Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 25

  In the morning, he and Sim and Rose planted a tree, the old way, digging with their hands and sharp stones, cutting away the gnarled roots and prying up rocks. Sim held the sapling straight while Rose squatted by the hole and threw in handfuls of dirt. Whitt sang a song about numbers Zadie had taught him as a boy, and Rose sang along. He helped fill in the hole and tamped it down while Rose spilled a bucket of water on his boots. She laughed when he jumped aside.

  “This tree marks our new family,” Sim said. “When we die, this is where our loved ones will hang our bones.”

  Whitt made a face, the ritual so un-Ellegean he didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to it. But to Sim, it marked their home, and that part brightened his spirits.

  The time had arrived to find Gannon.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Whitt rode through the south pastures into Tor’s Farlander district, avoiding the main road, city guards, and unpredictable citizens bearing a grudge. The morning dawned with rare warmth and a welcome breeze. His palms sweated, and his neck hurt from craning, a wary eye on the lookout for trouble.

  Behind him, Sim sat her saddle with Rose against her chest, a protective arm holding the child in place. The two of them would spend the day visiting while he conspired with Gannon. He didn’t care for Sim’s insistence, didn’t like her presence in the city at all. Though two years smoothed the rough edges of her experiences, Tor still judged her a fugitive.

  “Perhaps, you should…” He pivoted and saw her face. “Should enjoy yourselves.” He smiled, and Rose rewarded him with a bolt of excitement. His hand rose to his heart. “My feeling are—”

  “Mine,” Rose finished for him and hunched her shoulders up to her ears in an irresistible display of cuteness. He eyed Sim. Apparently, his every attempt to finish a sentence would end in failure.

  “We’ll see you at the fourth bell, Ellegean.” Sim quirked a sly smile and reined her horse onto a narrow lane that cut through the ramshackle homes and trees chiming with bones.

  He rode from the Farlanders’ quarter onto the wide road that bordered a quiet market, the plaza oddly barren of the craftsmen, traders, and merchants who hawked their wares in the fleeting Summertide warmth. Normally, Ellegean wagons and improvised tables stood between Farlander carts, and their absence stung like a wound. He slumped in his saddle, worry pressing him to backtrack and find Sim.

  Instead, he clucked at the horse, urging it forward. The nightmare bloodletting of scarcely a week ago and the hangings and lootings since, lingered in the air like the morning’s humidity, impossible to avoid. The inability to cooperate, to live respectfully and honorably, made no sense. No one was immune to fear. Anyone could die.

  The acrid scent of wet smoke lingered in the thick air as he rounded the burned shell of a shop. Once the business of a tanner or cooper, he couldn’t remember. Ahead of him, the dirt yard of the guardians’ brick quarters bustled with activity. Gannon and Tiler stood between the house and stable, chatting with Lodan, the man rivaling Tiler in height though lugging half the bulk. Gannon’s hands were riveted to his hips, his brow furrowed beneath his dark curls. Tavor and Cale stood among four other guardians, all sporting their greens, leather armor, and baldrics stuffed with weaponry.

  Whitt drew on the reins, dismounted, and led the horse into the yard. Lodan noticed him first and Gannon pivoted. “High Ward Antoris requests our presence for a negotiation.”

  “Ours? When?” Whitt scratched a new itch on his neck.

  “Both of us and now. An hour ago by the time we get there.”

  “Why?”

  Gannon looked at him askance. “Maybe because the thorns in this little non-war are starting to prick him where it hurts. I’ve groveled for an audience, and it appears he’s finally interested. I won’t complain if this is the end and we walk away with a treaty.”

  The itch on Whitt’s neck persisted, and he adjusted his collar. “Have you considered it may be a trap?”

  “I’m the queen’s consort.” Gannon’s eyebrows bobbed. “Or close enough, and you were pardoned.”

  “Not for crimes we don’t know about.” Whitt didn’t like this. The day felt unsettled, the picture blurred as though observed through fevered eyes.

  Lodan pointed with his beard to the guardians in the yard. “They’re all coming along. No one’s going to cut throats without Guardian hearing about it.”

  “I suppose that would get the commander over the pass.” Whitt turned to Gannon. “It’s time to send a rider to Guardian. That’s why I’m here. If nothing else, beheadings count as aggression.”

  “Agreed. If nothing comes of today’s meeting, we’ll dispatch riders in the morning.” Gannon patted the sheath at his belt and tugged on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  High Ward Antoris kept them waiting, an irritating but unsurprising ploy. Gannon paced, and when the doors to the hall swung wide, he leaned toward Whitt. “Let me do the talking.” Whitt nodded, tension radiating from him like a sour sweat. Gannon carried his own case of the jitters, but he’d dealt with enough tier elites to handle the heat.

  He entered, followed by Whitt, Tiler, and Lodan. Together, they provided a hearty sampling of official emissary, rebel sympathizer, brute enforcer, and Guardian warrior. The high ward’s guards had relieved them of their weapons but not their power, and the rest of the guardians were suitably armed and steps beyond the door.

  City guards in their plum regalia lined the wall. The bodies girding the table perked up, and the Antoris-Tor narrowed his piercing eyes. A disdainful scowl dragged down his cheeks as if his beard had acquired weight.

  The four of them bowed to the high ward, to Influencers Ardal and Olivan and the justice. “My respects.” Gannon smiled pleasantly and walked forward, hands clasped behind his back. “May I request that…”

  Antoris waved a hand at the influencers who dipped their chins in reply.

  “Thank you for the accommodation,” Gannon said to both men. “I’m certain you all wish this negotiation to progress without suspicion.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation.” The high ward tapped a spindly finger on the table.

  Gannon cocked his head, a blend of confusion and amusement etching his face. “Forgive my misunderstanding, but your summons mentioned a negotiation.”

  “A one-sided negotiation,” Ardal informed him.

  “You do stretch the queen’s patience,” Gannon said, addressing the advisors, his words too bold for a high ward. “She has agreed to a renegotiated treaty when she could simply let the law stand. Your refusal to acknowledge her gracious offer or accommodate a discussion is insolent.”

  Justice Narl cleared his throat and held up a piece of paper in his plump hand. “Our negotiation commences with our demands. One, the Farlanders will cease their destructive practices on Ellegean land immediately. Two, the Farlanders will vacate Tor by Brightest Night. Three, the Farl—”

  “First of all,” Gannon said, “The clans can’t be blamed for wind and rain. You’re asking the impossible.”

  “Strange.” Ardal pinched his eyebrows together and peered at Whitt. “The Farlanders say otherwise. In fact, they are rather boastful about their power to manipulate the land, wind, and water. You might find it astonishing, but as an influencer, I believe them.”

  Whitt stepped forward, and Gannon wished he’d step back. Utter disbelief and wholehearted denial of the ludicrous assumption would work better than anything Whitt could offer.

  “High Ward, Antoris,” Whitt said with a respectful bow. “The Farlanders believe the land is sentient, that it makes choices in an effort to restore balance. They maintain that the land’s spirits, what they call the kari, rise up in protest when Ellegeans disregard the planet’s health, when we obliterate forests, dam rivers, choke the air, and slaughter its life. The land will continue to revolt until the rape of the planet ceases.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Olivan balked. “We aren’t fools.”

  Gannon chuckled.
“Whitt merely affords you the Farlanders’ superstitions regarding the events. It’s no more plausible than your suggestion that they control the weather, reroute rivers, and collapse mountainsides.”

  “Two.” Justice Narl licked his lips. “The Farlanders will vacate—”

  “And regarding your demand that the Farlanders vacate Tor by Brightest Night,” Gannon charged on. “That request is hardly in the spirit of compromise. It’s unacceptable and unlawful.”

  Ardal sighed with the forbearance of a long-suffering influencer, and Gannon checked himself for any sign of sway. His temper was piqued, but he didn’t sense anything odd about that.

  “I suspect,” Ardal said as if bored by the interruption of his day, “that you will object to our third item as well.” He waved for Narl to continue.

  The justice rattled the paper, cleared his throat, and patted his chest. “Three, the Farlanders will vacate the entire province within one year of this date, confining themselves to the land south of the Farland River.”

  Gannon blinked and a smirk twisted his face. He looked straight at the high ward and laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  Antoris-Tor rose to his feet and stabbed a finger in the air. “Do you think for one moment I’m intimidated by your obstinacy? I’ll make life so hard for the savages they’ll be dying to leave on their own.”

  “High Ward Antoris.” Gannon inhaled, gaining control of his shock. “The queen wishes us to negotiate a responsible treaty that respects the rights of—”

  The door flew open, and Tavor strode into the hall, fully armed. The guards along the wall bristled, and those closest to the high ward leapt forward in defense. Tavor stopped short. “We need to run. The Farlander district is on fire.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Whitt spun and dashed from the hall. In the corridor, he grabbed his blades and sheathed them as he bounded down the wide, stone steps to the road. Plumes of smoke rose from the city’s west end, more than one fire. Tavor and Cale appeared at his side, and he glanced back to see Gannon, Tiler, and the rest of the guardians on his heels. “Sim and Rose are in there.” He eyed Tavor. “Antoris planned this. The market was barren. The Ellegeans knew. Antoris knew.”

  “We’ll find them,” Cale said.

  The smoke wafted into the road in a milky haze. Tongues of vermillion flame lapped at the sky above the rooftops. Whitt sprinted on, ignoring his ankle that continued to ache. He hooked the last corner, and beyond the low wall marking the district, he encountered a nightmare. Five of the nearest homes were in flames, the old wooden walls and roofs catching easy as tinder. Trees burned like brands, and the breeze sent the inferno stretching and leaping from limb to limb and on to the next home. Other fires flared farther in. The whole place blazed.

  Farlanders streamed from the flames and smoke, clutching children and leading panicked livestock. Others dashed into the smog, calling names and shouting for help.

  “Split up,” Tavor barked.

  Whitt didn’t stop to reply. He darted into the midst of the chaos and down the main track toward Shafter’s old home, ducking the heat. Farlanders ran everywhere. Tall and fair-haired, they resembled ghosts in the smoke. He focused on the children, seeking Rose’s small dark head and shouting Sim’s name. The homes to his left were engulfed, the heat oppressive, the roar of the fire and collapse of a roof drowning out his voice. “Sim!” Hands cupped to his mouth, he jogged on. “Sim!”

  The conflagration spread. He loped through the smoke, shouting into the narrow lanes and swatting at floating embers. A tree flared and leapt to a nearby roof, the heat hurting his lungs. A child screamed, the sound piercing his heart.

  “Sim!” He ran between two burning homes, following the wail. At the next lane, terror slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He staggered, caught in a maelstrom of heat, smoke, and fire. Death howled in his face. The brutal prospect of burning alive released waves of panic that tore at his senses. He needed to escape, the fear impenetrable and driving him into a desperate retreat. “Sim!” he screamed. “Sim!”

  “Whitt,” her voice mewled from an alleyway. He spun into the gap, slamming into a wall, his eyes wild for signs of fire. They weren’t going to survive it. Sim cowered in a doorway, her face ashen with terror. Rose shook in her lap, her mouth open, hands clawing at the air for him.

  “Cover her face,” Whitt shouted, staggering toward her and fumbling with his cloak’s cord. “Cover her.”

  “No,” Sim screamed at him, fear erasing any trace of understanding, her eyes darting, hands shaking and gripping Rose. Whitt tore at the knot at his throat and pulled a knife. Sim screamed and slapped it away. Rose’s voice joined in the terrible din of panic as he peeled his cloak over his head and leapt at the child, covering her head.

  Rose wailed and twisted, her arms flailing, but he held the rough wool over her face as he gasped. “Influence, Sim. Her influence.” He stared at her. “It wasn’t real.” The fire hadn’t retreated, but reason tempered the flames.

  Sim gaped at him as he gently shushed Rose, arranged the cloak, and picked her up. “We’re together now.” He whispered in her ear, “Can you think happy thoughts? About sweet treats and hugging Sim. I need you to calm and rest, and I’ll carry you. We’re all safe.” He extended a hand to Sim and mouthed the words, “We need to hurry.”

  They jogged out the alley’s other end. The fire advanced and spread, moving east to west. In time, the inferno would swallow the whole district leaving nothing but smoldering ash. He loped down two more lanes and then followed Sim as she veered to their right where the fire hadn’t yet clawed its way through the homes.

  Around the next corner, they stopped. Six men and women held torches to the eaves of two homes and tossed burning debris through the window. Sim cursed. The Ellegeans faced them, amusement the defining emotion sparking in their eyes and tugging at their smiles.

  “Take Rose to the guardian’s quarters.”

  “No,” she growled.

  “I’ll follow.” He passed the child to her, peeling the girl’s arms from his neck. “I’ll be fine. The faster you run, the faster I’ll follow.”

  She met his eyes, and whispered, “I’m going to burn down their city.” Then she turned and ran. Whitt snatched up a piece of wood, the end smoldering. Three men approached him, fanning out, as the others set light to another home.

  “You need to find another place to live,” one said.

  “So do you.”

  The man, taller and broader than Whitt, shuffled forward and swung. Whitt swayed back, ducked under the torch, and thrust the charred end of his club into the man’s gut. The fellow folded, and before he dropped, Whitt caught a second man with a heel to the side of his knee. A torch pounded down on this raised arm, a hit he couldn’t evade. Someone blindsided him on the back of his head. Light sparkled in this vision. He spun with an elbow, hit air, and followed with a fist that connected with a woman’s forehead. Another strike slammed into his back, and he stumbled forward, dropping to a knee.

  Time to run, he staggered up. A body bulled into him, and he landed on his hands and knees. Scrambling for his feet, he saw the kick coming. It connected with his bruised ribs. The pain strangled him, and he curled for the beating, a flurry of fists and feet hammering on his bones.

  “Burn him.” A women laughed, and someone thrust a torch in his face. He swatted it away, while another struck the back of his head, burning his hair. Someone shouted.

  “Filching guardians,” one of his attackers groaned. “Let’s go.”

  Whitt lay there, catching his breath, twitching his muscles as an internal check for injuries. A hand gripped his arm and hoisted him up. “No time for napping, turdwit,” Tiler said. “This place is cooked.”

  Whitt limped out between Tiler and Tavor, the pain in his ribs making it hard to breathe, let alone cough in the clouds of smoke. His face stung from the torch, but other than a few blisters, he figured he’d survive.

>   The air began to clear as the wind picked up and turned, blowing the fire east into the rest of the city. Alarm bells pealed from the high ward’s tower. He spotted Sim sitting on the stoop of the guardians’ building with a small smile reserved for the growing conflagration. Rose perched beside her, drinking a cup of water or juice and nibbling wedges of a lissom that Sim peeled. Despite the sooty skin and weariness on their faces, they both appeared serene.

  He limped over to them on loose knees, his body too rickety to do anything as dramatic as bend and sit. Rose smiled up at him and took his hand. “Can I fix you?” The sting of the burn on his jaw eased, and his next breath didn’t feel like daggers splitting his ribs.

  “Thank you, Rose.” She didn’t understand that she ought to wait for an answer, but he lacked the energy or impulse to teach. The alarm bells rang, and he gazed at the inner city wall. “Sim, the fire. There are too many lives at stake, too many children.”

  She smiled up at him. “I merely blew on the blaze they started. I’m done. Cylas will bring enough water to put it out.”

  He exhaled a long breath, looked for the old mage, didn’t see him, and then hobbled to the well. Most of the guardians had returned from the fire. Gannon stood by the stable with Lodan and beckoned to him. Whitt followed on Tavor and Tiler’s heels and leaned on the stable door, uncertain of his balance.

  “The Ellegeans demonstrated their willingness to negotiate,” Gannon said. “Whitt’s right. No more delays, we’re sending riders to Jagur and demanding he honor the queen’s word.”

  “This won’t be the end of it,” Whitt said. “It’s going to get worse.”

  “Then he needs to get his rump down here.” Gannon wiped a sleeve across his face and frowned at the grime. “We’ll send a delegation capable of answering questions. Whitt and I can’t go. So I’m including Tiler, and we need a guardian or two.”