Fires of Aggar (21 page)

“Must make the Feast Races exciting,” Gwyn remarked. She was not at all certain she wanted to risk Cinder’s limbs on such a poor surface, regardless of how insulting she might seem to the traditions.

“Ho!” The man split a broad half-grin, the scar on his cheek twisting the left side of his face into something more sour. “There’s no need to worry for your fine lady beasts, Marshal. The race is run ’round the outer sides of the city walls and only cuts in up the southern hill behind the Palace — that’s along the track where the Dracoon’s stables have entry. It’s dirt packed, the whole circle. Lets folk see what’s happening better too. Can’t imagine trying to get a good glimpse of the runners in these alley ways. Can you?”

“No, not by much.”

Gwyn took closer stock of the city as the street opened into a market square. The music of both public dances and troubadour performances mingled with the cries and smells of vendors. Bright banners hung from the upper windows of the local mercantile houses. There were streamers and ribbons fluttering from booth crosses, and the bottle-glass windows from a nearby inn gleamed from polishing. But underneath it all, Gwyn felt a pervading sense of struggle. The timber frames in the stone masonry were old. The plaster along the upper walls was frayed. The cobblestones underfoot were slicker than she had known in the northern cities, and she suddenly realized it was because of the rounded indentations of wear.

She followed her guide away from the market along another small lane, and then she began to understand what she was really seeing. The subtle disrepair of age surrounded her. Here in this street, she doubted the sun ever shone more than a single quarter of a quarterday, because the original houses and establishments around them had been built tall, and then built upon again. The lower levels were well-oiled where there was wood, sometimes the plaster was fresh with paint, but on the whole the tired, drooping structures looked as if they relied upon their mutual leanings for support. They seemed too weary to actually bother to crumble.

Glass was scarce as well, even in the upper levels. Gwyn caught glimpses of open-tied shutters, but only the merchants seemed to have any sort of bottle glass, and even the clothiers’ shops they passed had no broad panes of the stuff.

The clothing of the folk milling around her was a match to their city’s depleting resources. Turned out as they were in their best, there was still a muteness of color and a limpness of cloth that came only from frequent wear. No, Gwyn corrected, it came from frequent patching and over wear. She noticed too that the clink of glass coins seemed rare within the cheerful barter about her, and looking more closely, Gwyn saw the trading of goods-for-goods was more often done than money exchanges.

They were as hard put in their survival here as any of the northern cities had become with the Changlings’ Wars, she realized. And because of that northern chaos, the Royal Family had left this distant district go forgotten — as had her own corp of Marshals. Briefly, guilt pained her heart, and she allowed that the very thing the Crowned Rule had sought to prevent during the Wars — by posting Marshals as roving agents among the districts — had come to pass in Khirlan anyway; those in need far from the northern fighting had still gone neglected.

Yet it was not to be forgotten, the traitor within the ranks of this Dracoon’s own court had been a great contributor to this negligence. As had the Clan in going from occasional raids to nearly the extreme of outright warfare.

It was not the Marshal’s nor the Crowned Rule’s fault that word had never reached Churv of the rising trouble. It was not the neglect of the Royal Family that had spawned the destruction. Had it been known Khirlan was in need of help, then the Marshals would have been sent.

Mae n’Pour! Gwyn prayed, let it not be too late now that I am here.

“The Palace is set to the south and west of the city,” the sergeant began abruptly, almost too abruptly Gwyn thought. She wondered what he had read in her silence to suddenly prompt such a studied nonchalance. “It was built there before the Clan was ever even conceived of. Originally it sat on the hill, in order to keep watch on the overland route.”

“A very long past,” Gwyn observed dryly. She doubted that even the Council’s archivists could easily produce those most ancient of ancient records anymore.

“Well, traditions linger. We fought Aggar’s bullies in the beginning. Seems we fight them again now, perhaps to the demise of Khirla itself this time.”

“So the Clan’s giving trouble.”

He looked at her hard and long, conscious of that placid acceptance of his assertion and the complete lack of surprise in her manner. He took another moment or two to think about her as they wove in and out of the crowds. Then forthrightly, he asked, “You here for more than the races?”

“I am,” Gwyn answered evenly. She chose not to elaborate.

“Hmm… how much do they know outside the district?”

“Little.” Gwyn smiled at the thought of Bryana and Jes, however. Together, her parents made a very formidable pair. “Enough to pursue it vigorously, if I should disappear though.”

“Good,” he nodded. With an abrupt decision, he extended his left hand forward, palm down in the formal greeting of the district. “I’m called Rutkins. And lowly sergeant that I’ve become, I welcome you to this place anyways.” His lips twisted into that queer grin again. “You may want someone to watch your back. Keep me in mind.”

Warily, Gwyn grasped his hand. She met his grin with a dry, sardonic one of her own. “Why trust you?”

“I’m not a Steward’s Sword.” He seemed to think that succinctly said it all. Then as his dark gaze fixed unwaveringly ahead of them, he added softly, “Before the Swords, I was Mha’del’s Captain of Guard. Maybe that tells you a little more of something than other tales could.”

Mha’del had been Llinolae’s father, and a King’s Dracoon as well. Gwyn remembered that easily enough from her studies in Churv. But it certainly did open interesting possibilities where Sergeant Rutkins was concerned — some of them alternately good and bad. Gwyn felt the empathic suspicion of her distant bondmates rise within herself, warning her against trusting anyone inside this fortress of a city. Ril and Ty were undeniably right, it was too soon for trust. Yet it was their past teachings that prompted her to consider him as a possible ally; the scent of his sweat was not the stench of fear or impatience. His faint uneasiness in being with her had begun only after she’d admitted to being here for more than the racing. And he still felt no need to toy with that sword at his hip. A level-headed soldier, smart enough to make captain and yet demoted — not jailed or exiled but demoted — at the advent of new rule. And there was more. Despite the risk of accompanying a stranger through this city — despite his obvious perception that it was, in truth, a risk to be with her — he was here.

He stopped, startling Gwyn and the mares. Calypso protested the halt with a snort as the man pointed ahead.

Gwyn looked across the bustling intersection and made out the Palace Square. The fountain at its gate sparkled gaily, water dancing down its sculpted tiers. Beyond that, she saw the upper galleries of golden honeywood that circled the Palace itself.

“I’ll be better use to you, if I leave you here,” Rutkins muttered. “Take the left and follow ’long to the back of the south wing. There’ll be a host of blue cloaks to ask directions of—”

“Blue cloaks?”

“The Steward’s Swords.”

“Ahh—”

“Towards the far end of the livestock pavilions you’ll see an open portal on the right. It’ll be tiled like the City Gate was, but there’ll be two banners hanging. One ruddy colored, like my cloak here — that’s the Dracoon’s. The other’s dark’n blue. That’s the Steward’s own. Go on in with your horses and ask for the Regiment Clerical. He’s one of the Steward’s Swords, and if the Dracoon or Steward can to be seen, he’ll arrange it for you.

“But like I said, Marshal. I can’t promise he’ll hurry the news in, despite your wishes.”

Gwyn nodded. “I understand.”

“They’ll probably try an’ get you to board your mares outside the city walls in the visitor pens. The Palace stables have never been too big, so you can judge yourself if it’ll be meant as insult or not. Again, I can’t help with that, but if you want to get word to me, there’s an honest handler by the name of Min Roan ’round the visitor pens. She runs a smaller tent. More expensive in some ways but better treatment for the beasts, so most think it’s worth it. If you’re outside the walls and looking for me, she’ll let me know. Far as inside goes, try the Broken Chalice most nights. If I’m not in the commons, the bartender’ll get me a message. Both places, just ask for me by name — not rank. They’ll know the difference as important, even if you are speaking Trade Tongue.”

“All right,” Gwyn held his dark gaze for a moment, committing to nothing. Yet tacitly, she had to acknowledge the courage he could be showing in simply having this conversation.

He hesitated, then turned on his heel and was gone.

Gwyn waited in the dark. The air around her smelled of familiar things like gingerbark tea, fabric lint, and bloomwater lotions — the last brought a smile as Gwyn remembered a night spent with Selena using that sweet body cream. There were too the scents of lamp oil mingling with sun-warmed, fresh bread, and beneath those both, she could catch a hint of a beastie wool blanket. The hot summer day had baked this small cabin to a pleasant well-doneness. Then the moons’ touch had slowly cooled it, until now when Gwyn found herself surrounded with that exquisite essence of home. And in every sense of the word, Brit and Sparrow had made a home here in this troubadour’s wagon. So despite the hour — or the usually appealing clamor of the festival outside — Gwyn was content to simply sit and wait in these shadows.

That sense of home, however, had not betrayed her into complacency. After the fiasco in the healers’ barn, Gwyn wasn’t about to feel completely safe anywhere outside of Valley Bay ever again — Sisters near or not. And so, though she sat in the silence of the wagon’s cabin, relishing the feel of loving around her, she sat unstirring and without light, half listening to those outer folks as they passed just as a precaution.

When she had settled down to her wait, Gwyn had known it would be a long one. She had seen Sparrow’s drays patiently dozing near the performance rings in the livestock camps during her earlier walk, and from the posted order of hand banners, it had been clear that her friend was scheduled for late in the evening. Gwyn had known Brit would seek out Sparrow rather than return here alone, should her healing services finish early. When Gwyn glimpsed Sparrow’s saffron vest disappearing amidst the other performers, she’d assumed that Sparrow had seen her too. Confident then that her Sisters were faring well and that they now knew she was in town, Gwyn had moved on. She’d been wary of risking any kind of a more obvious contact, given pair of Steward’s Swords following her.

Because of those Steward’s Swords, Gwyn hadn’t returned for Sparrow’s performance either. Instead she had wandered rather haphazardly, learning the general lay of the city, both within the walls and without, and pricing trinkets or savoring pasties just like any other festival visitor might. She had gone on in that manner until she was sure her two watchers were thoroughly bored, and then in a moment of distraction when a juggler and an errant pripper collided, she’d neatly vanished. She was certain the next disappearance would not be so easily managed, but the two who had been charged with keeping track of her whereabouts had been fairly inexperienced in city traffics; they had obviously assumed a woman as tall and uniquely red-haired as she, couldn’t blend into any crowd quickly. They had underestimated the deceptions the simple donning of a cloak and a shift in posture could create. She doubted that whoever “was-in-charge” was going to send such innocents to trail her again. But then, she did have a few more eloquent tricks for future occasions.

A faint chuckle and a recognizable shuffle brought Gwyn alert. The gruffer voices of strangers came too. Her gloved hand curled over her sword’s hilt. Its blade lay unsheathed along the bench, hidden behind her outstretched legs. The wagon rocked with the weight shift on the back step, and the door cracked open a bit. A bulky shadow blocked the torch light from reaching Gwyn and prevented the accompanying group from seeing into the cabin. Laughter rumbled softly around the small band as they all made their farewells. Then Brit’s heavy frame squeezed through the door, and a balled up bit of rag went sailing through the air at Gwyn.

The Niachero grinned in the darkness and caught her kerchief neatly; she’d dropped it on the outer step to identify herself to her Sisters. Brit gave no other acknowledgment. Instead she puttered around the cabin, lighting a shielded lantern, closing the window slats on both sides of the wagon, and humming tunelessly to herself.

“Sparrow’ll be in shortly.”

If Gwyn hadn’t been listening for it, she would have missed the words entirely. She nodded, holding her silence.

A soft rap beneath her back bone nearly peeled the skin from her neck as she shot off the bench. Just barely she managed to keep to the shadows and ended in a crouch near the door. Brit closed the last of the shutters with a rich chuckle.

Her Sister then leaned across the wide bench and pushed at the back padding. The entire panel of the center seat swung inward to allow a black clad Sparrow to roll in. Gwyn swallowed her heart back into place, shakily realizing there must be a false door beneath the driver’s bench outside, and then admiringly she offered a lopsided, little grin. “You’re good. I didn’t hear you coming.”

Sparrow tipped her head, pleased at the compliment. She helped Brit refasten the corner pegs of the bench, reporting, “No one’s around watching that I can tell. Normal folk and festivities roaming. That was about it.”

“Were you followed?” Brit asked Gwyn, turning the lantern light up a bit now that they were securely shuttered in.

“At first.”

“Well, they still seem to be lost.” Sparrow unfolded the two hinged bed halves away from the side benches, converting the back of the cabin into a wide bed. Then she promptly flopped herself down, toes prying the short shoes from her heels and hands folding neatly behind her head. She gave up a deep, satisfied sigh and wiggled her stockinged toes. “I assume, you’re spending the night in our upper loft?”