Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Read online

  “She’s learning to write and read,” Vianne said. “History, philosophy, and politics. She eats well, dresses each morning in clean clothes, and lives with me in my chambers. Notice how lovely she looks. I have no doubt she misses you and her family, but she is adjusting. Must you tell her your news?”

  A hand shielding her eyes from the sun, Catling sat on a bench and gazed south. Whitt imagined she looked toward the stead and home. From where he stood, he could easily call her name. She’d turn and smile, and he would tell her that most of her family was dead. What other news did he have to share? His misery in Mur-Vallis? That he’d lost all her coppers and perhaps crippled the boy who stole them? He was ten summers old with not a coin to his name. No home and no place to go. Life left him as incapable of protecting her as he was of defending his family. He was a stupid boy.

  Catling rose from the bench and continued on her way, disappearing into the tier’s shadow.

  “My regrets, Whitt.” Vianne touched his hand. “Part of me wishes you had called her name. But we both know nothing positive would come of airing your pain.”

  He nodded and blinked back the flood of tears welling in his eyes.

  “I know Commander Jagur in Guardian. He’s a wise man, an exceptional leader. If you’ll allow me, I’ll pen a note of introduction and pay your fare south. I believe you might find life as a guardian grounding.”

  “Thank you, Vianne.” With no other options, he would accept the letter, the fare, and her advice.

  ***

  Whitt sprinted down the dock, dodging the late-day crowds. Trawlers with crates of flopping fish moored at the piers. Fishwives sliced off heads, slit skins, and peeled out the guts, tossing them to the swamp. Gulls squawked and haggled over the carcasses that turtles and scavenging razorgills snapped at from below. Fenfolk delivered bottles of fresh luminescence from the rich waterways between the swamp’s distant hummocks.

  As he neared the pier where the barge had docked earlier that day, he slowed to a jog. A flat-bottomed ferry rocked in its place, the crew untying its cargo. “Are you going south?” he asked.

  A crewman glanced up. “North. Elan-Sia.”

  “I need a ride south to Guardian.”

  “This side is northbound. You want the south piers.” The man jerked his chin over his shoulder.

  Whitt sighed and loped to the tier city’s southern end. “Are you going south?” he asked at the edge of a pier.

  A man pointed farther down. “Tell them you have fare, or they’ll figure you for a drifter.”

  With a nod, Whitt hurried down to the next pier. He hadn’t considered that he looked like a beggar. “Are you headed south? I have fare.”

  “Kar-Aminia?” a captain asked.

  “Guardian.”

  “Try the barges that way.”

  Whitt scratched his head in frustration and stomped up the next pier. “I need a ride to Guardian. I have fare.”

  “Mur-Vallis,” a woman said from the deck.

  “Guardian?” he called to random rivermen.

  Between the barges and ferries, every size of boat bumped up against flat rafts with canvas tents and stacked gear. A young rafter squatted on his craft and chopped the heads off eels. Like most of the fenfolk, he’d smeared his body and cloud-white locks with clay. Tall and long-limbed with three-fingered hands, he reminded Whitt of Tum, his friend hung in Mur-Vallis. Beside him, a dark-haired man with an eye patch peered up from applying oakum between the planks. The man frowned and Whitt hurried his pace.

  “Guardian?” he asked a rudderman who lounged on a stack of cargo. “I have fare.”

  “Full up,” the man replied. “Try the next pier.”

  A frown etched on his face, Whitt spun back toward the main dock and bounced off a barrel-wide belly. The belly’s rotund owner grunted as his eyebrows shot up. A plump hand grabbed Whitt by the shoulder, preventing a stumble off the pier into the glimmering murk.

  “A boy determined to soldier?” The polished man’s blond locks curled about his collar, and his pudgy face lacked a single whisker. He flicked Whitt’s poverty from his ebony vest and gave his jacket a tug.

  “My respects.” Whitt bowed. “I’m trying to find a boat for Guardian. I have fare.”

  “Follow me, boy.” The man walked off without a look back, tapping the planks with a silver-tipped cane. “I’ve always said this place needs a healthy dose of organization. As the hub of Ellegeance, it should run with monumentally more efficiency. Barges and ferries accommodate the rules as a rule, ha, but riverfolk and rafters tie up crosswise simply to prove a point. What that point is couldn’t be more obscure, now could it?” The fellow faced him as if waiting for a reply.

  “Um.”

  “Right so.” The man nodded. “Now, you’re seeking a berth to Guardian. How much do you have for fare?”

  Whitt dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of coins. “Two silvers.”

  The man frowned as he massaged his chin. “A tad shy. However, I have a handful of acquaintances on whom I shall call for a favor. Allow me, and you will be aboard your transportation in a matter of an hour.” The man held out his palm for the coins.

  When Whitt hesitated, the man frowned. “A cautious soul is a wise soul. As you wish.” He straightened and turned to depart.

  “Wait!” Whitt stepped forward and placed the coins in the man’s hand.

  “A fine choice. Allow me until the next bell. I shall return with your proof of fare, and you will be on your way.” He strolled off down the dock, twisting once to wave.

  Whitt leaned against a piling and waited. An interminable time passed before the bell rang. He paced the pier, afraid to wander far, the anger stewing beneath his skin riddled with fear. Every choice he made was flawed, every step destined for disaster. The possibility that he’d been robbed niggled at his nerves.

  The pale-haired rafter walked past him, a string of skinned eels over his shoulder. The man with the eyepatch followed minutes later, casting Whitt a green slit-eyed glance as he passed.

  Whitt waited, heart sinking as he contained his dread. The sun slipped toward the moss-draped trees. Blue Misanda rose like a milky smile in the east, yellow Clio dancing on her heels.

  The sound of a man bellowing insults, spewing indignities, and pleading innocence halted the dwindling crowds on the docks. “I say, this is unnecessary. I’m no thief but a speculator. Eow! Gods and Founders! Risks are risks. This is preposterous. Unhand me, you filthy half-blood mud sucker. I’ll have the guards throw you in the cells with the rest of the rabble. I’ll pay him for his trouble if you release my hair.”

  Pedestrians chuckled and stepped aside as the commotion drew near. The man with the eyepatch strode toward Whitt, a fist gripped in the curly hair of the fellow who’d robbed him. The complaining thief scurried, bent over and leading with his skull.

  They stopped in front of Whitt, the fat man stooped, head held at eye level by the unforgiving grip. The one-eyed rafter gave the grimacing head a sharp shake.

  “Eow! Founders bedeviled, stop that!” The man smiled at Whitt despite his obvious discomfort. “It appears I encountered some difficulty. I was robbed, you see, and while I attempted to reclaim your investment, this brigand accosted me. I’m afraid your coins will be unrecoverable, my efforts on your behalf in vain.”

  “Where’s my fare?” Whitt asked, confused by the man’s explanation.

  “As I said…” The man winced. “I was unfortunately robbed.”

  “He gambled it away,” the black-haired rafter said.

  “Only in an attempt to win it back,” the portly man explained. “I have the kiss of luck.”

  “I need fare to Guardian,” Whitt said, panic rising in his voice. “You said you’d buy my fare.”

  The rafter lifted the man’s head, spun him, and planted a heel in his fat behind. The thief staggered forward with an outraged yelp. Arms flailing, he teetered on the pier’s edge and then fell into the swamp with a noisy splash. The gathered cr
owd laughed, and Whitt gaped as the man bobbed to the surface, sputtering for breath, his arms thrashing as the current swept him under the pier and down to the next.

  “Someone will fish him out.” The man with the eyepatch turned and headed up the planking to his raft. Without an inkling of what to do next, Whitt followed.

  The man jumped to his craft and faced Whitt, hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

  Whitt hopped down from the pier and found his footing as the raft swayed. “I need work.”

  “What are you good at?”

  “Learning.”

  The hint of a smile cracked the man’s pale face. “I’m Raker.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Qeyon gawped at Vianne, the man feeling no pain. The doyen had immersed him in pleasurable sensations and a sea of infatuation that turned him moon-faced and starry-eyed. Catling covered her mouth and giggled.

  “Concentrate!” Vianne snapped.

  Biting her lip, Catling tried. She visualized the influence easily enough and no longer thought to cover her good eye. Without the slightest effort, she could sever Vianne’s influence and leave Qeyon blushing with embarrassment. What she found impossible was to subtly curb the effect. Vianne wished Qeyon to retain a taste of the power, enough to recognize it but an insufficient amount to sway him.

  “I can’t do it, Vianne.” Catling dropped her shield and the man sighed.

  Vianne’s white jacket flared as she spun in her pacing. Lace ruffled from the neckline of her ice-blue underdress, and her heels clicked across the floor. She sat on the edge of her desk, her arms crossed. “At least, now you can distinguish between the types of influence.”

  Catling nodded. She’d become more attuned to the variations, differences between the emotive and sensorist spectrums. Within each continuum, influencers modulated the strength of their power to elicit different responses. Mild uneasiness lay on the same scale as terror. Affection could escalate into obsession, ease into ecstasy, discomfort into agony.

  Influencers combined sensations for effect. She’d seen Vianne use fear and love on a mother in the market, driving her to cling to her children as if they intended to dart from her side and drown in the swamp. Love intensified the fear until Catling shielded the woman and her emotions were once more her own.

  “Qeyon.” Vianne looked toward the window where Qeyon waited for instructions. “May I apply pain?”

  Catling shook her head. “No, Vianne.”

  The doyen raised a hand, stilling her protest. “Qeyon?”

  “I won’t cooperate!” Catling protested and slumped into her chair, arms folded over her chest.

  “You may,” Qeyon said, though he flinched at the prospect.

  “Catling?” Vianne arched an eyebrow.

  “I refuse,” Catling grumbled. A bolt of pain shot up her legs. She shrieked and snapped her shield into place. Tears welled in her eyes at the punishment.

  Vianne inhaled a slow breath. “That is what I shall apply to Qeyon. Shield him and then release your control ever so slightly. When he feels something less than the agony I inflicted upon you, we shall have finished for the morning.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” Catling pleaded.

  “The precise reason why you must master your shield.” Vianne pushed off the desk and took a seat. “Your shield is a safeguard. It protects people from influence, from us.” She gestured sharply at Qeyon and herself. “That’s why you’re here… to control us, to manage us.”

  Catling chewed on a fingernail and held her tongue.

  “The art of influence is in its subtlety,” Vianne explained. “Algar’s influencers are crag bears. He prefers them that way, wielding his power like an iron-studded cudgel. But that’s not effective within the power structure of Ellegeance. Those who control this realm employ such a light touch it’s barely discernable. It’s an unconscious prod, a spark of instinct and intuition that feels genuine but is, in fact, planted.”

  Vianne waved a dismissive hand. “If you are satisfied with a blunt weapon, you might as well return to Mur-Vallis and match blows with Algar until he traps you and disposes of you. If you want to play a role in the realm’s future, whatever that may be, you must trust me.”

  Catling sighed. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “We won’t know until you’ve tried.” Vianne turned her gaze to Qeyon, and he nodded his assent. “Shield him.”

  Her hands in fists, Catling shielded Qeyon. He held her eyes, waiting.

  “Now slowly withdraw your protection,” Vianne instructed.

  “Ahhh!” Qeyon jerked by the window and lunged for the sill before he fell to a knee. Catling snapped the shield in place.

  “Again?” Vianne asked him, and he nodded, rising to his feet.

  Catling curled her fingers into her palms. She peeled back her shield and it vanished.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” His mouth open, Qeyon stumbled into a chair and gripped his legs.

  “I can’t do it, Vianne,” Catling cried. “It’s impossible.”

  “Again?” Vianne asked.

  “Try,” Qeyon said. He sat, silently waiting, then threw his head back as his legs shot out in pain.

  “Again.”

  The man’s fingers dug into his thighs, his eyes pinched shut. She shielded him, and he covered his face with his hands, fingertips pressing on the blue runes on his shaved scalp.

  “Again,” Vianne said, her expression carved in stone.

  Tears stained Catling’s cheeks, and she bit her lip. Frantic, she focused, visualizing the influence as a cloth woven of fine fibers, the same as she did long ago at the Mur-Vallis market. Plucking at the threads, she unraveled the frayed ends. Qeyon groaned, back arched, murmuring into his hands. Worse, each time worse than the one before.

  “Again.”

  In a panic, Catling covered her good eye. Through her rose eye, she could see the threads of influence emanating from Vianne. She pulled the fibers apart, and one by one ripped them from the whole, peeling them away until only the barest threads remained tethered to Qeyon. She hadn’t withdrawn her shield but shifted it from protecting Qeyon to blocking Vianne.

  “I feel an ache,” Qeyon said softly.

  Vianne’s influence morphed into peaceful relaxation. She smiled as Qeyon’s arms dropped and he closed his eyes, face bathed in sweat. “How did you adjust your shield?” she asked Catling.

  With the heels of her hands, Catling wiped her eyes. She pulled in a breath, exhausted and angry. “I didn’t shield him; I blocked you.”

  “Blocked me?” Vianne shared a glance with Qeyon, her face turned pensive. “Interesting.”

  ***

  The tenth tier prickled Catling’s skin. She descended the spiral staircase between the tiers with eyes alert and nerves on edge. Her birthmark drew unwanted attention despite her wish for invisibility.

  The tier housed lesson halls and quarters for aspirants and servants. She could tell them apart without effort. Even if the aspirants hid their colorful woads from view, their clothing was fashioned of a better cloth. Fanciful buttons and frills adorned silk jackets. Their feet traveled the tiers in satiny slippers or boots polished to a gleam. Servants wore no such luxuries.

  Aspirants to the Influencers’ Guild also carried themselves with a smug awareness of their tier heritage and burgeoning power. She doubted any among their ranks hailed from the warrens.

  The way clear, she stepped from the stairs to the tier’s promenade, bearing a rolled and ribboned message for Dalcoran. The doyen instructed aspirants in the sensories, and she was to deliver Vianne’s missive the moment his lesson was done. No strange itching, fear, or pain invaded her consciousness, so she strode a straight line for the sprawling halls in the eleventh tier’s shadow.

  With a sigh of relief, she entered the lesson hall unmolested, wended her way through the corridors, and sat on a bench outside Dalcoran’s room. The chime of the city’s bell marked the hour’s end. She stood, waiting for the doyen. The door s
lid open, and Kadan nearly trampled her. He stopped short, eyebrows raised in a mirrored look of surprise.

  “Well,” he said. “Are you following me?”

  “I have a message for Dalcoran.”

  “Not about me, I hope.” He stepped aside to let the other students pass into the hall. His irritating companions joined him and snickered like idiots.

  “Not about you… yet.” Catling tightened her eyes.

  “My uncle Algar always says to follow through on one’s threats.”

  Catling stiffened. Kadan was the child at Algar’s side. No wonder he’d grown into a brute. Her fists clenched as visions of hanging day crowded her thoughts. “Leave me alone, Kadan. Or I’ll take your uncle’s advice.” She darted through the door and slammed her hand to the panel, closing it before he could muster a reply.

  Dalcoran looked up from a book, his face placid. Catling bowed and held out the wrinkled scroll, her hand trembling. He observed the offering yet neglected to reach for it. “How are you faring, Catling?”

  “Very well.”

  “Any more trouble with unsanctioned influence?”

  She held her breath, tempted to exact her revenge. “Nothing recently,” she replied, the word “recently” subject to interpretation.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” He accepted the scroll and returned to his reading. “Dismissed.”

  The portal shut behind her with a soft hiss. She scampered down the hallway in the opposite direction from the one she’d come, aiming for the rear exit in hopes of avoiding her tormentors. Before departing into the promenade’s sunshine, she paused and then bolted for the stairs. Halfway there, a chill rippled over her skin. Laughter sounded behind her, and her face flushed. The influence felt erratic, several boys dosing her with random emotions and sensations, all blended into disorienting dizziness.

  Her own anger struggled for control against the foreign assault on her feelings. A hand rose to her eye as she ran, her instincts commanding her to shield herself despite Vianne’s dire warnings. Without slowing, she sprinted around the corner of a dormitory and slammed into a body.