Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Page 15

  Back in the alleyways, Whitt ran, retracing his course to the pits. The ill omens of Darkest Night clouded his thoughts like thunderheads. His limbs burned with pent up anxiety. He flew around the dim corners and out into the black night, then stumbled and pitched to his hands and knees. Back on his feet, he shuffled along the trench’s border searching for the rock that marked his treasure. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, and angry tears watered his eyes as he backtracked, scanning the same blackness. Then the ground beneath his foot wobbled. He stared down at the lumpy rock tipped into an empty hole.

  ***

  After Darkest Night, the warrens’ markets weren’t prone to the usual bustle of hanging day. The largest marketplace sprawled between the tiers and Blackwater docks. Whitt waited in the shadows, a wrist-thick cudgel in his fist. He clenched his teeth, jaw set as the wood tapped his calf.

  Near noon, Cappy strolled into the market sporting a new vest, his cronies fawning as if he were the high ward himself. They paused at a stall for lucky cakes as Whitt left the tier’s shelter and strode toward them through the glaring sun. He arced the cudgel back without missing a stride, planted his foot, and swung.

  The club hit Cappy across his back with a crack that sent the boy face down on the table, smashing the display of crystalized sweets. For a heartbeat, those who witnessed the attack froze while Cappy groaned in the crushed cakes. Pandemonium erupted with the stout baker’s roar, “Founders’ foul, get him!”

  Whitt’s cudgel was already flying. It cracked into one of the river rat’s arms. Two women shrieked and someone shouted for enforcers. The boy howled and stumbled into the gathering crowd, arm clutched to his side. The other rat fled before Whitt reeled on him.

  “They stole from me,” Whitt shouted. He peeled the mewling Cappy from the table and dropped him to the pavers. “I’m getting what’s mine.”

  The baker stalked toward him from behind the stall, a long knife gripped in his thick fist like a sword. “Call the guards, or I’ll gut this one myself!”

  An eye on the baker, Whitt crouched and ripped at Cappy’s pocket. A solid kick slammed into Whitt’s ribs, and the pocket tore as he careened into the table. Copper chips and splits scattered. Whole pieces rolled into the cracks. The crowd surged forward, snatching bits of coins as if it were hanging day a second time around. Cursing at the grabbling mob, the baker kicked those blocking his way, earning himself a punch to the throat. He crumpled to his knees, clutching his neck, eyes bulging.

  Whitt rolled under the stall and out the other side, gasping for breath. A few in the crowd hooted at the escalating spectacle. They pushed in for a view and crawled on the pavers eager for spoils that scarcely amounted to a silver. Cappy lay on his side, wailing in the midst of it.

  “That’s him!” The rat who’d escaped Whitt’s ire led two tier guards through the melee while jabbing an excited finger toward Whitt. “That’s him. Hang him!”

  On his feet, the baker staggered forward, his knife poised to stab. Blades glinted in the guards’ belts, and rappers swung from their wrists on short chains.

  “They stole from me!” Whitt backed into the crowd as the possibility of his death jarred him. He needed to run.

  “You there,” a guard raised his stick.

  Whitt scrambled backward and tripped over a girl digging a coin from a crack. A hand grabbed his shirt at the shoulder, yanking him up before he hit the ground. Farrow’s red hair swirled in front of the guards. He stumbled across the pavers, half-dragged by the grip on his clothing. At the warrens’ edge, he found his feet and twisted to shake the hand loose. Tiler clamped on his arm and hauled him into the shadows. “You’re an enforcer,” Whitt pleaded. “Cappy robbed me.”

  “Listen, butt herder.” Tiler gave him a frown. “Right now I’m the blooming wank king, and you’ll do as I tell you. Farrow says she owes you, and this is payback.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Whitt winced at the pain in his ribs. “I have to get to Ava-Grea. I can’t go home.”

  “Farrow decides. So snap your yapper and stay calm.”

  Tiler hurried him deeper into the warrens, nodding at the humorless faces they met along the way. He stopped at the wide wall of a pylon and opened a door. “Get in there. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk. Just sit until I come for you. Got it?”

  When Whitt stepped inside, the door slammed behind him.

  Catling had told him about the pylons and the winding walkway, but he hadn’t been prepared for the massive size or the vertical channels of luminescence bathing the interior in light. He sat and stared, counting breaths, fidgeting and fretting while time passed in painful slowness. His stomach grumbled with hunger so deep it hurt.

  By the time the door opened, he figured darkness had fallen. Tiler handed him a cloak far finer than the ragged clothes he wore. “Follow,” he whispered. “Not a sound. Cappy had protection too.”

  “Where—”

  Tiler rapped the side of Whitt’s head. “Out.”

  Nightfall hushed the warrens. Whitt tagged Tiler through underlord territory and straight out from the tier’s edge, across the north market, and into the pastures. A sliver of blue Misanda hung in the sky like a crooked smile, barely enough light to see by. Tiler veered right, toward the foggy Blackwater glowing beyond the rushes.

  When they hit the river, they turned away from Mur-Vallis and followed the bank north. Whitt glanced back at the tiers, marveling at the twinkling beauty he’d never seen from a distance, a bitter contrast from the view within.

  At the sound of voices, he halted.

  “Farrow and your ride.” Tiler tromped on without pause.

  Ahead in the gray mist, a rowboat rested against the bank, and a barge tugged at its anchor in the river. A lone crewman idled at the dinghy’s oars while a man with wiry eyebrows stood on the shore beside Farrow. She waved Whitt forward. “This is all I can do, Whitt. I don’t have enough for full fare, but the captain’s agreed you can work off the rest.”

  “She says you know how to fish and stay out of my way,” the captain said.

  “I can do both.” Whitt glanced at the glowing river and the dancing wraiths of fog.

  Farrow leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I can’t make up for anything that’s happened. I wish I could. But at least you’ll reach Ava-Grea. I hope you find Catling.”

  Whitt nodded without an inkling of what to say.

  “Tell her I’m sorry,” Farrow whispered. “Safe journey.”

  When Whitt and the captain climbed aboard the dinghy, the crewman hopped out and pushed it from shore. He clambered in and rowed into the current.

  Whitt turned his back on Mur-Vallis, his gaze ahead. Despite his uncharted future, he was leaving. Farrow had liberated him, and he would never go back.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Blackwater ran in a torrent from the Fangwold Mountains. Whitt fished and ducked out of the way as the polers danced across the deck, jabbing at rocks that split the current or heaved the water in luminescent waves.

  While the rudderman worked the stern, the captain stood at the bow, shouting orders. “The Founders filled this blasted river with rocks just to provoke me! Water’s high. Tiller alee!”

  His tackle stowed, Whitt watched the rocks whip past him as the barge swung sideways and straightened.

  “Slap her port,” the captain shouted, “or we’re opening our legs for a pounding in the stones.” The rudderman echoed the order while the polers chuckled and pushed off the rocks with their long staffs. Both men hustled forward and stood ready to deal with the next hazard, a swirling patch of white water where a tributary from the east joined the larger flow.

  Whitt stood at the gunwale for a look at the raging mass of chop. Waves rose in mounds of glittering white, fell, and churned in roiling suds as the river descended in a steep sluice. Ahead the water flattened into swift tranquility.

  The boat veered into the river’s center between two ledges, rocked and dipped. The polers shoved while Whitt grip
ped the rail. The bow plowed into the rapids, bucking up in the stern. Whitt’s hands tore from the rail as his feet left the deck. He let out a flying yelp and plunged into the cold. Caught in the rapids, he flailed and tumbled, fighting for a way up, his panic pounding in his chest. His shoulder banged a rock, and something solid nudged him. It bumped him again, tossing him upward through the white chaos. His head broke the surface, and he gasped for breath before the Blackwater’s power sucked him down and spat him into smoother waters.

  Ahead of him, the barge glided downriver on a sheet of luminescence. He flailed, shouting for the boat. The soaked captain stood by the rudderman, hands bracketing his mouth. “Grab the line.”

  Whitt kicked, and he clutched the trailing rope, gulping breaths. With all his might, he hauled himself hand over hand toward the stern while a poler heaved in the line. Sleek underwater shadows brushed past him. “There’s something in here!” he yelled, curling up his legs.

  “Waterdragons,” the captain called back with a laugh. “You been blessed by the Blackwater.”

  A scaled giant raised its horned head. Cold spray blasted into the midday air from the long snout. Another scaled head breached the surface and then a third. Winged fins batted at the ripples, and long tails slapped the water before the opalescent creatures dove.

  Back on deck, Whitt shivered and eyed the lustrous shapes following the barge. His gaze rose to the tumult of water they’d just traversed. “They can pull a boat up that?”

  The captain’s hand rested on Whitt’s dripping shoulder. “It’s no journey for a skiver, but the waterdragons know the way. A mystery how they manage it, but they do.”

  “How many for a barge this size?”

  “Three with the water this high. The ferries won’t risk it ‘til the snowmelt’s shed off the mountains. Blackwater’s the worst in Ellegeance after the South. Silver and gold for a ride up that river.”

  “Can you lasso a waterdragon?” Whitt looked up at the man with new respect.

  “That’s for the fenfolk to work out, not Ellegeans.”

  “I can lasso pigs,” Whitt said.

  The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well, boy, that’ll come in handy if ever pigs learn to swim.”

  ***

  With the captain’s kindly slap on his back and a few coppers in his pocket, Whitt stepped onto the wide Ava-Grea docks. The humid air clung to his skin, and though an improvement over the trenches of Mur-Vallis, the swamp’s fetid stink wrinkled his nose.

  The water-locked city towered over him, ringed by a sturdy dock, the inside edge lined with vendors, lively riverfolk, and tradesmen hawking their wares. Planked piers stretched into the swamp, hosting barges, ferries, skiffs, and dories, as well as the flat rafts of pale-haired fenfolk, their three-fingered hands and slit eyes akin to their Farlander cousins.

  The markets extended up the wide ramps to the first tier where the lower merchants set their stalls. Whitt held his breath as he climbed, the sensation of standing for the first time on a Founder-made tier making his legs wobble. Cull Tarr visitors and reams of bustling Ellegeans went about their business in unruffled commotion.

  The thought that he might fail to find Catling on his own had never occurred to him. He walked the circular docks in endless loops, idled in the markets, and slept under one of the four ramps with a handful of dreamy twitchers. The home city of the Influencers’ Guild had no shortage of young aspirants, their heads shaved and carved with runic patterns. The initiates were less visible if he discounted their authoritative bearings and the shy colors peeking from sleeves, collars, and hairlines.

  After days of fruitless effort, he climbed the stairs to the second tier. Guards idled at the top with blank faces proclaiming their indifference. He steadied his nerves. “I’d like to send a message to Vianne-Ava.”

  The request raised a few chuckles. A guard with a patchy orange beard picked at a tooth and swallowed whatever he’d dislodged. “What for?”

  Whitt cleared his throat. “To find my… sister.”

  “Missing is she?” The guard’s mouth worked as his tongue probed his teeth.

  “Her name is Catling. Tell Vianne-Ava I’m searching for Catling.”

  “That’ll cost ya for me to go all the way up there.”

  The reply was better than the “No” he’d predicted. He emptied his pockets of copper, displaying the pittance in his open palm. “It’s all I have.”

  The guard frowned and thrust out his hand. “No guarantees.”

  “Tell her Whitt is here for Catling.”

  “Got it, Twit.” The guard chuckled and turned his back, striding across the wide promenade.

  Whitt sat on the steps, staring at the swamp, the submerged trees, and distant hummocks. What if Vianne refused him? He couldn’t fathom his next step and tamped down the panic accompanying the thought. His life had shattered, leaving him nowhere to go, no one to return to. He’d spent his last coppers on hope.

  “She says I should bring you up.”

  The guard’s voice startled him, the man returned sooner than Whitt expected. He scrambled to his feet, heart thundering and lungs short on breath.

  “Didn’t know any Twit.” The man chuckled. “But the name Catling lit a spark in her silks.” The guard escorted him across the promenade and down a lane bordered by smooth walls and latchless doorways. Far above him, tubes of bright luminescence snaked along the tier’s ceiling.

  At one of the pylons, the guard thumbed a panel on the wall. A door slid aside, revealing an oval chamber. Whitt followed him in, holding his breath and attempting to mirror the man’s casual manner. The guard tapped another panel and the portal closed. He picked his teeth while the floor shuddered, as if the whole affair were as ordinary as breathing. When the chamber ceased its climb, Whitt exited onto the twelfth tier, the city’s peak, so high he was surprised he couldn’t reach out and stroke the clouds.

  A different guard led him across a round plaza and rapped on a door. When it parted, a wrinkled servant took over. She ushered him down a hallway into a vaulted room adorned with books, colorful carpets, and seats covered in cushions. If these were the doyen’s quarters, she’d embellished them with a beauty Whitt had never imagined. Vianne rose from behind a carved desk. Her surroundings complemented the elegance of her cream jacket and pearl-studded belt. Ornate pins held her cinnamon hair in place, and her sapphire earrings sparkled.

  He bowed. “My respects, Vianne-Ava.

  “Whitt.” Vianne nodded a greeting. “Allow me to request food. You must be famished after your journey.”

  While she made arrangements with the servant for a plate of cheese and fresh fruits, Whitt wandered to a window with a view of a potted garden. Hunger gnawed at his belly, and his unwashed attire was ragged even for the warrens. In the lavish chamber, he felt ill at ease, unworthy and anxious about his request. Traces of desperation wormed into his thoughts alongside the realization that his trepidation was all his own.

  “Thank you for allowing me my own feelings,” he said when she joined him.

  “When possible, I prefer genuine encounters over manipulation.” She gestured toward a door to the garden. “Would you walk with me while we await our tea?”

  “I’m here for Catling,” he said when they stepped outside. Vianne withheld a reply and led him among the flowering trees and cascading blooms. A fountain gurgled into a shallow pool. “I want to see her, Vianne-Ava.”

  “Call me Vianne, please.”

  He nodded. “I’ve traveled a long way.”

  “Why visit her, Whitt, when it will only upset you both?” Vianne paused at the fountain and faced him. “I must seem dreadfully heartless, but there is no path back for her. We discussed this with Scuff and Wenna, and they understood. You must forget her. Live your life without her. Your presence here will merely remind her of her losses.”

  “I need to see her. I can’t leave until I speak to her.” He scarcely understood the longing that tore at him, the yearning to tap their
connection despite how much it may hurt.

  “Catling will never have an ordinary life,” Vianne persisted. “Her power prohibits it. She will bring danger to everyone she loves if she's not secured within the guild’s walls. As influencers, we are challenged to weigh every choice, to act always for the greater good of Ellegeance and often to the detriment of our own desires. It is the price we pay.”

  “She didn’t choose this.”

  “Of course not.” She sighed and began strolling through the garden. “Yet, that makes no difference, does it? A child born blind has no choice in the matter of sight and must find her own way the best she can. Catling will accomplish great things. She will enable us to experience our true feelings.”

  “The opposite of the guild's power.” He brushed aside a flowering branch.

  “There are times when the best influence is honesty and clarity.”

  “She’ll be used for the guild’s benefit.”

  “For the benefit of Ellegeance, as we all are. You should return home to your family, Whitt. I shall pay your fare. There is nothing here for you but heartache.”

  “My family is dead,” he said, his voice breaking. “They died two days after you took her away.”

  She stared at him, her face flushing. The muscles in her jaw twitched as she narrowed her eyes. “I shall see Anian suffers for his inability to follow orders.”

  “I need to tell Catling,” he murmured, his desire to see her overriding Vianne’s outrage or assurance of revenge. “She needs to know.”

  “Does she?” Vianne resumed her unhurried pace, leading him to the tier’s rim. Below them, the wider eleventh tier revealed the outer sunny edge of its circular promenade. “Have you considered that she may feel responsible?”

  Whitt gripped the rail, the truth of her words ringing in his ears. He swallowed, staring down at the milling aspirants and influencers. “I would… I would tell her it wasn’t her fault.”

  “Would she believe you?”

  The answer whispered from his heart, “No.” A figure walked into view, and Vianne pointed. Whitt didn’t recognize the girl until he saw her eye. Catling wore a rose-red jacket flared at the waist, her hair braided and pinned. She didn’t smile, but neither did she appear miserable. In her arms, she carried books.