Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Page 24

  “No,” Dalcoran said. “He’s talented, and he will learn.”

  “The same can be said for Catling,” she argued.

  With the power of the senior doyen, Dalcoran shook his head. “It’s not the same. She’s an unknown. She poses a threat to our power, a force that may upset the balance we carefully maintain. In the wrong hands, she could sway decisions, alter events, diminish our power, change the realm’s future. Can you imagine her skill in the hands of the Cull Tarr, the Farlanders?”

  “We eliminate her,” Piergren said, no hint of mockery in his face.

  “My regrets, Vianne. Yet, I’m afraid I agree.” Dalcoran met her eyes before pivoting to Tunvise.

  “She’s a child, Tunvise,” Vianne begged. Her manipulative indifference vanished as her responsibility for Catling’s fate twisted her heart. “It wasn’t her choice to come here. Let me send her away. I can ship her to Guardian; she has family there. Tunvise, please.”

  The old mercy’s brow wrinkled, and he folded his spindly fingers in his lap. “Unfortunately for the girl, you have made a shambles of noble intentions, Vianne. By your own word, you delivered her here and honed her power. You leave us no choice but to mop up your mistakes. This is a cruel lesson for you and ill-fated for the girl. I’m an old man and far from merciless, yet you’ve left us no choice. I must side with death.”

  “Qeyon?” Vianne asked. Guild rules forbade the use of influence on him. Their two options were physical discipline or death.

  “I recommend flogging,” Piergren said.

  Vianne struggled to breathe as she found her feet. “I’d like to retire.”

  “We haven’t discussed your fate.” Piergren regarded her mildly before he addressed Dalcoran, “I recommend flogging for Vianne-Ava as well.”

  “You can’t be serious” Vianne’s mouth gaped as she looked between the men.

  “Privately,” Dalcoran agreed. “Until first blood.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The knock on the door startled him. Gannon glanced up from his book, weighed his options, and then read to the end of the page. He inserted an embroidered place-marker and set the book on a polished table. Learning to read had been the single upside of his captivity, and he hadn’t lacked for books or the time to read them.

  In no hurry, he sipped from a goblet of wine and wasted several moments fluffing an arrangement of roses. The knuckles rapped with greater urgency while he extracted minuscule specks of lint from the arms of his long jacket. Forcing his masters to wait remained one of few delights.

  His years in the opulent accommodations of Berdrum-Ava of the Bankers’ Guild might have been a coveted fantasy to his younger warren-bound self, but with the benefit of hindsight, he’d choose pitiable freedom over luxurious imprisonment any day.

  Berdrum was a podgy, anxious little troll with the keen nose of a predator. The gold coin inked into the back of the banker’s plump hand signaled his loyalty and a clear appreciation of power. Berdrum paid his staff well, and he either owed Vianne a courtesy or he wished her to owe one to him.

  “Gannon,” a voice said from the hallway. “It’s Qeyon. If you would.”

  Curiosity won over bad manners. Gannon tapped the panel, and Qeyon entered without an invitation. The man looked no different than he had five years ago on the ferry, his face smooth and shaved head adorned with an influencer’s blue woads.

  Gannon shut the door. “You could at least leave me with the impression that I have some control over my own quarters.”

  “My respects and apologies.” Qeyon bowed. “I’m here to aid in your escape, provided you slip Catling out of Ava-Grea with you.”

  “Hm.” Gannon returned to the round table and refilled his wine goblet. He took a seat, one leg draped over the chair’s arm. “You realize, I’m sure, Vianne has prevented my departure for five years.”

  Qeyon nodded. “I’ll admit, I questioned her wisdom. She insisted you were essential should her plans falter. By detaining you, she protected Catling.”

  “And coerced her?” Gannon downed his wine, the influencer’s silence confirmation enough. “I’d rather she killed me.”

  “She assured me it was always her intention to release you… eventually.”

  “You are a gullible man, Qeyon.”

  “A debate for another day. Everything has changed.” The emotive drew a breath. “The council has learned Catling’s secret. Vianne’s attempt to ship her to safety failed when Piergren intercepted us. As we speak, the tier guards search for me, and word spreads faster than a virus. Vianne will be whipped at dawn until she bleeds, and Catling will be executed.”

  Gannon’s hand trembled as he set his goblet on the table. He forced the flood of information through his head and narrowed his eyes. “Are you influencing me?”

  The man shook his head. “I won’t compel you. I need your assistance.”

  “They’re going to whip Vianne with a real whip?”

  “Our code forbids us to use influence on each other,” Qeyon replied. “They won’t heal her. She’ll bear the scars.”

  “I can’t say I’m terribly distraught over her plight. Or yours, for that matter.”

  “And Catling? Is she not, in part, your responsibility?” Qeyon met his eyes. “Your involvement brought her to our attention.”

  “They’ll kill her with influence?”

  “Quickly and painlessly.”

  “When?”

  “In the morning, after Vianne is whipped.”

  “What if she blocks them?”

  Qeyon blanched, the complication clearly overlooked. Gannon rose from his chair. He drained another goblet of wine to settle his nerves. More than once, he’d attempted to escape Ava-Grea and failed. Now his captors instructed him to run, and trepidation tickled his spine.

  “Where is she?”

  “Twelfth tier with Vianne in her quarters.”

  “I’m not taking Vianne with me.”

  Qeyon bowed. “She wouldn’t wish it. Her work will continue.”

  “How do you know all this?” Gannon began pacing. He trusted these influencers to tell the truth like he trusted a rainstorm to keep him dry.

  “Word travels through the guards and servants. I walked in here. If we delay, I won’t walk out.”

  “I’m free after this?” Gannon eyed the man.

  “It seems so.” Qeyon glanced at the door, tense as a seed ready to sprout. “I need your help.”

  Gannon nodded. His mind raced ahead as his body jolted into action. “We need a key to get into the pylon. Who does maintenance on the ninth tier?” He strode to his clothes chest, pulled out a black jacket, and tossed it at the influencer. “Your disguise.”

  “I…” Qeyon blinked and caught the garment. “Maintenance? I have no idea.”

  “Then we need Berdrum.” Gannon yanked a sham from a pillow and began stuffing it with trinkets from the room. “Write him a love letter.”

  “A what?” Qeyon had grown roots in the carpet.

  “A love letter.” Gannon pointed to the writing desk. “From Vianne. Dearest Berdrum, we have been found out. Make it a conspiracy. Because of my deep affection for you, I’ve kept your part in our deception from Dalcoran, but tomorrow I’ll be whipped into confessing.”

  “That’s not honest.” Qeyon sat at the desk and began to write.

  Gannon grabbed another sham that he crammed with clothing. “None of it’s honest. The truth isn’t our intent.”

  “He won’t believe it,” Qeyon said.

  “He will when you slather him with influence. Keep going. We have betrayed our guilds, put our interests above our vows. That will scare him. They’ll flay that coin off his hand, and he’ll be frying fish for a living instead of counting gold. Now, as I face my accusers, I must confess my gratitude and love for you and beg you to save me. Come directly to me and bring Gannon. Do not speak to the other doyen until we have—add a thoughtful pause here—aligned our words. My heart is yours, Vianne. Embellish as you wish.
”

  While Qeyon furrowed his brow and wrote, Gannon opened the door. His guard leaned against the wall, yawning. “Sevan?” Gannon punched him on the shoulder.

  “Stop doing that.” The guard raised a fist in warning.

  “I need Berdrum. There’s an influencer here with a private message from Vianne.”

  “Why does Berdrum need to come here? I’ll take the influencer to him.”

  Gannon gave the guard an impatient huff. “Because it has to do with me, and it's private, and because he won’t want to make a big show of this one.”

  “But who will guard you?”

  “I shall ensure he remains,” Qeyon called from the desk.

  “But, Gan, if—”

  “Just do it, Sevan. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Will you put in a decent word for me with Kaliya?” The guard’s eyebrows bobbed like corks with a prize on the line.

  “Kaliya?” Gannon balked; the chambermaid had the curves of a broomstick and intellect of a brick. “Fine, go.”

  “How…What if—”

  “Use your charm,” Gannon said and shut the door. The sealed letter sat on the desk while the wax dried and Qeyon slipped into the black jacket. Gannon transferred the missive to a table, rumpling it on the way. “The main goal is to get us into the pylon. Convince Berdrum of the need for secrecy. When we reach Vianne, she’ll need to bewitch him, or one of you will need to knock him out.”

  “Knock him out?” Qeyon’s eyes widened. “Punch him?”

  “Use your influence. Cut his air; give him a bit of a head injury. Whatever it is you do. We won’t require long.” His gaze caught on the blue-woaded scalp. “Cover your head.”

  The influencer lifted the hood of his jacket.

  “Now we wait.” Gannon set his two sacks by the door and poured another goblet of wine. “You start. I’ll pipe in if you get stuck.”

  “I’m not comfortable lying.” Qeyon fidgeted and took a seat.

  “Lying is what you do,” Gannon said. “Tricking people into feeling emotions they don’t feel. I use words; you use your powers. It’s the same thing.”

  “I suppose motives make a difference,” Qeyon murmured, his eyebrows pinched.

  They sat in silence through the ninth bell. The sky darkened, the larger moons waxing and waning as Misanda’s blue eye peered through the window. Gannon considered suggesting they sneak out, brave the stairs, and lie their way in. They might make it if Qeyon influenced the guards and Gannon bashed in the heads of every influencer sent to stop them. Or they might get lucky.

  The knock shot them from their seats. While Qeyon sucked in a breath, Gannon opened the door and bowed. “My respects, Berdrum-Ava. You know Qeyon-Ava.” He invited the stout man in and winked at Sevan. The guard looked as if the banker had trampled him.

  The frown creasing Berdrum’s chins flipped into a jiggling smile. “Why, Qeyon, yes. Delighted, of course. I wish I’d known you waited. I would have canceled all appointments and invited you to dine.”

  Qeyon bowed and presented the letter. “Vianne sends her… affection and begs your favor.”

  “Oh,” Berdrum chuckled. “Oh, my.” He accepted the letter and broke the seal. His face paled as a fat hand clutched his heart. Then he flushed, cheeks quivering with ire. “This is preposterous! My dear Vianne. I must speak to Dalcoran immediately.”

  Gannon cleared his throat.

  “Vianne… wishes to speak with you first,” Qeyon said. “To protect you from misguided accusations.”

  The man’s face blanched. “Accusations. What accusations? There’s no betrayal here.”

  “My imprisonment,” Gannon said mildly. “The two of you in collusion, hiding your business relationship from your guilds. You might be accused of currying favor with influencers to unfairly sway your associates or customers. Your guild might find that unacceptable.”

  “Collusion, my buttocks,” Berdrum barked. “I should never have agreed to this arrangement. She likely influenced me.”

  Gannon coughed, his eyes boring into Qeyon.

  “The letter tells a different tale,” Qeyon said with a dose of drama. “She holds you dear to her heart and wishes only to protect you. The pain she will endure is nothing compared to her heartbreak and her burden of worry over your welfare.”

  Under less dire circumstances, Gannon would have groaned, but Qeyon’s influence swayed the man’s emotions. Tears glazed Berdrum’s owlish eyes. “Oh, my dear girl. She is too virtuous for this world. We must go at once. I’ll call my guards.”

  “We must act in secret,” Gannon warned.

  “Yes, secrecy is called for.” Qeyon echoed. “Vianne wishes your private counsel first.”

  Gannon raked a hand through his hair in thought. “We can reach her through the pylon without notice. All we need is a key. Qeyon, do you have a key?”

  “I regret I don’t.” Qeyon patted his pockets.

  “I’ll send Sevan to procure one.” Berdrum’s face lit up like a full moon, heart flooded with excitement, love, heroism, and whatever else Qeyon tossed his way.

  ***

  Any concept of stealth the banker possessed was limited to financial transactions. His physical body couldn’t help but bull its way through the moonlit air and the guards at Vianne’s door. Gannon held his breath, expecting Qeyon’s influence to break down under pressure. Instead, the emotive manipulated with a blend of sentiments he found intriguing to watch.

  The door glided open. Vianne scowled at the unexpected guest who lurched forward and clutched her in a pawing embrace, his round face buried in her breasts. He crumpled to the floor the moment Gannon shut the door.

  “What is he doing here?” she snapped.

  Qeyon handed her the letter while Gannon pilfered the unconscious man’s jacket for the key, a purse of coins slipping into his pocket as well. If he judged the weight correctly, he no longer needed his collected baubles and kicked them to the wall. “We need to undress him and tuck him in your bed.”

  Vianne huffed. “You must be—”

  “Then tell me how and where you want him,” Gannon interrupted, “because he’s yours, and I don’t have time to argue.”

  She growled and spun on her heel. “Fine.” She marched down the corridor.

  Hefting the banker between them, Gannon and Qeyon followed. As they jostled the body through Vianne’s doorway, Gannon caught sight of Catling staring at him from farther down the hall. If not for her eye, he wouldn’t have recognized her. He smiled before stumbling into the room.

  With a grunt, he heaved his end of Berdrum into the bed and rolled him from the edge. The undressing he’d leave to Vianne. Catling appeared in the doorway. “We need to leave,” he told her.

  “Take her to the swamps,” Vianne said, touching a fingertip to the prone man when he groaned. “I need her nearby.”

  “Not if I have another choice,” Gannon said, peeved that the instructions changed. “I don’t know the rafters.”

  “Qeyon will accompany you,” the doyen said. “His influence will keep you safe.”

  “Influencers aren’t immune to a knife in the back,” Gannon reminded her. “I’ll need a weapon.”

  “In the top drawer.” She gestured to her clothes chest.

  He opened the drawer, smiled at the ornate dagger, and lifted it out with a small sack of coins. “We’ll need this as well.”

  She scowled at him and beckoned Catling forward. “Be safe. Watch for the arrival of your patron and don’t return until then.”

  “You could come with us,” Catling said.

  “No, I must stay, or everything I’ve done is for nothing. We are both without choices, Catling. Go now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Catling waited with Gannon while Qeyon walked into the night and doused the guards with influence. She scarcely heard the exchanged words, but her jailors’ voices rang with admiration and a servile stuttering of fear. If they noticed Qeyon’s uncharacteristic apparel, they failed to menti
on it.

  “I’m escorting the girl to the doyen’s hall,” Qeyon informed them. “Remain at your post.”

  Gannon inched Vianne’s door open and whispered in Catling’s ear, “Look down and act terrified.”

  “I am terrified.” Her gaze dropped to her boots as he prodded her through the doorway.

  “Who’s he?” A guard jerked his chin toward Gannon.

  Qeyon waved Catling forward. “He has information for Dalcoran-Ava regarding the child.”

  “Ah, well then.” The guard chuckled and the others laughed. “Forgive the question, Influencer.”

  “Follow me,” Qeyon said, and Catling obeyed, Gannon treading on her heels. Qeyon led them toward the meeting hall and paused, still within the guardsmen’s sight. Catling sensed his influence radiating across the distance but not for long; the moment he stepped from view, his hold would falter.

  “We’ll wait for you at the pylon,” Gannon said, grasping Catling’s hand. When Qeyon nodded, Gannon hauled her a dozen paces closer to the hall before veering into the twelfth tier garden. They darted between the potted trees until the pylon loomed before them. Another dash and he yanked her into the alcove.

  “It’s good to see you,” Catling whispered, pressed to the wall. He looked the same as he had in Mur-Vallis, though better tended, his black curls shining and clothes of a finer cloth. “I thought, by now, you were dead.”

  “I did too.” He unlocked the door and beckoned her in, shutting it behind them.

  “What about Qeyon?”

  “We’re leaving him.” Gannon started down the coiled ramp. “I don’t trust them, any of them.”

  Catling clamped her hands on the rail, refusing to follow. “They’ll catch him.”

  “Listen.” He turned to face her. “They tortured me and kept me prisoner in that fat man’s clutches for five years. I’m leaving this nightmare behind me. If you want to save your life, you’d better keep up.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer but quickened his pace. Catling hesitated, worried for Qeyon. Escaping Ava-Grea was what she’d desired, yearned for, and with each heartbeat, her opportunity grew evermore distant. Gannon’s stride echoed in the cavernous space, her last chance at freedom fading. “Wait!” She scurried down the ramp after him.