The Sacred Hunt Duology (54 page)

Teller nodded; he was clutching it tightly under his left arm. Jewel shook herself hard; it wasn't like her to miss sight of something that significant. “Good, we're going to need it. We've got to get a carriage.”

They nodded, each of them, looking at her as if she had all the answers.
I won't fail you. I won't fail you again.
But Arann was growing whiter by the minute. “Arann, can you run?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She nodded to the kitchen—which they all knew led out to the alley—as the front doors swung open again.

Standing in the frame like an impassable pillar was Old Rath.

• • •

Jewel looked up and met the eyes of darkness staring out from the subtle caricature of a familiar face. There was a clear path to the kitchens, but not much of a clear escape without a little diversion.

It was Duster who often caused their diversions. Jewel's jaw clamped around whatever it was her mouth wanted to say; she felt a rawness, and then a numbness, and then a fear so strong it was physical. Sometime later, she would have time for anger.

She looked up at Arann's pale face, and at the trickle of blood that still ran from his lips like a poorly quaffed drink.

Kalliaris
, she thought, begging for the turn of Luck's lips. And then,
Mother, Mother, protect your children.

“Carver, get going.”

“No.”

“I said, get going. I'll take care of this.”

“No.”
It was always risky to disobey Jewel; she was undisputed master of the den. But if anyone was stupid enough to do it, it was Carver; he'd proved that many, many times. Rath began to thread his way through the patrons of the tavern, moving slowly but surely toward them. “Duster couldn't do it, you can't.” His voice was flat and final. “You go.” He grabbed her arm and pushed her back.

She saw the glint of his long knife as he steadied himself. She bit her lip; she knew it was true. Duster was the combatant of the den. And Carver was unarguably second to her. Second.

But Jewel would be damned if she ran away while a fourteen-year-old boy
guarded her back. She would be twice damned if she left him to face whatever it was that was masquerading as Old Rath. And she would face damnation three times—a hundred times—over, if
she
lost another of her den. A scream was building up in her throat. She let it come.

“FIRE!”
An electric silence filled the room.
“FIRE IN THE KITCHEN!”
Reaching out, she grabbed Carver's shoulder in a tight vise-grip as the room began to empty. Chairs and tables scraped the oaken floor. Some teetered, and some fell, sending mugs and glasses groundward. Jewel didn't wait to watch.

Because she knew that everyone was surging doorward; knew that Old Rath—whatever it was—was caught up in the crowd; knew that the path to the kitchen was clear, but not for very long. Carver was stiff; she knocked his right knee out from under him, righted him, and then spun him round. That snapped his resolution and his concentration.

Jewel, den as intact as it was going to be, led her chosen kin to the only escape route they had.

Kalliaris, smile. Smile and I'll worship at your whim for the rest of my life.

• • •

“You can let go now,” Carver said, gritting his teeth. He inched forward on his stomach and peered down, over the edge of the squat, three-story building they huddled on. The alley was overlong, and Jewel had no wish to be trapped in it like a rat in a cage.

They'd climbed instead.

“Arann?” She kept her voice soft, as close to silent as it got.

“I'm . . . fine.” He mouthed his reply more than spoke it. He was lying, and he was getting worse at it as the minutes snuck past.

Climbing had its price.

“Teller, who was it? Who attacked you?”

Teller stared at her, dark eyes wide. “It wasn't a who,” he said at last. “Whatever it was, it wasn't a person.” He shivered. She didn't need to hear more. Not now. Later, if there was one.

Carver waved frantically, and then stopped speaking. Hells, they stopped breathing, and most of them closed their eyes. He inched back, slowly and quietly scraping the roof with his chest.
It's Rath
, he mouthed to Jewel.

Jewel's brows drew together; she nodded, her jaws clamped tight. There had to be something to do; some way of escape. She knew, although there wasn't any reason to bring it up, that Arann's blood left a minute trail on the building's side. If this Rath had time to look around—and who was going to stop him?—he'd eventually discover it. They had to move. They had to do something.

She concentrated, fingers digging into the edges of the box that she'd taken back from Teller. She even closed her eyes, thinking, sorting it out, trying to come up with a plan that would save them.

Carver's curse brought her back. She saw him get up into a crouch at the roof's edge. He raised his left hand, and the long knife—the balanced long knife—that he carried went flying down. “Cartanis' blood.”

Jewel had never seen Carver quite so pale.

“It's him,” she said. “It's Rath.”

“The knife. It—it
bounced.
”

“Everybody—north side. NOW.” It led to the street, to the crowds, to the witnesses. Jewel had the sinking feeling that witnesses here weren't going to turn the tide. But at least it might count for something.

Angel and Finch scuttled down the eaves, clinging to an old trellis that was so covered it was nearly invisible. Teller followed, and then Jewel sent Arann down. Carver followed him; she left last.

And because she was last down, she was first to see the result of Kalliaris' smile: an empty, open carriage headed down the street at a brisk clip. Wind whistled through her hair as she scuttled down the building side; wind and a hint of something physical. She shivered with it, whispered a blessing in the name of the Mother, and then jumped the last ten feet, landing in a spectacularly bruising roll.

“Rider!” she yelled, waving her box high in the air, as it was the only flag she had. “RIDER!”

The two horses came to a halt as the bits hit the backs of their mouths. The driver pulled his carriage up, and Jewel's den were all over it like fleas on a dirty dog.

“Hey, you—” the driver began, the lines of his face stiffening into a glare. Jewel opened the box and emptied it out onto the carriage floor.

“It's yours,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder for the first time since she'd hit the ground. “It's yours if you move
now
.”

He looked down at the coins scattered on the carriage floor, and then looked up at Jewel's desperate face. Shrugged and nodded curtly. “But pick 'em up.” He put the horses to reins, and the carriage jerked forward with the rapid start. “Where are you going?”

“To the estates of The Terafin.”

The driver snorted, but the sound was lost. Old Rath leaped from the top of the building and missed them by about three feet, landing with a crunch that was audible over every other noise the street had to offer. The ground caught him, hard—but Jewel wasn't surprised to see him stand. Nor was she surprised to see him begin to run.

She scrambled up the open carriage to the driver's side, her hands damp with sweat and shaking with effort. “You've got to
go faster,
” she shouted, trying to keep the plea out of her voice. “What kind of lousy horses are these? Look—a man on foot can keep up!”

“Don't get cheeky with me,” the driver shouted back, turning to glare at her again. He stopped shouting as he saw the direction her hand was pointing in. There was a man, about two yards behind the carriage, who was keeping pace with his horses.

Now, truthfully, his horses were not the finest, but they were of good stock, and the man had pride besides. He doubled his glare at the girl who'd brought this humiliation to his notice, and then turned his full attention to the horses.

They began to
gallop.

Jewel and her den discovered why horses pulling a carriage through city streets don't gallop. They were jarred and bruised and shaken by seats that weren't meant to be comfortable at a standstill. But they saw Rath fall farther and farther behind—although it was a slow process. Jewel would have bet on the horses, but she wouldn't have bet by a large margin. She threw in a hundred prayers for good measure.

As Rath became smaller in the distance, reaction set in; she felt giddy with relief. They had escaped. They were
safe.
She turned, hugged Carver, and laughed out loud. Angel joined in seconds later, as did Finch; even Teller smiled broadly.

But Arann, who was often quiet, covered his mouth and turned away. He wanted to smile, but he couldn't manage it, and after thirty seconds, he forgot what he'd hoped to smile at. He clutched his side, and it hurt, so he stopped, but that hurt as well. Movement hurt; even when he tried to keep very, very still, the ground wouldn't stop shaking. He tried to clear his throat, and then, when that failed, he sank slowly down as he heard the laughter of his den-kin grow muted and more distant.

“Arann, are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” he heard himself say. He thought it was Jewel who asked the question, but he couldn't be sure; his eyelids were dark and too heavy to lift.

“Tell me if it gets to be too much.”

“I will.”

• • •

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop along the boulevard. Trees as old, Jewel thought, as the city itself grew in neat and even rows on either side of the stone road. Birds called to one another, and squirrels chittered in obvious displeasure, but those were the only noises the street had to offer.

She had never been this close to the High City before. Had never, in fact, had any reason other than curiosity to cross any of the three bridges that led to it. Curiosity alone didn't justify the cost of the toll—or cost of the ferry passage, although it would be marginally easier to stow away aboard the boats—and the guards who bore the emblem of the Twin Kings were unlikely to let her pass without paying.

Which was only fair, as she was likely to do her best to make her short visit
worthwhile at the expense of one of the people that the guards were supposed to be protecting. She shrugged as the driver paid the necessary tolls, and gazed across the bay. Then she squared her shoulders and looked at the Isle of Kings, the home of the heart of the empire.

There were cathedrals here: three. Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom, Reymaris, Lord of Justice, and the Mother found worship and splendor on the isle of the Twin Kings. They were called the holy triumvirate, and it was a testament to the humility of the Kings that the cathedrals, each spired and perfectly built, stood higher, and more grand, man the royal palace.

Somewhere on the Isle was the home of the Order of Knowledge, where dusty old men and women clung to books and strange rituals. Here, too, was Senniel, the most famous bardic college in the world. There were rumors of a merchants' market so expensive that the streets were almost always empty. Guild headquarters were here, and here the maker-born dwelled under the eyes of the Kings.

But there were very few noble families who could boast the right to live on the isle. In fact, there were only ten,
The
Ten. They aided the Twin Kings in the governing of Essalieyan—or so Old Rath said—and warred quietly among themselves when the Kings were otherwise occupied. They had lands here.

The carriage rolled to a stop along the street beside a polished brass fence. The rails were wide and evenly spaced, and at their feet on either side were beds of flowers—some sort of pink and blue blossoms that seemed fine-veined and too delicate for a lawn.

“Here it is,” the driver said, scratching his beard and staring with open curiosity at his passengers. “Home of The Terafin. You want me to wait?”

“No,” she said curtly, knowing that she had no money for the return passage. “We'll be fine from here.”

As she slowly climbed down from the side of the carriage, crouching at the step to find a reasonable handhold, her first impression was, oddly enough, one of disappointment. She had seen noble manors before, and she expected that the woman who ruled the most powerful family in the land—if you didn't include the Crowns—would live in something only a little less fine than the palace of Kings. But this—While it was a large building, it had no grand lawns, no fountains, no grounds.

Carver was staring at it with the same skepticism.

“It's the right place,” the driver said, smirking. “There's not so much land on the Holy Isle that any noble can claim miles of grass and flower beds.” He shook his head as he gently reined his horses round. “That's the guard gate.”

Jewel nodded absently, and then she heard something fall behind her. She pivoted neatly on her right foot and stared down at Arann's back.

“Shit,” Carver muttered. “Angel, get off your backside and help me move him.” Jester was already there, hands at the small of Arann's broad back.

Angel nodded, and Finch and Teller quietly joined them. Arann was easily the largest of the den, and even awake and willing was almost impossible to move.

“What's wrong with him, Jay? Why are you looking like that?” Carver grunted as he shouldered a third of Arann's weight.

“It's nothing,” she said.

“Jay?” It was Teller. “He's dying, isn't he?”

“Shut up, Teller.” She looked down the walk to the guard post. It was maybe ten yards, but she measured each inch by Arann's gurgling breath. “Just shut up.” She slowed her nervous pace, and caught Arann's slack right hand in both of hers.
I won't let you die
, she thought, searching for—and finding—a pulse.
I swear it by the Mother's sleep, I won't lose anyone else.

• • •

“What's your business with The Terafin?”