broke away to hug them both. She’d seen Kadan in Elan-Sia during Harvest, but the last time she’d seen Minessa was during their initiation almost two years previous. The hazel-eyed healer radiated happiness, her cream hair grown out to her shoulders, her sunny skin brushed with gold despite the long season of southern cold.

  “Can you join us?” Minessa asked after the warm greeting. “I haven’t set eyes on you in years. And you serve the queen, Catling! We have so much to visit about.”

  Catling glanced at Lelaine, the woman gesturing for a full shield as if Catling had forgotten. “Once the queen is settled… perhaps. If not soon, then after the conclave. Where will you be?”

  “We’re lodging below with the Bankers’ Guild.” Kadan canted his head toward the steps to the tenth tier. “We’ve rooms at The Gilded Cup.”

  “My father is here as well,” Minessa explained. “He traveled with me hoping for an audience with the queen.”

  “Catling?” Lelaine called, eager to proceed to their accommodations.

  Whispering a sigh, Catling hugged them both and hurried to join her master.

  The lodgings were modest compared to those of Elan-Sia, but warm and brigh
t, the largest suite of rooms outfitted for the royal visitor. Catling recognized artwork and vases, plush chairs and polished tables from the doyen’s chambers and meeting salons, all clearly borrowed for the occasion.

  Once refreshed and changed out of her traveling clothes, Lelaine ordered food and a pot of tepid greenleaf. When the servant scurried off, she sighed and beckoned to Catling. “I promise you an evening of your own, Catling. At this moment, however, I wish to discuss our plans.” She reclined in a cushioned chair, legs stretched before her and booted ankles crossed, blue underdress hiked above her knees. “I expect you to deliver a full report of the guild’s discussions. The intrusion will blister the doyen like a heat rash, but they know your oath compels you. And in all honesty, if their dedication to Ellegeance matches mine, our concerns and strategies will align. Secrecy in these matters serves no one.”

  “I hadn’t assumed otherwise.” Catling took a chair across from Lelaine. That the queen possessed any degree of discernment seemed to elude them all.

  “I expect the doyen will choose their words wisely and steer conversation away from disparaging me.” Lelaine twirled a blond ringlet. “And to be truthful, I won’t lose sleep over criticism if it’s not seditious. They can’t control eighty voices, can they? Well, I suppose they can, but what would be the point if their intent were an honest assessment? How your guild has functioned for centuries is a mystery.”

  “Influence is a last resort,” Catling said.

  Eyes wide, Lelaine laughed at the statement. “You can’t imagine how naive that sounds.”

  “I can only speak for what the doyen taught us.”

  The salver of finger dishes and pot of greenleaf arrived. Catling poured the tea and stirred in a spoon of honey. She handed Lelaine a cup.

  “Now, a new concern.” Lelaine sipped the green brew. “Tell me more about the man Gannon. I rather liked him when he saved me from a life of misery with the Shiplord. Yet, he’s inciting trouble in the tiers, and the high wards have their heads on backward about him. His notoriety has reached the ears of my council, and they expect me to issue an edict of some sort. You can see how this might be graceless. What I wish to know is: might I make use of him before he becomes a threat?”

  Catling leaned forward in her seat, fingers tapping against the warm cup between her hands. “I hope he might be an ally, but he won’t be easily swayed.”

  “I’ll hear his story from the beginning, and when we’re done, you are free to enjoy the day.”

  ***

  Catling met Kadan and Minessa outside the guild’s grand hall with moments to spare. They squished into seats on the tiered benches that rose along the walls. Minessa crammed in next to Catling, her face flushed. Kadan sat on Minessa’s other side, grinning. The two of them confessed to an early visit to the Bottled Sage.

  The four doyen occupied ornate chairs on a dais, Tunvise shrinking into his cushions and nodding at the gathering of initiates he’d taught through the years. He caught Catling’s eye with a curious smile. Vianne also located her, as did Dalcoran who pointed her out to Brenna-Dar, words whispering between them.

  The stuffy room buzzed with conversation, the excitement genuine, no one daring to break oaths and influence another influencer. The latent power in the air pressed on Catling’s chest, and she fought down the panic needling the woads on her back. Here assembled power for all the world to fear.

  Dalcoran rose to his feet, the pain in his limbs more pronounced.

  “I’m to treat him tomorrow,” Minessa whispered in Catling’s ear. “Tunvise hasn’t the strength.”

  “He has no one here?” Catling peered at her friend.

  “None as talented as Minessa,” Kadan said, leaning in, and Catling didn’t doubt it.

  Minessa nudged him with her elbow. “He will find another. I have patients in Kar-Aminia.”

  Dalcoran’s hand rose for silence, and the hall quieted. “Your guild has summoned you for the first conclave in five years. The hardship your absence places on your tier cities is weighed against the threats facing Ellegeance. Thus, your presence here is not in vain. For the next two days, you are to disregard your oaths to your wards. For two days, your sworn vow to Ellegeance overrules provincial alliances, personal friendships and animosities, propriety, and ambition. What we discuss among us is without restraint. Your oath to the Influencers’ Guild demands your silence beyond these walls.” He paused and his gaze flickered to Vianne.

  Catling bit a nail, her situation known to few. Catling had sworn her primary vow to the queen. Therefore, none of Dalcoran’s orders applied to her, and all the doyen knew it.

  “If no one requires clarification, let us begin.” Dalcoran found his seat and gestured to Brenna.

  The graying woman rose to her feet and faced the gathering. Despite a grandmotherly softness, her words bore sharp points. “We have three issues of pressure bearing down on Ellegeance, and none demonstrate any sign of easing. First, in the Far Wolds’ settlements of Tor, Falcyn, and Outlyer, strife escalates between Ellegeans and Farlanders. Influencers stationed in the Wolds, as well as those from Kar-Aminia, Mur-Vallis, and Guardian, will be asked to comment.”

  She held up two stout fingers. “Second, the Cull Tarr continue to deny piracy, claiming we ‘misunderstand’ their intentions. They refrain from seizing our ships but clearly intimidate our captains into accommodating their demands for supplies. We have witnessed an increase in their shipbuilding capacity, and they’re expanding seaside settlements to our east and west. The Shiplord requested access to the Slipsilver, which the queen denied. Influencers from Nor-Bis, Rho-Dania, and Elan-Sia will speak to their observations.”

  Another finger joined the first two. “Third and last, there is verified dissension in the tiers which has raised concern. The nature of the discord appears divided. In most of our provinces, the warrens are making demands upon the tiers that cause the guilds considerable stress. At the same time, in several of the tiers, the high wards are inciting the guilds against the crown. You will all be asked to report on the conditions in your tier city with recommendations.” Her introduction accomplished, Brenna ceded her place to Vianne.

  Minessa touched Catling’s arm and gestured toward Tunvise. The old man’s head bobbed, and he began to snore. The influencers on the benches chuckled, and Vianne raised her eyebrows. “Apparently, Tunvise finds me dull before I even begin to speak.” She glided to his chair and touched his shoulder. He muttered in his sleep, and the snoring ceased.

  “Now then.” Vianne returned to the dais’s center. “Regarding the Far Wolds.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lelaine sipped her morning greenleaf, wishing it were a goblet of wine. In her opinion, Catling needed the tea, a whole potful laced with lissom juice, mint, and fen-root—handy cures for a night of too much tipple. The influencer squinted, and her teacup rattled against its saucer.

  “Perhaps some crusty bread,” Lelaine whispered, tapping Catling’s arm with the signal to shield. Experience had handed her a score of remedies for a rampaging headache and stewed stomach, though none as effective as proper preparation in the first place.

  Catling acknowledged the sign with a sour nod, and Lelaine smiled, no longer angry and not inclined to dwell on her shield’s lapse of judgment. As far as she knew, this counted the first slip-up, and the poached head exacted a punishment well enough.

  Outside, the doyen’s twelfth-tier gardens overflowed in joyful blooms. Lelaine fanned herself despite the open windows, the morning breeze too lazy for her liking. Though the heat in Ava-Grea lagged behind Elan Sia’s, the swamp-bound city lacked the cooling wind of the Cull Sea.

  They met in the salon, lavish if somewhat sparsely furnished. All four members of the influencers’ council were present at Lelaine’s insistence, though she would have understood Tunvise’s absence upon seeing him.

  “Shall we begin, Your Grace?” Vianne’s fingers knotted a piece of lace.

  A fresh cup of tea in his hands, Dalco
ran took his seat. Other than a glitter of gray to his hair, the precise man seemed little changed over the years, his grooming and attire faultless if somewhat rigid. “As a matter of course, we’ve begun gathering information on any and all provincial aspirations, schemes, and rumors.”

  “Catling advised me of yesterday’s discussion regarding the Far Wolds.” Lelaine set down her cup. “She will do the same regarding disruptions in the provinces.”

  “We understood that would be the case,” Dalcoran assured her.

  “I’d hoped so,” Lelaine said. “Regarding the third matter, I daresay I’m all too familiar with the Shiplord’s antics. Cull Tarr arrogance spreads its sails at every opportunity. I appreciate your efforts on the realm’s behalf, and yet…”

  “And yet…” Vianne rested her hands in her lap, her lace rumpled beside the silk spool.

  Lelaine smiled. “I wish greater imperial control over Ellegeance’s future. Your guild possesses too much autonomy for its vast power. I believe greater balance, despite the drawbacks, is superior to the current lopsided split.”

  “What do you propose?” Tunvise threaded his fingers over his belly and slumped in his chair, scarcely able to raise his chin.

  With a tilt of her head, Lelaine acknowledged the old doyen. “I’m giving Moira back to you. Her influence is… disgruntled and disruptive and no amount of censure is effective. Unless I tell her of Catling’s skill, the woman nods agreeably and continues plaguing everyone to her heart’s desire. You may send her anywhere you desire, as long as it isn’t Elan-Sia.”

  “Our regrets, Your Grace,” Dalcoran said. “We shall replace her immediately.”

  “Catling will make the choice.” Lelaine nodded in Catling’s direction. “And I insist on the primary vow.”

  Brenna-Dar puffed her plentiful chest. “Your Grace, the primary vow—”