Fires of Aggar (24 page)

“Evening, Tad.” Gwyn smiled encouragingly. It was only the livery boy standing his duty. After an extensive perusal of the animal pens, Gwyn had chosen this one for its stable hands’ competency as well as for its security. From the regular posting of sentries to the rental of saddle bins for gear, Gwyn had been impressed. The posted watchers didn’t drink, the bins were secured with combination puzzle locks, and the prices were high but not too high given their services. It was also, Gwyn had discovered, owned by none other than the Min Roan, Rutkins’ friend. And right now, Gwyn thought, that might be something to gamble on. “Is the Min around?”

The youth nodded once, slow and solemn-like. He pointed to the open tent set beyond the far end of the corral pens. “The orange lantern’s hung out, so she’s still hearing business.”

“My thanks to you.” She half-turned to leave, but hesitated.

“Something more I can do, Marshal?”

“No,” she smiled again and moved on, deciding not to risk his safety by involving him directly. He seemed just a little over-eager, the type who might be more apt to challenge a suspicious character by himself, instead of slipping off to report and get help. And it was too quiet out here on the brushberry edges — no one would hear if he simply called for help. She didn’t want him hurt.

The stout woman who was bent over the ledgers looked up quick, frowning at the rustle of straw and step. As Gwyn moved into the lantern glow, the Min Roan relaxed and offered a grin with a wave to the vacant seat across the table from her.

“Thank you, but I won’t take much of your time.” Gwyn’s voice was as neutral as her expression was bland. She leaned slightly against the tent pole, effectively screening out the rest of the world from their conversation.

“There were some Steward’s Swords here earlier,” Min Roan took the initiative before Gwyn could continue. “Showed a keen interest in your three bays. I told ’em you weren’t in the sellin’ market. Kept two of my hands grooming and mucking out close by. I’ll take an oath that the blue cloaks didn’t get any chance to tamper with either the feed or water. But I put extra eyes out watching tonight, just in case.”

Satisfied, Gwyn could think of nothing more she’d have wanted. It was certainly more than she’d expected. “I’m grateful, Min. And… I have another favor to ask.”

The woman nodded, her grey eyes narrowing attentively.

“Tell Rutkins, I’ll be in the Broken Chalice after the midnight moon’s rising.”

“He’ll hear.”

“Thanks.” Gwyn dug a few coins from her hip pouch and gently laid them on the table. At the gathering sternness in the matron’s face, she explained, “For your stable hands on extra watch. Something special at tomorrow’s mid-day perhaps?”

A wide grin slowly appeared. Min Roan decided that Rutkins had done well in supporting this one. “I’ll see to it, Marshal. Count on it.”

“Good.” Gwyn went to visit her mares. That watcher was still out there, though. Despite the dry straw and animal musks, she swore she could smell him!

Calypso neighed a cheerful greeting, and Gwyn tucked her gloves away in her belt, before reaching out to stroke that silky, black muzzle. Nia and Cinder trotted near, determined not to be outdone or left out. They brought a soft laugh from Gwyn as she climbed through the split rails and found herself surrounded by those warm, massive bodies. For the first time in hours, she felt something akin to safe, and she let them nudge her over towards the watering trough.

“You selfish rascals!” Gwyn chided, seeing their ruse for a bit of fresher water. But she complied at the pump before sitting down on its broad wooden edge. The bays slurped greedily on either side of her, pausing now and again to push a nose into her chest or wuffle wetly through her hair.

“I’m going to be a slobbering mess by the time you’re all done with me!” Her tone was more affectionate than protesting, however, and after a few moments her mares settled down, staying near yet dozing. All except for Cinder who grunted quite contentedly, head low as Gwyn scratched the black star on her forehead. Cinder butted Gwyn gently in the stomach, hoping for some attention to her ears, but a sudden ‘bang’ shied her back.

“It’s only my sword, silly.” Gwyn pulled it from the sheath and irreverently planted it blade down in the dirt between her feet. “You’ve seen it before — oh, what? Going to be a skitterish, little pripper anyway, ehh?” But Gwyn found her mood had lightened considerably. She sighed and folded her hands atop her sword’s hilt, eyes smiling as she watched the big bay dance away another few steps.

She wondered suddenly at the warmth beneath her fingertips. Her throat tightened as she did a quick assessment of the murky calm around her. “Too calm,” a voice inside her warned — yet in that instant she wasn’t certain if she was overhearing Llinolae’s mind or if it was her own instincts of cautions. Abruptly, it became urgent to know which.

“My friends!” The mares heads snapped up, ears flicking towards her at that low tone of command, “cheroa’!”

The three immediately crowded around her, alert and facing outwards in protective stances. Until Gwyn countermanded her order, the mares would stand ready to fight. Anyone or anything foolish enough to try approaching Gwyn would have to get past those hooves and teeth first.

Gwyn steadied herself with a breath. Then eyes closing, she slid her grasp down over the lifestone in that sword grip, and for the first time, she consciously sought Llinolae’s awareness.

Shock reverberated through her whole body. Somewhere another woman screamed in frightened protest. Time seemed to slow as the knees beneath her began to buckle. Beyond the fire ring, silver flashed. The screaming stopped. A blue cloak moved away, and there in the firelight she suddenly saw the dead bodies of two women. The cook… why? And… no! She was so young — only an apprentice scribe!

Then the ground jarred as her knees hit. Blackness shrank her vision inward — and everything went black.

Gwyn came back to herself with a gasp and a violent start — that utter darkness had almost taken her; it groped for her still. She gulped in the humid air and blinked, forcing her eyes to see and her body to obey. Her hand jerked free from the lifestone, and she was left staring at the sword in astonishment.

The Dracoon’s scouting party had been taken! What was she even doing so far away from the city with the Feast in progress?

Stupid questions, irrelevant tangents! Niachero — think for yourself! Llinolae had gone after the Clan raiders — she’d seen that in the last vision, remember? Aye, they’d gone somewhere east. And now there’d been at least one blue cloak in her patrol who had betrayed her… who had killed others in the camp. So presume the worst. No, no — not the worst. That had been some sort of blow to the head, not a sword severing. Llinolae was alive for some purpose — for a Clan purpose.

Then find out where in Fates’ Cellars they were taking her — and get her back!

The midnight moon was quarter full and shining white as it lifted over the eastern walls into a starry sky of indigo. The early moon was well above the Palace towers, and the bright twilight of Aggar’s night had only begun to dim because of the growing cloud cover. The elder farmers had taken wagers from the city folk against the odds of rains, and Gwyn tended to believe the hoe farmers. Humid as it was, there was no ‘feel’ of that gathering power which usually preceded the thunderstorms she’d known. The only gathering forces she was aware of were human — though the charged tensions swirling in this empty street behind the Palace were nearly tangible enough to spit lightning themselves.

She stepped into the darkness beneath the arches of the portico and disappeared. Without a sound, she drew her sword. The humidity muffled her steps as she hurried, changing directions and slipping in behind a stone column. The clouds passing above thickened the shadows. She welcomed the shroud provided by each and steadied her breathing. Then with sword readied, its silver pressed against her chest and hidden by the fold of her cloak, she waited — listening, scenting, sensing the world around her as her packmates had taught her.

The night rustled with the faint creak of a shutter, with the distant scratch of a scavenging pripper in some alley. Sluggish breezes stirred, bringing the dusky scent of horses and stables. And still she strained to listen, her palms growing damp within her leather gloves.

A foot scuffled.

Her head jerked right. The sound had come from deeper in the recesses of those shadows behind her, no longer from the open street. There was a ring of blade against scabbard, and a muffled grunt, before the dull thud of a heavy collapse reached her.

Gwyn’s cloak shrugged aside without a sound. She licked her lips, flexing her fingers in her two-handed grip. Mae n’Pour! Patience now.

A cautious tread of boots approached.

She swung her blade. Fires of orange and blue sizzled along its length. Steel clattered as the other’s sword halved and fell.

“Yielding!” Hands spread wide, palms open.

Her blade’s point froze a breath from Rutkins’ stubbly chin. Gwyn scowled and backed away some, sword still leveled and legs still braced in a fighting stance. “Explain yourself.”

“Small favors from the Mother,” he breathed in quiet thanks. The low tone of his voice barely seemed to stir the heavy air. But his eyes shifted respectfully between her gaze and her blade. “I received a message to meet you at the commons of the Broken Chalice. I was on my way ’cross city to do so, when a few of my — ahh, youngsters?” At her nod, he continued. “Brought me word that this fellow…,” Rutkins pointed behind him, taking great care not to lower his hands any, “… was on the prowl. He’s a specialist. Jefrez by name. I figured he was probably going to lead me to you shortly enough, seeing as the Swords only send him on special assignments.”

“Such as?”

“He makes people disappear — permanently.”

Gwyn had suspected as much. She relaxed and stepped down, sheathing her blade with an efficiency that wasn’t lost on Rutkins. The sergeant flexed his hands a bit and took a deep breath in obvious relief. She watched him a moment, then toed the corner of the broken sword lying between them. “Next time, announce yourself better.”

“Fates’ Cellars, Marshal!” He bent to retrieve his sword pieces. “You didn’t even seem to know you were being followed. How was I to assume you were planning your own ambush?” He frowned at his shattered blade pieces. The steel was riddled with fissures like a cracked eggshell. “Do you have any idea how many Steward’s Swords have tried their fancy sabers against this ratty, ole piece? Yet one utterly insane Amazon…?” He clucked his tongue mournfully as he shook his head, slipping the useless pieces back into his scabbard. “I should have left you with those irate, young gate Guards. You’d have sliced them to ribbons but at least you’d have been denied city entrance. At this rate, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Gwyn stifled a sudden spurt of laughter and followed as he motioned them to move on. This was not a good place to linger.

“You’re headin’ to the stables?” He nodded at the dim outline of the stone barns as they rounded a corner. They ducked quickly into the alcove of a doorway as they caught sight of several grooms; the gambling party was settled comfortably beneath a barn lantern with stick-and-dice as well as a goodly supply of brushberry wine.

“It’s still awfully quiet around here,” Gwyn observed in concern. “Aside from you and that assassin, I haven’t seen any folks tending stables or taking out the kitchen trash — no one’s doing anything in the ordinary.”

“It’s Feast Days. Everyone’s out having a good time. Everyone except us, that is.” At Gwyn’s silent rebuke, Rutkins grinned a twisted grin and challenged, “What’d you do, Marshal? To get into the Steward’s good graces so quick, I mean.”

“I’m not certain.”

“Nothing is ’round here.”

“But I think I just arrived at an awkward moment. Your Dracoon isn’t in Khirla, you know.”

He gave Gwyn an assessing once-over and apparently decided she hadn’t lost her mind completely. “Well, I already said it, nothing’s too certain around here. Any idea where she is?”

“She rode east about six days back. As of tonight, however, the Clan has her.”

A gruff grunt answered that. “She’s not dead? Just tied up and out of the way? Steward’ll be in sweet distress over that one, I wager. All the power, all the authority, and no one to answer to ’til the Crowned starts getting suspicious. By that time, the tyrant’ll be so entrenched here it’ll take the Clan’s own fire weapons to burn her out.”

He leaned a shoulder against the stone with a frustrated bump. His arms folded to his bemused expression. “Or are you going to prevent all this by your lonely self?”

“It wouldn’t be my first choice,” Gwyn admitted.

“What? Changing the Steward’s plans or doing it alone?”

“Doing it alone.” She smiled at him, sweet with sarcasm as she folded her own arms in a mocking imitation. “Need I remind you that most of the Royal Marshals only organize and direct the local efforts? It’s why we seldom need to travel in numbers. We’re not soldiers in the usual sense.”

“Aye.” Amusement twisted his gristly features. “You just keep old reprobates in their places by cleaving our blades in two, hmm?”

She pursed her lips to hide a grin.

“So — all right,” the sergeant relented. “Here I am. Your local garrison. Sorry we’re a bit thin in the ranks at the moment, but then you weren’t expecting much help anyway. Organize away.”

Gwyn scowled at him without humor.

“I’m serious, Marshal. I may not be much to look at, but I may be of help yet. I do know this city like the knots in my boot laces. And I can raise a fair number of loyal sword carriers before dawn, if needs be.”

An idea began to take shape for her. Gwyn glanced across at the gambling grooms. “Do you know where the Dracoon’s tack is usually kept?”

“I do.” He straightened from his lackadaisical pose. “Most of it probably went with her when she rode out, though.”

“There aren’t any ceremonial pieces or such?”

He shook his head. “She seldom used them. Most pro’ble they’re sitting in the tailor’s bower, waiting on some fancy new stitching.”