Crucible (13 page)

• • •

“First harvest's about to come in at the Varyon estate.” The words were pitched low, so low that only Del, idly handling a dagger at Keegan's booth, and the weaponsmith himself could hear. The speaker never turned their way, but continued down the street, his attention focused on the pastry in his hands.

Del looked up at Keegan, one brow raised in question.

“Seydan works for a high-ranking Green, who chooses to influence others indirectly,” he replied after a moment's consideration. “If he guesses Tavamere and Dryvale have gone to ground, the Varyon farm is the likeliest spot.”

“And the harvest would be a time to find them there?”
The letter in the tube in her boot-sheath burned in Del's thoughts. Would this be when and where the Blues would make their move? She tamped down the slow fury that built within her every time she thought of the distrust the plotters had sown among the people of Mornedealth, the Guild, and the Guard.

He nodded. “The Varyons have one of the first harvests in the area because they plant a special wheat in the fall. They host a large harvest fair a day or two afterward.”

Del frowned, her thumbnail tracing the wire wrapping the dagger's hilt as she thought. “If Tavamere is there, he's not going to stay hidden during a fair.” Not for the first time, she wondered how much danger Rulijah's husband and Nakon Dryvale were in.

Keegan narrowed his eyes at her. “You know something,” he said, his voice flat, “and I can guess a little of what it might be. I won't press you on it, but I consider Eleu Tavamere and Nakon Dryvale among my friends. If they're in danger, I'll be whatever help you need.” He paused, then grinned suddenly. “Besides, mercs aren't likely to die peacefully in their beds.”

“Even if they've retired and taken to smithing?” Del grinned back as a niggling piece of the puzzle that was Keegan Ghelv fell into place. Then she sighed. “I know little enough. But I need to find him first, and I've been trying to figure how to do so since I arrived in Mornedealth. If he's disappeared under uncertain circumstances, what's to say that I won't do the same if I start asking after him?” It was the most directly she'd spoken to Keegan about her true purpose.

“Get Rulijah to send you to the Varyons with whatever trinkets she'd like to sell at the fair,” he replied, his words so decisive she knew he must have been thinking of it for a while, even though she'd said nothing before this. “It's a two-day travel to the manor estate, so she's not likely to go herself, especially since she's so near her time. I can easily pack up my shop, and we can journey together. Once there,
you can ask Master Varyon directly. If they're there, we'll find them.”

Del nodded slowly. Although she was surprised by Keegan's offer, she would not refuse his assistance. Even if Master Varyon wouldn't tell her where Nakon Dryvale would be found, she could at least warn him of her suspicions and prevent at least a part of the Blues' plot.

• • •

The sounds behind them changed suddenly to harsh shouts and the
clang
of metal. She and Keegan bolted from their ambush spots, drawing their blades as they ran up the path toward the fields. The sounds drew them to one of the other wooded lanes, where a pair of the Varyons' house guards had been concealed. A quick glance at the far end of the field showed no sign of the guards from there, maybe not yet hearing the fighting over the noise of the harvesters.

Down the narrow lane, about a half-dozen hooded fighters were forcing the two guards back toward the fields. One of the group had shifted into the woods, slipping between the trees and pulling out an unlit torch as he approached the wagons full of the harvest.

Del gestured to Keegan, and he nodded sharply before racing forward to aid the Varyons' guards, while Del vanished quietly into the trees, tracking the figure with the torch. The light was fading, but she had always had good eyes for dusk, and the man was not taking great care to keep to the shadows, apparently thinking his departure had gone unnoticed.

Just inside the edge of the forest nearest to the wagons, the man stopped, and Del expected him to pull out flint and steel. Instead, he frowned, his brow tightly furrowed, and touched his finger to the tip of the torch. A tiny spark jumped from his hand to the oil-soaked fabric, flame wavering for a moment, then flickering into sputtering life.

Del blinked in surprise. A Firestarter, then, but not a
very strong one, if he could barely light an oil torch. She needn't worry that he could light the wagons from a distance, that was certain.

Before he could step out of the trees and approach the wagons with the flame, Del darted out to stand between him and his target, her sword raised. “Don't even think about it.”

He cursed, dropping the lit torch and drawing his own weapon.

It would have been so much easier if you'd just given up,
Del thought, a curse of her own forming as the torch's flame licked at the leaf litter of the forest floor. It was a little too damp to catch at once, but the torch would burn long enough that it eventually would. Then the man charged her, and the rhythm of her blade training took over.

He was good, but it took only a few sallies for her to know she was better. He fought in a formal style, clearly trained in an elite nobles' academy, and his finesse was no match for her more varied approach. The only thing that kept it from being a complete mismatch was her distraction as she kept one eye on the torch, shifting her position so that she could get near enough to try to scuff the flame out with her boot.

As soon as he saw what she was trying to do, her opponent did his best to draw her away, pressing his attack so that she could make only one or two attempts before his blade forced her away from the smoldering flame.

Farther along the edge of the woods, Del could hear the fighting between Keegan and the other two guards and the rest of the man's companions. Three against five or six was not great odds, but she figured the guards from the lanes at the far end of the field would have heard the commotion by now and would soon join the fray.

She shifted her position once more and scuffed at the torch again. It was guttering now, and with one more step she thought she'd ground it out enough to give her full attention to the play of their swords.

As soon as she did, she felt the man's confidence wavering. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how much the distraction of the possible forest fire had helped him. With a flurry of short, sharp blows, she had driven him out of the forest, onto the edge of the open field where she could swing the curved blade with ease.

Her opponent's eyes darted back and forth, clearly looking for an avenue of escape, and she eased her attack, letting him think he might have a chance to dart past her to the right, toward the lane from which he had come. As he made his move, she shifted her weight and swung with the flat of the blade, catching him across the temple.

Because of her angle, the blow hadn't enough of her strength behind it to knock him unconscious, but it was sufficient to make his steps wobble, and she simply threw herself against him, her weight carrying him to the ground.

His head hitting the turf finished what her blow had started, and she quickly removed his blade and used his own belt to tie him.

By now, several of the harvesters had gathered around, and she nodded at one of them. “Fetch Master Varyon, and the rest of you keep this one secured until he arrives.” Then she turned and ran back down the lane.

Keegan and the two guards were holding their own against the four remaining attackers, and her arrival turned the balance. The four hooded men turned tail and fled, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

By the time Master Varyon and his personal guard arrived, they had dragged the bodies to join the unconscious one, while the harvesters returned to their task, intent on taking advantage of the last light of dusk to bring in as much as they could before rain soaked the grain.

Two other men, neither one in a guard's uniform, had come with Master Varyon, and Del narrowed her eyes, studying them as they approached. The first, with his darker olive complexion and dark eyes, she immediately
guessed to be Rulijah Tavamere's missing husband, but the second held her attention. This was no fighter, nor did he have the comfortable look of the landowner. He had a round face, bright blue eyes, and an open expression that no doubt meant many underestimated him. But Del had seen the sharp intelligence in those blue eyes, and she stepped forward.

“Nakon Dryvale?” All three men stopped and blinked, for she had told Master Varyon only that she was in the employ of Rulijah Tavamere. Master Varyon and Eleu Tavamere turned to the brown-haired man, who took one more step toward her.

“Aye?” he said, his inflection rising to make the word a question.

“I am Delani Birren. My late partner”—she forced the words out past the tightness in her throat—“and I were hired to deliver this.” Reaching into her belt pouch, she took out the tube and handed it to him.

He stared at her for a long moment, then opened the tube and removed the letter. Swiftly scanning the contents, his eyes widened before he grinned.

“You are well met indeed, Delani Birren,” he said, then turned to Master Varyon, holding the sheet of paper out to him. “It's the proof we've been looking for. Proof of what the Blues are up to, and that, combined with the evidence of this one . . .” He gestured at the still-unconscious fighter.

“That will be enough for the Council,” Master Varyon finished. “It won't take the Blues down completely, of course, but at least we'll know we can trust the Guild and Guard again.”

He looked over at Del, and smiled. “You have certainly proved yourself in this matter, Delani. I am doubly grateful, not only for your timely warning to protect the early harvest, but also for the delivery of this letter. If you do not have other commitments—” He let the word hang in the air a moment before continuing. “I would
show you my gratitude by offering you a guard's contract for as long as you desire.”

Del blinked, taken aback by the offer. For many of the Mercenary Guild, such an opportunity would be highly desirable: reliable employ and not too dangerous. She doubted that Master Varyon's travels would ever take him through some of the more hazardous regions she had been in with the caravans. But something held her back.

When in doubt, trust your guts.
Jenny's words, again, as always. Jenny had been one to use her intuition, and she'd tried to encourage the stolidly unimaginative Del to do the same. She shook her head, slowly.

“While I appreciate the offer, Master Varyon, I do not think I am well-suited to a long-term position.”
And I'm certainly not well-suited to Mornedealth
, she thought, although she would never say such a thing. “A traveling merc life is better for me.”
And a quiet, not-too-dangerous life would leave me too much time to think. To remember.

The older man nodded, although she doubted that he understood. “If you come this way again and your mind has changed, my offer will stand. For now, let us celebrate the harvest!”

Dusk had fallen thoroughly by now, and the harvesters and guards made their way by torchlight back to the storage barns and the manor house. Master Varyon invited all into the Great Hall, where the smells of the feast to come made mouths water.

Del and the handful of field guards were placed in positions of honor at the main table, and Keegan sat beside her. As their cups were being filled, he leaned over to her.

“If you're not wishing to travel on alone, I'd be pleased to join you.”

She stared at him. “But, your smithy . . .” her voice trailed off.

He shrugged, then smiled, his dark eyes glinting.
“Today reminded me of how much I enjoyed the feel of blade in hand against more than air. Plenty of time for me to be a smith later in life.”

“Assuming we survive to later in life,” Del said, her heart aching.
At least no others will lose their lives for the sake of these corrupt nobles. This time.

“Then it's agreed!” Her use of the word “we” had not gone unnoticed. Keegan held up his cup, and she raised hers to meet it. “To the harvest, and to the road,” he said.

“To the road,” she replied, and drank deeply.

The midsummer heat had come early to Valdemar's capital, covering the cobblestone streets in a shimmering wave of sweltering haze that spiraled slowly up between the buildings by day, then settled back down into a thick, stifling blanket of humidity by night.

At the Truncheon, a local watchmen's tavern, retired officers of the law tucked themselves into the shadowy recesses of the common room, nursed their beers, and reminisced about other, either far hotter or far colder, seasons they had known.

On Iron Street, Ismy and Suli Dann, expecting their first and third child respectively, took their work down to the cool, dim cellars of their tenement, while at the Iron Street Watchhouse, their husbands, Hektor and Aiden Dann of the Haven City Watch, stood on Hektor's desk, struggling with the latch of the tiny window set high in the back wall of the Day Sergeant's office. The two men worked in grim silence until Aiden's fingers slipped on the slick metal, barking his knuckles against the windowsill. With a muttered curse, he shot his younger brother an exasperated look.

“Give it up, Hek,” he groused, pressing his hand
against his shirt—both men had tossed off their light blue and gray watchman's tunics early on in the fight. “It's never gonna budge.”

“It'll budge,” Hektor panted. “It has to. Jus' keep at it, Corporal.”

Growling, Aiden caught hold of the latch again and, with a savage jerk, forced it free. The window cracked opened a single inch, then stuck fast.

As a meager stream of warm, moist air trickled into the room, Hektor wiped a sleeve across his face. “Tol' you it'd budge,” he said.

Aiden's expression changed to one of flat disapproval. “It's no cooler,” he pointed out. “Fact is, I think it's hotter.” His face suddenly twisted in disgust. “An' what is that stink?”

Hektor opened his mouth, then quickly pressed his lips together. “Help me get this closed again,” he said through clenched teeth.

As the two men reached for the window again, the door slammed open to admit their youngest brother, Padreic, his face flushed from both heat and excitement.

“There's a fearful barney goin' on out the front way, Hek!” he announced breathlessly.

“'Tween who, Runner?” Hektor demanded without looking around.

“Orin an' his lot against some littles from down Water Street way!”

“Who?”

Padreic gave his older brother a twelve-year-old's best eye roll. “Th' dung boy, Orrin, what collects the pigeon buckets, his kin, an' those what haul from lower down in th' city 'round Exile's Gate,” he explained with exaggerated care. “They're punchin' it up right in front of the watchhouse, an' there's crap an' slops all over the street!”

“Well, that explains the smell,” Aiden said dryly, jumping down from the desk.

• • •

By the time the three Danns reached the main doors, a crowd of watchmen, both on duty and off, had already gathered around the front steps. Hektor pushed through the press of men either unable or unwilling to break up what appeared to be about two dozen seven- to ten- year-olds, surrounded by upended soil buckets, fighting and screaming curses at each other in the street below. Some of the watchmen were laughing, some were taking bets, but most were content to see how long it would play out in this heat.

With the smell steadily growing worse, Hektor turned to Hydd Thacker, a twenty-year veteran, who was leaning against the steps, smoking his pipe. “Get it sorted, Corporal.”

In no great hurry to end the morning's entertainment, Hydd banged the bowl of his pipe against the side of the building. “Did ye want the little monsters run off or arrested, Sarge?” he asked with mock formality.

Hektor eyed the struggling children. Most were poorly dressed and poorly washed, or at least there seemed to be an old layer of dust and grime under the new layer of excrement and rotten vegetable peelings, and those arms and legs he could see looked frighteningly thin. Despite the heat, a large crowd was beginning to gather, and it was only a matter of time before some blacksmith or grocer got a face full of dung and took matters into his own hands. He made up his mind. “Bring 'em in,” he ordered. “We'll sort 'em out downstairs.”

As one, the gathered watchmen turned aghast expressions on their young officer.

“You wanna bring 'em to the cells in this heat?” Hydd demanded. “With that smell? The whole buildin'll reek.”

“Nothin' a few buckets of soap and water won't mend.” Hektor turned a patently false smile on the older man. “That is, if you think the men are up t' subduin' such dangerous rioters?”

Shaking his head, Hydd stowed his pipe before loudly
clearing his throat. “All right, you lot,” he shouted, “get this street under control now!”

“Gently,” Hektor added, turning to see his thirteen-year-old sister, Kasiath, apprenticed to the watchhouse messenger-bird master, standing just inside the doors. “They're littles, after all.”

“Little monsters, you mean,” Hydd muttered as he headed down the steps.

Hektor nodded absently as one of the children saw the corporal bearing down on him and threw a fist-sized piece of . . . something at his head. “You're likely right.”

Once the watchmen took the field in force, the fighting ended in a matter of minutes. Without bothering with much finesse, each man made a grab for the nearest combatant, and with a dozen in custody, some tucked under arms and others flung over shoulders like furious sacks of grain, they headed back to the watchhouse, doing their best to avoid the mess in the street while keeping a grip on their struggling prisoners.

“You missed a few,” Aiden noted, watching the rest of the children on both sides of the fray take to their heels.

“Got the ringleaders, tho'.” Hydd grunted as his captive, a boy of maybe six or seven, aimed a kick at his ankles and was hauled into the air by the front of his tunic for his troubles. “S'all that matters.”

“Yeah, criminal masterminds, the lot of 'em.”

“Everyone starts somewhere. Mark my words, this one'll dance at the end of a rope one day.”

“Likely.” Aiden turned to Hektor as Hydd pushed past them, doing nothing to keep the boy's flailing feet and fists away from the other men. “Is there even room for 'em all downstairs?”

“There was naught but ol' Jez in on his missus' usual drunk an' disorderly lockout at shift change,” Hektor answered, leaning to one side to avoid a kick in the head.

Aiden grinned. “I reckon he'll soon want out again once he gets a look at his new cellmates.”

Hektor gave an uncharacteristic snort. “I reckon he's been cooler than I've been all mornin',” he groused. “This is the third time this week. He's just after a cool bed an' a free breakfast. He can wait.”

He turned toward the crowd, but, with no more entertainment to keep them outdoors, they were dispersing back to the relative comfort of their own workshops.

“When's the Captain due back from the countryside?” Aiden asked as they headed back inside, keeping a safe distance from their fellow watchmen.

“Three or four days, a week maybe, if this weather doesn't break,” Hektor answered. “That might be just long enough to get all this sorted.”

Aiden glanced back at the street, already beginning to steam in the midmorning sun. “I doubt it,” he replied, heading for the stairs.

• • •

The basement level of the Iron Street Watchhouse had originally been constructed more like a maze of small storage cellars than a true jail, but, at some point during the last century, most of the walls had been knocked down to build three reasonably sized cells set side by side in the center of the main room. It was dark and cool, and, as they descended the stairs, Hektor considered moving his office down there for the season.

The noise as well as the smell, changed his mind almost immediately.

The two end cells were full of screaming children, all hurling insults and whatever they still had in their hands at each other. Thankfully, no one seemed to be fighting inside the cells themselves, but the noise was still enough to make their ears ring.

“We jus' managed to separate 'em,” Hydd noted darkly, wiping his face, grown dangerously red, with a damp handkerchief.

“How'd you know who to put where?” Aiden asked.

“Every time we pulled a couple of the little curs apart,
we'd throw 'em in a different cell. If they didn't fight there, we figured we got it right. Only went wrong a few times,” he added as one of the children threw a particularly scathing invective in his direction. “Like that one. Shut up, you, or you'll feel the back of my hand!”

“Have you tried questionin' any of 'em?” Hektor asked.

“Well, they stink somethin' dreadful, so no ones been too fussy about gettin' too close, but be my guest, Sarge, if you think you can get anythin' but a pack of lies out of 'em.

“They're naught but skin an' bones under all them rags,” the older man added quietly, his usual scowl twisted into an expression of reluctant concern. “My missus'd throw a fit if she saw the state of 'em. They could use some feedin'.”

Hektor nodded. “Is there any nut porridge left over from Jez's breakfast?”

“Don't think so, but Nessa's still here.”

“Get her to make up another batch, will you? Maybe they'll be more willin' to talk on a full belly.”

“What about Jez?”

“What about 'im?”

Hydd gave him an exasperated look. “We could use the space, Sarge,” he explained patiently.

“Fair point.” Hektor finally turned his attention to the solitary figure standing by the door to the central cell, his eyes shooting daggers in their direction. “Jez,” he said in a neutral voice.

The old man glanced from one group of choleric children to the next before returning his dark gaze to the watchman. “Sergeant Dann,” he replied in the same tone.

“I expect you'll be wantin' out.”

“Wouldn't be sayin' no ta it. In yer own good time, o' course,” he added sarcastically.

Hektor raised an eyebrow, then nodded at Hydd, who pulled a set of keys off the peg by the stairs and headed over.

Once the cell door was open, Jez dusted off his clothes with exaggerated care, then stalked past them with a muttered, “This never would've been allowed in your father's day,” before stumping up the stairs.

“Don't imagine we'll be seein' much of 'im for the next little while, heat or no heat,” Aiden noted.

“Not 'til we get that smell outta here, anyway,” Hydd agreed. “If we ever do.”

“First things first,” Hektor replied. “Get 'em fed, get 'em cleaned up, then find out what all that ruckus was about.”

• • •

“Orrin—”

“I dint do naught', an' I baint talkin' to no strange beaks, whatever'n it be aboot! An' ye kin keep that wadder way from me, by haff! Catch me death wan I leave here, I will!”

Even after feeding, every attempt to get a straight answer from any of the children had failed. Finally, Hektor had turned the interrogation over to someone closer to their own age. Now, standing outside the central cell, Kassie gave one of its new occupants a stern look.

“I'm no strange beak, Orrin Whitawer!” she scolded. “You know me. You see me every week at the pigeon coops.”

“Don' know 'im!” The boy pointed accusingly at Hektor who stood, arms folded, beside her. “An' 'e's a right beak! Got stripes on 'is sleeve an' all! An' I jus' know me work's bein' pilfered by those butt-burnin' Tawyers right now while I'm stuck in 'ere!” the boy continued in an outraged tone that elicited an renewed series of shouting and cursing from the right-hand cell.

“Jus' tell me what started all this,” Kassie said in a reasonable voice. “An' you can get back to work.”

“Jus' you!” Orrin scowled at Hektor. “'M ony talkin' ta you!”

Hektor shook his head. “Come find me when you're finished, Kassie,” he said, heading for the stairs.

• • •

“Orin Whitawer collects the dung from the watchhouse pigeon coops,” Kassie explained to both Hektor and Aiden half an hour later. “An' any dog droppings he can find out back. His sister, Nell, sees to the kitchen scraps, an' their cousins, Welin an' Brandil, handle the night buckets from the cells an' the watchhouse privy. They've been doin' it together for maybe two years now. 'Afore that it was their older brothers' and sisters' jobs. Their family works Iron Street an' all the surroundin's.”

“What about the other littles?” Hektor asked.

“They're part of the Tawyer family. They do all the collectin' 'round Exile's Gate, but Galv, that's the boy who was fightin' Orrin, the one that hit Hydd with that rotten potato, says the Whitawer contract's done. Hundred years an' a day, his pa, Kaiden Tawyer, say's it was, an' so all the streets above are up for grabs now, supposedly.”

Beside her, Paddy nodded. “Talked to the Night Sergeant when I came in this mornin',” he added. “An' he said Rae Whitawer an' Kaiden Tawyer got into a scrap about dung rights last night at the Waterman's Arms. Got thrown out, but they kept at it in the street an' wound up in the Water Street nick for their troubles.”

“I remember Rae collecting the soil buckets from my time as a Runner,” Aiden noted. “He had a temper on 'im even then. Likes his drink a little too much now. He's ambitious, though. Took over a tannery that was in some kinda money trouble last year.”

“'Twas a Tawyer tannery,” Kassie added gravely. “Run by Galv's cousin Rori.”

“Are Rae an' Kaiden still at the Water Street Watchhouse?” Hektor asked Paddy.

The boy shook his head. “Talked to one of their runners—he was watchin' the barney out front—an' he
said they got released early this mornin'. Went their separate ways, 'parently.”