Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 18

  Three days later, the sun shy of mid-sky, Whitt saw the first signs of Ellegean habitation, a forest of stumps descending to the outer farms girding Falcyn. He abandoned the unknown river, strode a wide arc around the frontier city, and continued southeast into forestland. In time, the Fangwold’s familiar vistas provided a bearing, and he headed for the rebel camp, hoping it hadn’t moved. Dusk unfurled in a pink sky and Rose fell silent. He supposed she slept, worn out as much as he.

  Two moons brightened the night, yellow Clio in its last quarter. He scouted for a place to camp, figuring it wise to avoid stumbling on the Farlander camp after dark. A copse of dense eldergreen offered some protection from the wind. He ducked between the branches into the point of a spear. A hound growled, baring its fangs. The Farlander’s face hid in the shadow of his hood.

  “I’m Whitt,” he said quickly. “I know Sim and Ranger and—”

  “Ranger is dead.”

  Whitt hung his head and sighed. “And Cylas. I have a child with me, in the pack.”

  The man walked around him, the spear pointed at his ribs. “I’m Lian. I met you long ago outside Guardian. Come with me.”

  An hour later, Rose woke and Lian fed her dried fruit from his pocket. Whitt felt her pleasure and supposed Rose spread it over Lian too. It was just as well, and he refrained from correcting her. He followed Lian over a rocky ridge and down into the camp’s hollow, the same one he’d left over a year ago but larger. A stubby fire crackled in a generous pit and luminescence glowed in glass jars outside a score of central huts.

  “Sim!” Lian called. “Visitors.”

  “Down,” Rose said.

  “Yes, down.” Whitt slipped out of the pack, propped it against his knees and lifted Rose out. She stood beside him in her lynx hide-all, cute as a wild cat, blinking in the firelight. Sim strode from the trees, wearing a slit-eyed scowl, caught one look, and bent over laughing. Whitt smiled, once again letting Rose work her magic.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The queen paced on the twentieth tier’s promenade, the Harvest sun warm enough this far north that she’d discarded her cloak over a bench. Dressed for an evening of festivities, she wore an azure jacket that shimmered beneath the hazy sun. Her silk underdress brushed the tops of her boots, sea-foam green and equally luxuriant with ivory ruffles trimming her wrists and neckline. She cupped an elbow in the opposite hand and twisted a ringlet around her finger, tiny lines squeezed between her eyebrows. “Have they docked yet?”

  Catling peered out the window of the windbreak, standing on her toes for a better view. Below the first tier’s lip, she caught a glimpse of the girding dock and a full view of the piers extending into the delta like sunrays. The mass of riverfolk and traders, seafarers and tier dwellers moved without pattern, colorful insects bound by the churning light of a mighty river and sea.

  The Queen’s Guards and tier guards were the exceptions, all in matching cloaks for the occasion and lined up at the northern piers like a host of pilings. The Wandering Swan, a tri-masted galleass took some time to anchor on the delta’s soft and shifting sands but accomplished the feat.

  “Well?” Lelaine asked.

  “They’ve anchored, and we’ve sent a cutter for him. But that’s all I can tell.”

  “Should I venture down? He is the Shiplord.”

  “You’re the queen, Lelaine. You’ve sent all three councilors and most of your guards.”

  “I’m acting silly, aren’t I?” Lelaine shuddered. “I’m rarely so frazzled.”

  “Never,” Catling agreed. “He’s come because there’s something he desires from you, not the other way around.” She glanced at Colton standing by the lift. “And Colton wouldn’t approve of you exposing yourself to risk.”

  “Airon would hardly murder me on my own docks.” Lelaine dragged in a breath and joined Catling at the windbreak.

  “Apparently, he does as the Founders instruct.” Catling didn’t intend her sarcasm to leak into her tone, but it was impossible to prevent. She ignored Lelaine’s raised eyebrows and stared at the activity below. To mark the Shiplord’s first visit to Elan-Sia, a gaggle of high wards had traveled to the capital city. Their ferries commanded whole piers, which left regular river traffic wedged into tighter berths or resigned to the city’s less crowded western side. Guards in their provincial colors escorted dignitaries in miniature parades. Somewhere down there, Kadan and Minessa made their entrance, Catling’s reward for enduring the entire fuss.

  “That must be him,” Catling said as the cutter left the impressive ship, surrounded by a flotilla of smaller vessels. The Cull Tarr would overrun the city for a week, and if Gannon’s tales were true, she intended to limit her outings to the top three tiers.

  The queen pivoted to face her. If her regal comportment had lapsed with the Shiplord’s arrival, it returned with the force of a winter gale. “Mark me, Catling. Don’t you dare shame me. You are not required to like him or respect him. In fact, I don’t care if you loathe him and wish him dead. But you will not be rude or lose your temper or embarrass me. I will never tolerate such disrespect again. Is that understood?”

  Catling closed her eyes for a heartbeat and nodded. Lelaine had been livid in Guardian, white knuckled and seething with fury. If Catling and Gannon hadn’t partnered in their delinquency, and if she hadn’t soothed the queen’s pique with an unfaltering stream of influence, Lelaine might have exacted a much harsher punishment than several weeks of isolation and penitence.

  “I didn’t hear your answer,” Lelaine said.

  “I shall conduct myself with the greatest respect, Your Grace.” Catling bowed.

  “Then let’s prepare for His Shiplord’s presence.” Her humor returned, Lelaine beckoned to Colton. He gave last instructions to the guards stationed on the tier and escorted Lelaine and Catling into the reception hall.

  Artisans had festooned the nineteenth-tier hall with Harvest blooms imported from Rho-Dania and Nor-Bis. New banners adorned the gray walls, each stitched with fanciful scenes of the Cull Sea: waterdragons and tall ships, frothy waves cresting on black cliffs, and coteries of flamboyant fish. Tables ringed the room, set with azure linens and silver trays, goblets and spiced wine, a bounty of fruit and cured meat, and tiny pastries gorged with cheese or sweets or savory greens. Servants scurried between high wards who tugged on the ears of Lelaine’s councilors. The sensory splendor overwhelmed Catling as she focused on shielding the queen and identifying other influencers. No sign yet of the Cull Tarr.

  Kadan and Minessa entered, and a horde of acquaintances immediately swept them up in greetings. Catling smiled at Nessa’s round tummy, her friend’s hand resting lightly on the evidence of a swelling pregnancy. The sight brought a mist of tears, and Catling missed Rose as she did every evening when she paused at the rail and gazed silently toward Ava-Grea.

  Lelaine signaled for wine, and a servant hurried over. Catling flanked the queen’s chair with Colton, positioned like a pair of mismatched bookends. The Queen’s Guardsman had turned into an ally and friend, but he talked little of himself or his life beyond duty. His dedication to Lelaine bordered on obsession.

  Ava-Grea’s doyen approached Lelaine, bowed, and offered their respects. Vianne wore her customary ivory jacket with a belt beaded in amber that matched her hair. She smiled at Catling, the softness in her eyes hinting of past intimacy. Catling returned the smile with a grateful but guarded heart.

  “A historic event.” Dalcoran stood stiff as a pillar, his features like sculpted stone, crippled hands behind his back. Brenna clasped her hands together at her waist as though she intended to commence with a lecture, and Neven was so relaxed it appeared his bones had become unhinged.

  “Historic indeed,” Lelaine replied. “The Shiplord wishes to dispense with the old animosities between our people. The opportunities for trade and expansion along the coast will benefit Ellegeance as well as the Cull Tarr.”

  “We would be appreciative for an opportunity to advise,” Dalcoran sai
d, “to ensure our guild is aligned with any resolutions and in a position to offer support.”

  Lelaine sipped her wine. “We all know the Cull Tarr are impervious to influence.”

  “Your Grace,” Vianne smiled. “We can offer more than influence. We are bound to serve you and mean to fulfill our oaths.”

  “Ah, yes, your new oaths,” Lelaine said and fluffed the ruffles on her sleeves. The doyen sighed, and Catling stifled a laugh. Their oath to the queen came with a cost, and Lelaine would force them to pay in full. “Our negotiations commence tomorrow morning. Tenth bell so we may all recover from this evening’s festivities. You will be expected.”

  Dismissed, the doyen retreated. “That was entertaining,” Lelaine whispered with a glance at Catling. “I promise to be kinder tomorrow. Did anyone attempt to influence me?”

  “No one,” Catling said. “They know better. It’s everyone else I’m curious about.”

  “The Cull Tarr in particular.” Lelaine swiveled in her chair and beckoned Catling closer. “Do you recall when Linc said not all Cull Tarr are pure? I want you to experiment, subtly. Attempt to sway them. Tell me if you can move them even a smidgeon.”

  Catling glanced around the room; the Cull Tarr had yet to make an entrance, presumably waiting on the Shiplord’s pleasure. “The Shiplord too?”

  Lelaine straightened as a flurry of activity erupted at the door. “At your discretion.”

  Twelve Queen’s Guardsmen strode in ahead of six Cull Tarr jacks with ceremonial cutlasses dangling from their belts. They lacked identical uniforms, though the long wide-shouldered jackets, scarlet vests, and calf-length trousers came close enough. Not all of them possessed the swarthy Cull Tarr coloring, yet they were all sun-browned from life upon the sea. Gold coins jingled at their ankles in an ostentatious display of grandeur.

  Lelaine’s guardsmen joined their fellows in strategic positions around the walls, at the door, and near Lelaine. The six Cull Tarr formed a corridor with their bodies. “Tull Airon,” one of them shouted, “Shiplord of the Cull Tarr, Ruler of the Cull Sea.”

  The Shiplord strode into the room and halted inside the door, fists on his hips. He stared at Lelaine, his eyes half-lidded and lips curved in a sly smile. No weapons studded his belt, and he wore no gold. His apparel resembled that of his jacks except of a finer quality and tailored fit. Even his ebony hair lacked the shaved patterns she’d identified as Cull Tarr, his long locks drawn back into a simple tail. He wasn’t particularly tall or broad or even handsome, and Catling’s expectations would have fizzled like a wet fire if the power he exuded didn’t make her blink.

  Lelaine inhaled a breathy gasp. “Not what I expected,” she murmured, rising to her feet.

  Her herald stepped forward and swept an arm in her direction. “Her Grace, Queen Lelaine-Elan, Ruler of Ellegeance.”

  She dipped her chin, arms opening to her sides as she greeted him. “Welcome to my city and my realm, Tull Airon, Shiplord of the Cull Tarr.”

  The Shiplord bowed suitably low and strode toward her. His guards fanned into the crowd while keeping an eye on their charge. A retinue of other Cull Tarr entered behind him. Lelaine waited as he approached and he bowed again. “Your Grace Lelaine-Elan, the honor is mine.”

  “You may call me Lelaine-Elan.”

  “Tull Airon, if you wish.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “We have much to discuss, you and I; however, the evening is for pleasure, no?”

  “In honor of your visit.” She accepted a goblet of wine from a proffered tray. “We shall begin discussions in the morning.”

  The servant offered the tray to the Shiplord, and he declined. “My regrets, but I am particular about what I imbibe.”

  “Purity.” Lelaine sipped her wine. “Merely in your drink or in all aspects of your life?”

  He smiled, his dark eyebrows arching above steel-gray eyes. “Wherever possible.” His interest swung to Catling and back. “We do not appreciate influencers. To the Cull Tarr, our emotions are the core of our identities, the elements comprising our histories.”

  “Your emotions? Not your thoughts?” Lelaine asked, joining him.

  “Emotion is the impetus behind all deliberation, all choices, all action. Without emotions, we wouldn’t rise in the morning, pursue our ambitions, live with passion and pathos. To invade the core of a man or woman and steal their identity is similar to rape, no?”

  “On that account, I quite agree,” Lelaine said. “Influence is an ever-present threat.”

  The Shiplord gestured at Catling. “And yet you allow a guild of influencers, a tier city in their control, and such an unusual creature at your back.”

  Catling met his eyes, her face neutral as she pressed an infusion of fear and love into his skin, a combination designed to instill a sense of respect for her authority in any Ellegean man. He held her gaze, unmoved, and Catling had no doubt of the curiosity and disdain flickering across his lips.

  Lelaine turned, appraising Catling. “A trusted and necessary companion.”

  “I would not allow it.” He removed a flask from an inside pocket of his jacket, unscrewed the top and drank.

  “Then it is well that the decision isn’t yours,” Lelaine replied with a smile despite the bite in her tone.

  “A woman with a will, no?” Tull Airon laughed and welcomed two others into the conversation.

  Ambassador Falco Linc bowed as did the shipmaster accompanying him. Unlike the Shiplord’s unembellished attire and simple grooming, scarlet embroidery trimmed Linc’s long jacket and black enameled plates encrusted the shoulders. He wore his dark hair straight and slick with oil. “Lelaine-Elan is an adept ruler. I believe she knows Shipmaster Emer Tilkon.”

  “I know the Shipmaster well enough,” Lelaine said, lifting her chin and peering down her nose. “Welcome to Elan-Sia.”

  Emer Tilkon bowed. “My respects, Your Grace.” She straightened, a slight quirk to her scarred lip. She matched Gannon’s florid description—beak-nosed, sturdy as a tree trunk, and tough as bark. She oozed raw power in her skin-slick leggings, leather bodice and matching black skirt split up the front to her waist. “It’s been some years since we rescued you from the sea. I wonder if Gannon is present. He owes me a conversation.”

  “I sent him south.” Lelaine swiveled to face the Shiplord. “What do you think of my new banners? I ordered them fashioned as a gift to you.” She strolled toward the nearest, a depiction of three dragnets coasting in a sunset sea ahead of a storm. The Shiplord joined her, the ambassador a step behind. Tilkon watched them depart and cracked her knuckles. Catling swept her with a wave of ease and love, and doubted the woman felt either.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Catling tagged behind the queen with Colton, Lelaine’s vigilant but unobtrusive shadow. Lelaine and Tull Airon rambled in a wide circle around the room, admiring the banners, the composition of the designs, vibrant colors, and delicate stitching that connected each piece of the mosaics.

  “I understand you are steady on the waves and deft with the wind, Lelaine-Elan.” He offered his arm, and she accepted. “You would enjoy our life on the sea. We build settlements along the shore, beyond Nor-Bis and Rho-Dania. Did you know the coast extends beyond our ability to explore? The Cull Tarr are not confined by the Founders’ tiers. I could not live on such a small petal, so high in the air. Your view extends to the horizon, but you are imprisoned by the design of your flower.”

  “I may descend whenever I please,” Lelaine assured him. “A minor inconvenience for a glorious view.”

  “Ah, but why restrict one’s dreams at all?” He cocked his head. “One day my kingdom will outgrow Ellegeance.”

  “Perhaps the Founders intended to confine us. Have you considered that perhaps they planted the cities exactly as they wished?”

  “The Founders were no cowards, Lelaine-Elan. They were conquerors. You already outgrow your tiers and claim additional land. You cannot eat without a harvest, and that requires taming the wilderness. E
xpansion is desirable, no?”

  “We only speculate about the Founders’ intentions, don’t we?” She sipped her wine. “As rulers, we gather information, render decisions, and trust they are the proper ones for our people.”

  “The Founders’ intentions were written for us in the Protocols. There is no need to speculate.”

  Her eyes alight, Lelaine smiled. “I understand that the Book of Protocols is limited in scope and has been adapted and interpreted by you, Tull Airon.”

  Ambassador Linc shared a glance with Catling and stepped forward. “Your Grace, the Shiplord’s reading of the Protocols is without ambiguity.”

  “What about your use of slaves to build your cities?” Lelaine asked. “I understand there is no mention of slavery in your Book.”

  They strolled along the banquet tables. Tull Airon admired the selection but neglected to eat. “Each man, woman, and child bears a duty to the Cull Tarr. Those who defy the laws may still serve. Slavery is preferable to a hanging for both the criminal and the victim, no? I hear endless reports that in Ellegeance you hang your criminals, including children.”

  “That practice is ending.”

  “But has not yet ended?” He raised an eyebrow. “I would not allow it.”

  Catling doubted the Cull Tarr refrained from hangings, and if Gannon spoke truthfully, they entertained no qualms about throwing miscreants and rebels overboard to feed the maws. And Airon wasn’t wrong in his statement about Ellegeance. Hangings hadn’t ceased, and any reduction was a result of the high ward’s choice, not Ellegean law.

  The Shiplord turned to Catling as if he’d read her mind. “What is your opinion, Influencer?”