Hinterland Page 12

  Kathryn recognized the color in Tylar’s cheeks and the narrow set to his lips. Now would not be a good time for anyone to challenge him. Best to get him to his room. Then the two could talk about what had happened here…and other matters.

  Tylar turned, as if sensing her approach.

  For the first time, Kathryn noted his hand clasped with the woman’s. It was Delia. Tylar’s Hand of blood. Also Argent’s estranged daughter.

  Tylar leaned over to whisper something in his companion’s ear. Most likely to reassure the young woman. Kathryn recalled Tylar doing the same with her in the past, his warm breath on her neck, the way his voice could cut through to her heart and calm its beat.

  She took a deep breath through her masklin and lifted an arm to catch his eye.

  Delia shifted to face Tylar more fully.

  For a moment, too quick for any but Kathryn to note, her lips brushed against his. Tylar’s palm slid along her arm. Then the two slipped back and faced the disembarked crowd of fellow passengers.

  Kathryn lowered her half-raised arm. Unbidden, shadows drew around her more fully. She took a step away, withdrawing into them. Her heart pounded, and as the sun set into the growing storm, it suddenly went darker—and colder.

  The storm would be a fierce one.

  Off to the side, a cheer arose from those who fought the fires. The flames had finally been vanquished. All was secure again.

  Kathryn retreated, lost in smoke and shadows.

  Tylar turned in her direction—but she was already gone.

  6

  A SWORD OF STEEL

  THE BLARE OF A TRUMPET, MUFFLED AND FAINT, REACHED Dart’s hiding place. Something had stirred the tower. She heard distant shouts, too.

  But she dared not move.

  Not yet.

  She hid in an alcove down the hall from the central stairs and chewed one of her knuckles. She shared her hiding space with a gray marble statue. It depicted some famous knight, one who bore a raven on his shoulder, though its beak had been broken off some time in the distant past.

  She shouldn’t be here. She knew better, but she could not help herself. She was supposed to be down in the library, learning the history of Tashijan, with her fellow pages. But she had begged off, claiming some urgent business with the castellan. With a disinterested wave, the owl-eyed archivist had dismissed her—though her subterfuge earned a rash of sneers from her peers. All would have liked an excuse to escape the tedious study of dates and endless lists of battles. Especially with all the excitement of late. For the past day, the entire Citadel had practically thrummed like a plucked bowstring. It was hard for any of them to sit still.

  But worst of all for Dart.

  She knew when the retinue from Oldenbrook was due. She had learned which rooms they were to occupy and had gone and found a vantage from which to spy on the outer hall. She had waited through two bells, but she was eventually rewarded by their arrival, led by a tall woman in a snowy fur who seemed as fresh as if she had just returned from a garden stroll. Dart recognized her as the mistress of tears. At her shoulder strode a man, a guardsman from the look of him, resplendent in finery that matched the mistress’s. His eyes remained on the fur-cloaked Hand, while she seemed oblivious to him, deep in conversation with Castellan Vail, talking animatedly.

  Dart had pushed deeper into her alcove, fearing being spotted by the castellan. What excuse could she offer for hiding here? Pupp had no such worry. He had been curled at her feet, but the commotion of the arriving party revived him. He trotted out into the hallway.

  Though none could see him, she hissed under her breath and waved him back to the alcove. He reluctantly obeyed. Still, his stubbed tail wagged with excitement.

  Dart understood. Despite the risk, she could not help peeking out. Another two Hands followed the one in the snowy-furred cloak. A man and a woman. One thin, one wide. Then Dart’s attention shifted to a pair of massive guards—loam-giants from the size of them—who shouldered out of the stairwell. She gaped at them. They carried a crate slung between them.

  As they stepped aside, a more familiar figure appeared behind them.

  The bronze boy.

  Dart’s heart trembled somewhere between relief and terror.

  So he had come.

  He was a year ahead of her at school, so she had never known him well, but after encountering him in Oldenbrook, she had sought to learn more. Including his name. Brant. She tested the name now, mouthing it. It somehow fit him.

  Her former schoolmate stopped with the giants near the stairs, shrugged aside a heavy winter cloak, and pointed an arm. “The houndskeep lies past the bailey. Take them down, get them settled, but keep them under watch. None are to see them until the morning.”

  The giants nodded and headed away.

  Brant watched them for a breath. He looked somehow thinner, paler than when last she’d seen him—though as he turned back to the hall, a fire burnt in his manner. He tromped after his party. His eyes narrowed upon the mistress of tears and her tall escort. Plainly there was some trouble here.

  Dart kept one eye peeked as Castellan Vail assigned rooms. The boy vanished into his own with barely a word to any of the others.

  She maintained her post until the hall was empty. Even the escorts had vanished with their captain, gone to break bread. And test the Citadel’s ale, she imagined.

  She dared tarry no longer. The regent’s flippercraft would be mooring soon. Still, as Dart stepped out, she had to bite back a desire to knock on Brant’s door. If she could swear him to her secret…then she’d have nothing to fear. Maybe they could even share a—

  A latch scraped ahead of her.

  Dart crabbed backward with a wheel of her arms, ducking back into her alcove. Brant’s door opened. He glanced up and down the hall as if someone had rapped on his door. Or maybe it was the trumpets that had blared for the past half bell, echoing down from the top of Stormwatch.

  Dart studied him.

  He was dressed the same, still in his heavy winter cloak and boots. Seemingly satisfied that he was alone, he headed for the stairs. Where was he going? To investigate the trumpets? To sample the ale here, like the guards?

  He reached the far stairs. Dart craned her neck to see, curious where he was going. Without a glance back, he headed down.

  She drew after him, her feet moving on their own. Pupp trotted ahead of her down the hall.

  Upon reaching the landing, she searched below. He had already vanished around a curve in the stairs. She hesitated on the steps. Her spying had already revealed what she had wanted to know. He had come. It was best now that she return to the castellan’s hermitage. The first evening bell would be ringing any moment. The regent’s flippercraft was due to arrive. Castellan Vail would expect her to attend the welcoming.

  Still, she stood on the landing, burning with curiosity, tempered by a trace of fear. What to do?

  Then her decision was taken from her.

  Pupp bounded down the stairs after the boy, perhaps responding to some unspoken desire in her own heart. She hissed at him, but only faintly. A moment later, she pursued her ghostly companion.

  Brant proceeded slowly, new to Tashijan, but he seemed to know where he was going, moving with a dogged determination. Perhaps he had been given a map to the towers.

  As they progressed, Dart kept easily hidden. As usual, the stairs were crowded. She had no difficulty keeping him in sight while staying back herself. As she trailed her quarry, she heard snatches of conversation. With each level she passed, she slowly pieced together some mishap that had befallen a flippercraft landing atop Stormwatch. Word had traveled faster than the trumpet’s blare: of a fire, burning mekanicals, but order had been restored. No deaths.

  Then she heard Tylar’s name.

  Her feet slowed to listen to the rest of a knight’s conversation with a comely older maid. He leaned an elbow on the wall. Dart noted the Fiery Cross embroidered on his shoulder. “The regent arrives with as much turmoil as he’s
beset our fair land. Is it any wonder Warden Fields disapproves of his position at Chrismferry?”

  Dart continued past, lest she draw the knight’s eye. But it seemed the maid’s ample bosom had captured his attention full enough.

  She hurried down a few more steps, dread clutching her throat. So it had been Tylar’s airship that had landed so roughly! He must have come early. She stopped at the next landing.

  Enough with this foolishness. She needed to get back to the castellan’s hermitage. Kathryn might need her.

  “You!”

  The shout startled her—as did the hand that grabbed her roughly and pulled her around. She expected it to be Brant, wise to her spying.

  But another familiar countenance pushed close to her, almost nose to nose. Pyllor. She smelled the sour ale on the squire’s breath.

  “What are you doing out of your cage, Hothbrin? Come looking for some more lessons?” He shoved her against the wall with an angry laugh.

  Dart struggled against him, but he outweighed her by two stones.

  “’Course,” he slurred, “we’ll have to manage without Swordmaster Yuril. None of her coddling this time.”

  His guffaw sounded more like a bark—but Dart was deaf to it, hearing only the beat of ravens’ wings behind his laugh. She tensed, remembering when another man had touched her so roughly.

  Behind Pyllor, Dart saw two more of Pyllor’s friends. Dart didn’t know their names but recognized their hard eyes. She also noted the Fiery Cross emblems crudely stitched to their shirt collars.

  Folks passed them on the stairs, barely noting them. Such ribaldry and hassling were not unknown among the ranks. But Dart read the mean intent in Pyllor’s eyes. The Fiery Cross bore no love for the castellan—or those who served her. Swords had been drawn over the division.

  One of his companions grabbed Dart’s other shoulder. “Let’s do her?” he hissed at Pyllor, his eyes shining with malicious fire.

  The second squire hesitated, half-blocking the way. “The castellan’s page—we don’t dare.”

  Pyllor flat-handed him aside. His other fist knotted in Dart’s half cloak and tugged her toward an open door. “Bugger that sellwench up in her hermitage. We’re the warden’s men. She needs to learn who truly rules here.”

  Dart fought against the fist in her cloak, trying to shed the garment and twist away. But her other elbow was snatched by the more exuberant of Pyllor’s two companions. The other hung back still, glancing to the stairs. But all interest still seemed caught upon the crashed flippercraft.

  Dart was half-carried through a doorway into a dark, empty room. A single brazier burnt near the back, offering a meager glow.

  An iron rod protruded from it, buried in the embers.

  “Get your flat arse in here!” Pyllor’s friend said to their reluctant cohort.

  He obeyed, caught in the wake of the other two.

  “And latch the door!” Pyllor called out.

  Dart stamped on the squire’s foot, desperate to escape, heart pounding in her throat. Raven wings echoed. Did they mean to rape her?

  Pyllor swore and threw her deeper into the room, hard enough to trip her up. She skidded on the stone, ripping her leggings, bloodying her knee.

  “Act like a skaggin’ wench…and we’ll treat you like one!”

  A coarse laugh encouraged Pyllor.

  The door closed behind him, sinking the room into gloom.

  Pyllor’s partner crossed to the brazier, wrapped up his hand in a cloth, and pulled the rod from the coals. Its iron end glowed a fiery crimson. A branding iron. The tip was shaped into a circle bisected by crossed lines.

  The symbol of the Fiery Cross.

  It was not rape that they intended, but another violation of body.

  “Where should we mark her?” the bearer asked. “The thigh, like we did that Moor Eld boy?”

  Pyllor glared at Dart. “No. Somewhere where all will see.” He touched his cheek. “It’s time the Fiery Cross sent a message to that sellwench up in her hermitage.”

  Dart scrambled back as the others laughed. She sought her only weapon. She reached down to her scraped knees, blessing her hands with her own blood. She needed Pupp.

  Dart glanced around and only now realized she was alone.

  Pupp was gone.

  Pyllor stalked toward her. “Grab her.”

  Brant knew he was being hunted.

  He had sensed it for the last three levels as he descended the stairs, a pressure building behind his breastbone. He searched behind him, but the curve of the tower stairs betrayed him. All he saw was men and women in cloaks or various drapes of finery. A washerwoman with a tied bundle of linen bustled past him, almost knocking him aside. He caught the scent of soap and perfumed oil from her burden, intended for someone of higher station.

  He took another step down. He was thwarted from much further progress by a tide of people heading up. He had almost reached the bottom of the tower, and some excitement seemed to be drafting folks upward, like smoke up a chimney, something about an arriving flippercraft.

  Pressed against a wall, Brant finally noted the heat at his throat. His hand rose to touch the scar on his neck, then the stone resting below it. The stone wasn’t burning like the last time, flaring with a blistering fire. It was only warm, as if slightly fevered. Both curious and disturbed, he tested its black surface with his fingers.

  As he stood, the stone warmed further, a match to the tension mounting in his chest. Brant took a step back up the stairs, then another. Under his fingertips, the stone heated to a toasty warmth. He reached the next landing, and a deeper burn surged, the stone becoming a coal in his fingers.

  Wincing, he stopped. He remembered the daemon summoned by the stone when last it had flared. He searched all around him. Nothing.

  At his throat, the stone began to cool.

  No.

  He sensed that whatever had been hunting him was now retreating. He could not lose it.

  Brant took another step up, and the stone warmed ever so slightly. Encouraged, he hurried toward the next landing. With each step, the black stone responded, stoking higher with an inner fire. If he stopped or was slowed, it would cool again. He did not tarry, climbing two steps at a time now, caught in the flow of residents heading higher.

  As he passed the next landing, Brant felt the stone suddenly lose its fiery edge. With each step farther, it cooled more.

  Brant swung around and fought the tide again, heading back down, returning to the landing below.

  The stone’s burn ignited again.

  He left the stairs and entered the passageway.

  It was nearly empty. He rushed forward, using the threaded rock like a lodestone, following the trail of heat. He was a quarter way down the hall when the stone flared to a roasting fire.

  Brant gasped but knew he was close.

  He yanked the cord from around his neck. He held out the necklace, letting the talisman swing. On one pass, the arc of the dangling stone suddenly stopped—halted by the backside of a molten bronze beast.

  It appeared out of the air at his knees, facing away, toward a door. Its body seemed to melt and flow, constantly struggling to hold its beastly shape, half wolf, half lion. In its fierce churn, Brant sensed its fury. It wafted outward like the heat from an open forge.

  Then the beast lunged away, vanishing from the touch of the stone, and through a solid door.

  Brant straightened.

  Then heard the scream.

  Dart struggled to escape her own half cloak. It had been pulled over her head by the larger of Pyllor’s cohorts. She kicked and felt her boot strike flesh. A loud oof responded.

  “Get’er legs, Ryskold!” Pyllor said.

  Someone grabbed her knee.

  Dart fought with a rising fury that grew to a blinding ferocity. A hand broke free of her cloak, and she raked her nails at whoever clutched her. She connected, digging deep.

  A bellow of surprise erupted.

  The grip loosened, and
she twisted away, freeing herself—but only momentarily. Whoever she’d wounded lunged atop her, meaning to pin her with his greater weight. Dart held him off with an elbow and a hand. In the struggle, her fingers stumbled upon a familiar shape at the other’s waist.

  She grabbed it and pulled.

  The sword slid free of its sheath. Her attacker let loose a cry of pain, accidentally cut by his own blade.

  Dart rolled to the side and to her feet. She lifted the stolen sword to face the three across the room.

  In her hand was no wooden sword—this one was steel.

  The bolder of Pyllor’s two friends clutched his forearm. His shirt had been cleaved and darkened with his blood. His eyes had narrowed with pain, but burnt with a fiery anger.

  In the glow of the single brazier, Dart’s stolen blade shone brightly. As did Pyllor’s own blade as he pulled it free. A squire’s blade. No black diamond adorned its pommel, marking a true knight, for certainly no honor was to be found here.

  “Leave her to me,” he called to the others unnecessarily.

  His wounded partner’s sheath was already empty. The other had simply backed away, plainly refusing to be drawn further into the struggle here.

  Pyllor sneered. “First I’ll bloody you, then we’ll get you branded up good—for all to see.”

  Dart remained silent and took a warding stance. But this was no sparring match. Pyllor came at her with a brutal and heavy lunge.

  She refused to be drawn into a block, not against the more muscled attacker. She simply turned her blade and let his steel sing along hers. She leaned her left shoulder back and Pyllor’s sword tip passed her harmlessly.

  Surprised, her attacker was momentarily off balance.

  And close.

  Expressionless, Dart demonstrated how well she had learned Pyllor’s prior lesson, how sword fighting sometimes required more than a blade. As he stumbled near, she kneed out with her other leg, striking him square in the groin.