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Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 4


  The gunwales thunked together. A pair of grinning crewmen, the dullard Notic Pall and his less bright associate Devel Tarc held the dories side by side while Gannon untied the line to the floating ransom.

  “What happened to your eye?” Devel chuckled.

  “I had to convince them not to kill you.” Gannon held the line out of reach of his former crewmen. “Let her cross.”

  “Give us the line first,” Notic said, the man no longer smiling.

  Gannon knocked two of the chests over, spilling the loot, gave the treasure boat a shove, and tossed its bowline to the sea. He grabbed the gunwale of the Cull Tarr dory and held on. “Let the heiress board and go fetch it. It’s yours.”

  The Cull Tarr glared at him while their gold drifted away. Devel apparently had a breakthrough and waved the heiress off. “Go on.”

  “Founders’ blessings on you,” she said graciously and hurried over the gunwale. Before she even sat, Gannon pushed off and grabbed the oars, hauling with all his strength and mighty grateful for a year of callouses on this palms.

  “Thank you, Gannon,” the heiress said. “I owe you my life.”

  “Let’s get to the piers before we discuss my reward, shall we?” Over her shoulder, he watched the Cull Tarr duo reach the dory and grasp handfuls of coins while shouting at The Wandering Swan with glee. They held up fistfuls of loot to all those cheering at the ship’s rail.

  He hauled on the oars, reluctant to look over his shoulder at the city and slow his momentum. “Is our escort of guards headed this way?”

  “Yes. Why are you worried? We’re away.”

  “Turn around.”

  She swiveled on her bench and inhaled. The dory with the gold rode low in the gentle swells. Notic jumped into the sinking boat, handed over one chest, and began shoveling gold with scooped hands into its seaworthy counterpart. Half of the flung coins smacked Devel in the face and bounced into the sea. Devel shouted obscenities as he held the two vessels together and transferred frantic fistfuls with one hand. An occasional river rat flew into the sea or scrabbled over the side. The creatures’ pointy little noses popped to the surface and swam. Notic stood in the boat until it disappeared below the waves, its vast treasure of coins sinking to the seabed.

  The heiress swiveled to Gannon with a grin. “I’m undecided whether to slap you or kiss you.”

  ***

  The King’s Guardsman dipped his chin to Gannon as if he were a visiting dignitary. “The heiress requests your presence for dinner.”

  “Lead away.” The invitation expected, he put down the book of poetry he’d found at the bedside. Books were rare on the sea, luxuries he’d missed from his years of imprisonment in Ava-Grea. Fully bathed, he’d stood in front of a mirror, his black curls trimmed to his ears. He’d dressed in perfumed clothing very near his size: a long, deep blue jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, jet trousers, and knee-high boots.

  The guard led him from the visitors’ quarters up two flights to the twentieth tier, the peak of Elan-Sia. “The King’s Guard is grateful to you for bringing her home,” the man said.

  “It served us all,” Gannon replied, reluctant to paint himself a hero.

  The guard chuckled. “I wouldn’t relish serving the Shiplord.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Soon you’ll be the Queen’s Guard.”

  “True enough. My name is Colton. I’m from Dar-Callin.”

  “Mur-Vallis,” Gannon said, pausing at the tier’s rail.

  Blue Misanda and buttery Clio waxed gibbous. On the horizon, pink Sogul kissed the sea, a sliver beyond full. The sea and delta gleamed, the damp land dappled with shadows and the distant forests heaped like black wool. The tier itself lay in fragrant bloom, the potted garden lush and green with lampposts of luminescence lighting the walkways and royal residences.

  The last time Gannon visited the highest tier of a city had been in Ava-Grea, stealing Catling from her execution. The time before had occurred in Mur-Vallis when High Ward Algar’s guards slit Banda’s neck and sent Hale plummeting to his death.

  “This way.” The guard gestured to a wall of glass, the paneled doors open to welcome the sea’s breeze. The heiress sat at a candlelit table set for two, sipping from a chalice of wine. She wore a gemmed cap over a mane of blond ringlets, and a belted azure jacket embroidered with gold thread. Her underdress glimmered, a deeper blue, not far in shade from his attire. A matching pair, he thought with a smile and dismissed any fantasy beyond a palatable dinner.

  “Heiress,” the guard said, drawing her attention.

  She turned their way and smiled. “Gannon.”

  “At your command.” He bowed, and the guard retreated from the doorway.

  “Please,” the heiress gestured to the seat across from her. “Call me Lelaine. I’m too far in your debt for formalities.”

  He sat and a servant filled his goblet with wine. “You clean up well.”

  Her nose wrinkled as she laughed. “I should hope this is an improvement over a night of clinging to an upturned skiff.”

  “What possessed you to sail on Brightest Night?” He savored his wine, a rich red with a hint of kolsberry and witchwood.

  The smile on her face vanished. “Influence. The woman made me feel bored and angry, confident and reckless. She had talent beyond my imagining.”

  “She fled?”

  Lelaine emptied her wine goblet. “Shortly after you reported my survival to the king’s council.”

  “Do you suspect them?”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head as her servant replenished her wine. “They’re as subject to influence as I, but I believe they’re dedicated. Someone somewhere is terribly unhappy with your efforts.” She swallowed a burp and laughed. “It’s the wine.”

  “Most dainty, Heiress.”

  “Lelaine.” She narrowed her blue eyes in warning. “So tell me how you sank the boat.”

  “River rats. My first encounter with them happened in the swamps of Ava-Grea. They earned me a similar black eye.”

  She started to apologize, and he waved her effort away, the warmth of the evening relegating the stress of the day to memory. He gestured for more wine from a discreet servant. Brightest Night had delivered an unexpected change in fortune. He shared a private dinner with a lovely woman, and best of all, he’d broken free of the Cull Tarr.

  Their food arrived on silver salvers. Gannon marveled at her easy nature, startling for a woman who’d just reached eighteen and would soon rule the realm. He skimmed over his life in Mur-Vallis, lied about his years in Ava-Grea, and told her in detail about his time with the Cull Tarr.

  “The shipmasters rule the ships, but most of the decisions affecting the crew are left to a binding vote.” He paused as the servants cleared the table, refilled goblets, and left a tray of confections. “Everyone lives by the vote, including votes that put me farther in debt to the shipmaster.”

  “I suppose their slaves aren’t afforded the generosity of a vote.” She nibbled at a sweet and hummed with pleasure.

  “I never once saw a slave on their ships, but I spotted them in their settlements along the coast. Don’t misinterpret my praise for the vote as admiration for the rest of their choices. Other than the vote, the Cull Tarr are as arrogant and devious as their Shiplord.”

  “Did you meet the Shiplord?” She dangled her goblet between her fingers, her eyes mirroring the candlelight and languid with drink.

  “Praise the Founders, no.” He laughed. “The man is the Founders’ emissary, and the Book of Protocols is their holy book. He’s in charge of interpreting the holy word, which changes on a whim. Other than anticipating his ambition, the shipmasters and crews evoke his name, avoid him, and do as they please.”

  She hiccupped and patted her chest. “It sounds ghastly.”

  “Not entirely.” He met her eyes. “As much as I complain about the vote, I liked it. I appreciated having a say. That’s how I saved you from your fate—by vote.”

  She canted her head.
“True.”

  “I’d like to see Ellegeance allow its citizens more of a say, especially in the warrens where there’s no guild to speak for the people’s interests. I’d like to see respect, dignity, and justice, an end to the suffering. It will be within your power, Lelaine.”

  “It’s not in my power at this time. However, I’ll keep it foremost in my mind.” She leaned back in her chair, and unhooked a purse from her wide belt, placing it on the table between them. “Your reward. Thank you for not inquiring.”

  He nodded, the moment rankling him as he picked it up and slid it into his pocket. At least he would wait to count it.

  “Where will you go now,” she asked. “Certainly you could purchase a place here in the tiers.”

  “Thank you, Heiress, but I believe I’ll return to the warrens.”

  Chapter Six

  At Dalcoran’s request, Vianne read the missive aloud for the second time while pacing the length of her salon. Piergren scowled, and Tunvise slumped in his chair, lips pursed, the news dire enough to keep the old doyen alert. When Vianne finished, she held the slip of paper to a candle’s flame and dropped it to a tray before her fingers burned. Her head swam with conflicting thoughts, events unfolding more swiftly than she was prepared to address.

  “Have we heard anything of Gisalle?” Dalcoran rubbed his stiff fingers, his knuckles more swollen than usual. “Any opinions regarding her alliances?”

  “She’d sworn her oath to the king,” Vianne said.

  “Not to the heiress.” Piergren filled a goblet with sweetened lissom juice.

  Vianne rolled her eyes. “Parsing words will see us all in chains.”

  “A pact with a high ward?” Dalcoran suggested. “With the heiress disposed of, the throne would be in play.”

  “Algar-Mur and Sianna-Bes were the most vocal about a royal bond,” Tunvise said from his seat. “Perhaps Lelaine’s refusal to consider any of their sons steered them into an alternative strategy.”

  “An oathbreaker,” Vianne muttered, avoiding a glance at Piergren, his misconduct fresh in her mind. “The timing is atrocious.”

  “Gisalle will turn up eventually,” Piergren said. “Dead or alive, depending on who finds her first.”

  “Alive, preferably,” Dalcoran said. “A public execution at our hands will serve us better than royal justice, simply to demonstrate our outrage.”

  “I concur,” Vianne said. “The heiress scarcely trusts us as it is.”

  “Your offer of Catling’s shield worked to our advantage after all.” Piergren leaned his backside on the sideboard.

  Vianne regarded the swarthy man, the compliment a stark break from his undisguised hostility. Perhaps sparing him an oathbreaker’s death had earned her a modicum of gratitude.

  “I agree,” Dalcoran said. “The attempt on the heiress’s life has only cemented her attitude regarding our guild. We are at least the solution in addition to the problem.”

  “What of Catling?” Vianne asked. “Lelaine orders her training expedited and commands us to administer the rest of the poisons. I’m undecided whether that’s wise. Her shield work has scarcely progressed, and her influence requires considerable honing.”

  “Catling survived it before,” Dalcoran said.

  “We can’t expect her to endure such agony again.” Vianne pressed her fingertips to her eyelids, unable to imagine the intensity of pain and emotion. Strapped to the table and delivered to the pools six times in three days was more than she could ask.

  “We’ll portion it out over Springseed.” Tunvise laced his fingers over his belly. “That will bring her to the level of those preparing for initiation. She can endure the final lessons with the others.”

  A sigh eased from Vianne’s chest. She had no choice but to acquiesce to the haste. Lelaine understood the danger, and Vianne’s protests would be time poorly spent. “Naturally, the Poisoner will object, and of course, Catling will consider it a requirement of her oath.”

  “Arrange it,” Dalcoran said. “Then the trials of death.”

  ***

  Catling woke at the ninth bell, a sonorous serenade from the tier’s core. A tart, pink lissom lay on her clothes chest beside a note, Minessa’s sweet wishes for courage. She dragged herself from bed and wiggled into a plain robe.

  She hurried along the tenth tier’s outer promenade and climbed to the twelfth. Her stomach growled despite the fruit, and a touch of dizziness left her swaying at the rail. Springseed warmed toward Brightest Night, the swamp’s smell around Ava-Grea slowly acquiring the green perfume of stagnation. To the east, she relished a view of the hummocks and tall caliph trees, their long spidery roots rising from the surface like stilts.

  Dividing lanes and gardens segmented the twelfth tier into doyen quarters, intimate salons for private meetings, and the needlers’ windowless lair. Catling stepped to the portal of the latter and knocked. Markim-Ava opened the door and eyed her with a frown which she now considered a cantankerous facade. The guild’s Poisoner had appearances to maintain, after all. “My respects, Markim-Ava. She bowed.

  “What this time?” He shuffled down the short hallway to the cavernous needling chamber. His crooked back left him hunched, and his weedy white hair, though recently trimmed, stood erect on his head.

  “My last one. Blue,” Catling replied with a smile. “Love.”

  “Still going to hurt like Founders’ Hell.”

  “I know.” She entered the sterile room with its steel tables, sharp instruments, and antiseptic odors. Six colorful pools of distilled influence lined the back wall. She’d visited several times before, and none as terrifying and memorable as the first.

  “You know the routine,” he said, patting the table.

  She stripped off her robe and draped it on a chair by the mirrors, catching a brief glimpse of herself. Her brown hair now covered the woads on her head and had grown long enough to tuck behind an ear. The garden on her back flowered with new blooms added over Springseed. Only her marked eye spoiled the floral tapestry, a poor example of a rose.

  “Sure you don’t want me to tidy that up?” Markim asked as he sorted through his knives and spiked mallets. He begged the same question on their every encounter.

  “Vianne would be furious,” she replied as she always did, and joined him at the table. “Just blue today.”

  She climbed on the flat surface and rolled to her stomach, the steel cold against her naked flesh. Her face rested over the hole, a bucket set below to catch her vomit should she retch. She positioned her arms and legs to be strapped down along with her head.

  “If I fix that rose for you, your skills might improve,” he said, still ruminating over her eye.

  “My skills are not to be tampered with,” she said, speaking through the table’s hole. “And I don’t need more red anyway. I have a red bird on my back.”

  “Death comes in handy.”

  “No, thank you, Markim-Ava.”

  “I’m working solo today.” His warm hand rested on her spine. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He patted her back. “Remember, it… will… end.”

  Those words finished their conversation every time. Catling closed her eyes and breathed, dissociating from her skin as if she were elsewhere and her body belonged to another.

  Markim’s knife slid quickly as he carved into her right shoulder blade. The pain followed a moment later, and her consciousness roared back into her flesh. She gritted her teeth, fists clenched. He scored her skin, pain flaring and spreading outward as her nerves fired. His instruments rattled.

  Her tears flowed, and she choked back a sob. Then the needled bristles of a mallet bit, rupturing her skin. He hammered and switched tools, selecting new shapes and sizes, pounding despite her cries and whimpers. He ignored her as he always did, his work consuming his attention.

  For a few heartbeats, the Poisoner paused. She breathed in a desperate breath. Then, his hand held the skin by her left hip, and the carving resumed. She
let out a blubbering cry, straining against the straps, the pain too much, always too much. Each time the hammer fell, a hundred tiny needles stabbed her. Blood trickled around her waist and dripped to the floor. The steel blades rattled and more hammering, slicing, hammering.

  “Off to the pool with you.” He unbuckled the straps and helped her from the table. She leaned on his crooked shoulder, stumbled across the floor, and crawled the short steps to the pool of blue luminescence. Feet first, she lowered herself in. The living light retracted, swirled, and gathered to her skin. A sensation of exquisite love surged through her veins with a kiss of bliss. For a precious time, the world unfurled in beauty, unspoiled, all the horrors of her life swept away. She closed her eyes, cradled in the arms of vast and eternal love.

  Markim rousted her far too soon, and she entered the violet pool. The carvings on her back closed and the residual pain of her new woads faded into nothingness.

  In front of the standing mirror, she turned her back and raised a small looking-glass for a view over her shoulder. Markim had finished… forever. The carvings, scrapings, and punctures on her back had healed. A garden of luminescence rooted in her skin and flowed through her veins and heart. The power of influence permeated her soul.

  Curling vines twisted up her back, bedecked her shoulders, and licked at her collarbone. The red bird spread its wings, and violet dragonflies flitted among the blooms. Yellow roses, blue evermore, and orange firesong, all in jewel tones, peeked between filigreed leaves. Asymmetrical, it flowed with the soft glitter of luminescence.

  “It’s exquisite, Markim-Ava.”

  The hunched man frowned, disgruntled about the haste despite the beauty. “At least we didn’t have to kill you this time.”

  “I feel fine.” She shut her eyes, dismissing the miserable memories of blood, piss, and vomit that accompanied the horrific pain. She would never have to face the table and blades again. “Thank you for your care.” The man stood scarcely taller than she, so kissing his cheek presented no challenge.