A Fray of Furies, page 35
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
He started for the door again.
A change from below halted him. A hush that said a predator was passing by. The reedy refrain died away. Chairs scraped. He recognized the innkeeper’s hurried gait. A low voiced conversation, too faint for him to make out. Heavy boots, tramping up the stairs. Four pairs, with the innkeeper scuttling behind. He was only partly surprised when they halted before his door.
With only a peremptory knock, the portal swung inward.
“How can I help you, constable?” he asked, taking in the grey tabards and wooden truncheons.
The watchman looked momentarily nonplussed at finding him on his feet and lurking behind the door.
“Are you Master Bavura?” the man recovered.
A name they would only know if they’d run across Kassika. Or, from the looks of them, if Kassika had run into them. Repeatedly. One had a split lip and a spectacularly swollen cheek.
“Oh, no,” he breathed, “what has she done?”
“Come with us, please,” the watchman commanded.
She sat in her cell, sore and miserable, nursing her knuckles.
They’d demanded her knife. She’d accepted that as the compliment it was. They’d been wary of her, unwilling to bring her before their chief while armed. Smug, she’d held her head high as they’d marched her across the city to their ‘Watch House’.
But when the first male fingers had fallen on the ties to her cuirass, panic had reared its head.
She’d bloodied a fair number of them, before they’d managed to pin her. They’d torn her from her armor like she would skin a hare. This hare had fought as though it were a great tribe’s totem animal.
“Heathen bitch!” one had spat, retreating from her savage kick.
A truncheon had bounced off the foul mouth’s helm, stalling his return to the fray and bringing everyone else’s heads around too.
“I said,” a cold voice had speared the silence, “what in perdition is going on in my Watch House?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” the one with a knee in her chest had said. “Disarming a difficult suspect, is all.”
“Helia’s tortured teats,” the newcomer had bemoaned. “Does it take the four of you, mobbing this poor girl, to do that?”
The one with the dented helm had glared.
“The bitch is a fucking handful–”
The second blow had threatened to cave his skull in. Despite his excellent helm, he’d gone staggering into a wall.
“D’you say your Mother’s Prayer with that mouth, Histil? Drag your drowned carcass from my gaol. And try – try! – to requisition a new helm and I’ll lay into your empty purse next, yeah?”
Vibrating with rage, the foul mouth had hobbled from the room.
“That goes for the lot of you. Leave off, before I have you up on report. Honestly, your old mothers would weep to see you.”
The three restraining her had shared a look, a Hunt exchanging hand-signals, and taken a concerted step back.
She’d wasted no time putting her back to the nearest wall, glaring as she righted her torn jerkin.
“Not Marrow’s old mum,” one had quipped. “If that old bat had seen this, she’d have flown Marrow ’round the room by his ear. Like a kite. I’ve seen her do it.”
One of the others had sucked his teeth in irritation.
“I said out, you faithless bastards.”
With no further complaint, the three had filed through the door.
Alone, the newcomer had sighed in exasperation.
“You’ll have to pardon the animals,” the gentled version of the voice sounded female. “This job makes savages of us all.”
A sweat-dampened plait had tumbled free as the helm came off. Dispassionate eyes had taken in her ruined leathers and smeared war paint without comment.
“You’re the second woman to wallop Histil this month,” the watchwoman had continued, nimble fingers filling a squat pipe. “We had an Inith lass in here a couple of weeks back. One of the throwbacks. A real giantess. She kicked Histil in his... Well, closer to the root of his problem, if you take my meaning.” The watch-woman had continued around the stem of her cold pipe. “Are you about done kicking?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If they coming back,” she’d indicated the closed door.
Something that might have been laughter had sent errant leaves fountaining from the bowl. They’d littered the floor under the watchwoman’s rueful regard.
Chair legs screeched as the woman took a seat. The warrior had done her the courtesy of not noticing her flinch at the approach.
“Sit,” the woman had cut her eyes meaningfully toward the other chair. Kassika had found herself responding to the woman’s presence. Feeling a pinch more secure, she’d sat.
“Grand. Now: name and prefecture?”
The words had stuck in her dry throat.
“I’ll go first, shall I?” the woman had said, as the silence stretched. “I’m Lieutenant Nyla of the Tellar City Watch, born and raised Warren-side. And you are...?”
Reining in her fright, she’d reminded herself why she was there.
“Kassika, daughter of Esse and Warag of the Blackwater tribe. Hunter and Herald of the People. I’ve come to–”
“Slow down, lass. Kassika, is it? What prefecture is that? ‘Blackwater’ don’t sound Nemil to me. Or Neril either. And, if you don’t mind my saying, you look pureblood Kender, unlikely as that seems.”
At her blank look, the woman had sighed.
“Where do you hail from? Where do your people call home?”
“The People’s hearth fires lie far to the east, a moon or more’s ride through the forests and rock teeth. Then north, beyond the Blackwater. Among the high hills and higher passes.”
The woman had whistled softly, “A Hillmen tribe?”
“Lowlanders call us that,” she’d sneered. “We are the People.”
“No offense meant, lass. What brings you to civilization? Last anyone had heard, your people weren’t too keen on Empire.”
“I am the Herald,” she’d repeated, for a change not preening.
“Oh, aye? And what’s that, when it’s at home?”
So she’d tried to explain. But, with the feel of hard hands still fresh on her flesh, her rehearsed speech had flopped, disjointed.
Finally, the woman, Nyla, had brought her up short.
“Hang on,” the watchwoman’s eyes had sharpened. “So you’ve dragged this boy, in chains, all the way from the Barrier Peaks?”
“Had to take off chains when big bear try to eat us,” she’d qualified, having forgotten what Bearbait had called the bulkbear.
“And he’s an Imperial citizen?”
“The big bear?”
“No, the boy.”
She’d opted to share her working theory.
“Probably just eat imperial citizen.”
The woman had given her an unreadable look.
“And where is he now?”
“Travelers’ rest house, through the gate by the stone man with the water horn, past the longhouse for horses and across from the one who peddles dead flowers.”
“Don’t move,” the watchwoman had cautioned, rising.
“Pulloc!” the woman had shouted out the door.
“Aye, lieutenant?”
“Run down to the Merry Mare and collect Mistress Kassika’s companion, would you? A young Master Bavura. Bring him, and their possessions, here.” Eyes on her, the watchwoman had hesitated. “And take Histil and the others along.”
“We expecting trouble, lieutenant?”
“Not sure.”
“Righto.”
“Now,” the woman had turned back. “Let’s get you settled.”
She’d expected to see Nyla’s Huntmaster, or chief, next. Instead, she’d been escorted to a cage of iron bars.
“Just bear with me, lass,” the woman had sighed, spying her reluctance. “I can straighten all this out but only if you work with me. You want to speak to the higher-up’s? You’ve got to start at the bottom. This is it. I’ll be back in a bit, I promise.”
She did not know this measure of time: ‘a bit’. But the warrior woman had shown her respect. She’d marched, stiffly, into the cage.
A ‘bit’ – it turned out – was a long, long time.
For the most part, she’d sat in silence. Distant doors had opened and closed. A shouting cacophony had occasionally rushed in or petered out. The tolling of hundreds of bells continued to filter down at regular intervals. By the second round, she’d come to realize her disjointed urgings had inspired no urgency. By the fifth, she’d begun to sweat between her toes, despite the chill.
She barely repressed the urge to hammer at the bars.
The recriminations she heaped upon herself had heaved ever higher. Anger at the ignorant lowlanders and their unenlightened ways had ignited the tinder. For a time she’d stoked a slow, resentful rage. But eventually, even those embers had burnt themselves down to doubt. Now, she sat in ashen apprehension.
She’d thought patience one of her strengths. Many a hunt had been spent, huddled beneath the dark sky and bright snow, awaiting the thirsty fawns’ arrival at the river. But the cramped cell was a different challenge. As the day passed, her panic lipped ever more insistently at her wherewithal’s banks.
She distracted herself by reciting favored parts of the People’s history. At first, this worked. But she kept coming back to one tale in particular.
The Dank Groom had been a Stag suitor, who’d traveled to Deepmeadow, seeking to win over the chief’s daughter. By all accounts, he’d been a fair fighter and fearless. But the Deepmeadow caves had birthed an uneasiness in him. The Mole chief, who had no intention of losing his daughter to the Stags, saw this. So, instead of the traditional feats of strength or daring, he set the suitor an innocuous task. If he could abide among the deep burrows for one moon, he might have the chief’s blessing.
It seemed an easy task, to all but the suitor, who could feel the weight of the earth pressing down on him. He swore his companions to a blood oath: that they would not allow him to leave until he’d achieved victory. But, as the days passed, a sickness came to him. In a slick fever, he sought to escape the stone’s grasp by stealth. His companions discovered him. First with words, then with fists, they dissuaded him. They trussed him and turned a deaf ear. But soon, his pleas turned to those not present. ‘He prays to his ancestors,’ they told each other and turned their backs.
At last, the moon’s face was full. They carried him outside and cut him free. But the deep dark beneath the mountain had crawled into his mind. He fought, tooth and nail, to return to it. He fled his erstwhile friends, stripping his clothes as he went, ever deeper into the hollows beneath the earth. Never to be seen again.
When she’d first heard this tale, she’d scoffed at a warrior being undone by knowledge of mere dirt overhead. Now, herself a prisoner, she felt the Dank Groom’s plight more keenly.
Despite her resolve to show these lowlanders her mettle, Nyla’s return did not find her, seated sedately upon her cot, as she’d intended. She hung on the bars and tried not to show her relief.
When the watchwoman stopped short of her release, she finally spied the tightness in the other woman’s eyes.
“What?”
She got a long, searching look for an answer.
“What?” she asked again.
Shaking her head, the woman finally fitted a key to the lock, muttering to herself, “Damned Temple spies...”
“Something bad has happened?” she guessed.
“Good or bad, I’d not hazard a guess,” the woman grated, swinging the gate open. “I’d have let you stew the night away in here. Maybe add a caning come morning, to appease the law and my commander. You’d have walked away stiff but clear.”
Not knowing what a ‘caning’ was, she didn’t dwell on it. She was just grateful to escape this pen. Up close, the worry in the watchwoman’s eyes was more pronounced.
“And now?” she questioned.
“Now? A priest just walked in, towing a magistrate.” The woman’s reserve broke, and her mailed fist bounced off the wall. It was quickly done and left no vestige of upset. “Helia knows how they got wind of you when I haven’t put the paperwork through. You’d swear they have an empath camped on the roof, nosy bug–”
The woman halted herself mid-word to take a calming breath.
“My hand to Helia,” she promised to no one in particular, drawing a circle on her breast, “I meant no disrespect.”
When Nyla opened her eyes again, they had a steely glint.
“You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?”
“This ‘priest’,” she dissembled, “he wants to hear my story?”
The watchwoman nodded, “They’ve set up a makeshift tribunal in one of the old storerooms. They’re waiting for you now.”
She considered.
“Is he more important that your chief, this priest?”
The woman nodded grudgingly, “Senior clergy.”
Her lot was improving. Out of her cage and on her way to speak to a representative of the Old Masters. She should punch more people in the face.
“No trouble,” she confirmed, wondering what a ‘tribunal’ was.
He was utterly bewildered. The watchmen were courteous, but forceful, as they conveyed him through the streets in an oppressive cordon. None touched him and, though they insisted he wasn’t under arrest, the willingness to do violence lay thick on them. He could smell Kassika’s lingering fear on their grey tabards. She’d lost some skin to the rasp of one’s mailed forearm.
Something inside him shifted, following his nose to the fore.
They all bore hurts.
Their blood viscerally recalled to him that night on the barge. The bristle between his teeth. The coppery tang on his tongue. The hot slick at the back of his throat. His mouth shot full of saliva and he found himself unconsciously cataloguing their injuries. The one ahead flexed a hand, no doubt with diminished grip. One behind favored a vulnerable leg. A split lip that spoke of a softened jaw...
He turned the growl roughening his larynx into a cough.
The cordon crowded closer, hands hovering near sword hilts.
He tried to calm himself. Whatever trouble Kassika had gotten herself into, it was going to take a cool head to get her out of it.
Despite the plunging temperature and the setting sun, sweat bogged his armpits and trickled down the small of his back.
At last, the Watch House loomed. He halted a moment. The letters, weeping rust, seemed so... familiar.
An ungentle shove herded him up the steps. At the sight of his escort, the watchmen on guard gave him their gimlet gaze.
He was led into a pillared hall of desks and general din.
“Got your young man here, Lieutenant,” one reported.
A strong-jawed woman straightened from another conversation.
“Change of plans, Pulloc. Take him up to the boxes.”
“The storerooms? What in Helia’s hairy armpit for?”
“Hush!” the lieutenant hissed, casting a nervous glance about. “Watch your tongue. We got civilians in.”
A moment of understanding passed between them.
“Gonna be one of those, is it?” the man murmured.
“I don’t know what you mean, constable. And neither do you.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Now get a move on.”
They steered him toward a flight of stairs. He cast a curious glance at the officer. She stared at him, a puzzled frown on her face. As he watched, she shook her head and bent back to her discussion. There was something about the way she moved–
A memory feathered before his lashes, blinding him for an instant. He stumbled on the steps. But it wasn’t his fall to the carpet he fought to arrest. Like a pulled muscle, his mind locked into spasm. Time clenched tight around him.
No! Not now! he thought, as the stairs rushed toward him.
She’d meekly accepted the manacles, to save face with Nyla. Not because the thought of being manhandled again made her mouth run dry. If it came to flailing her chains, like a baited tribesman, she resolved to bludgeon the one called Histil first.
They brought her to a windowless room that stank of mold. Scuffmarks in the sediment showed where crates, now stacked along one wall, had recently rested. The freed floor space hosted a dustless table that must have been carried in from elsewhere.
The man seated behind it, getting the full benefit of the lone lantern, sported a liver-spotted pate. A thick ruff topped his bright robes but failed to hide sagging jowls. He looked a toad, shaving a point into a quill feather. Apart from noting his sharp little knife, she ignored him, as he ignored her.
His careful deference, however, led her eyes to an ill lit corner.
There, a half-seen figure stood, straight and severe. In the weak light, its eyes burned with intelligence and something… hungrier.
She’d have known him for a priest, even without his easy dismissal of the watchwoman, Nyla.
“…but, sir–?”
“I’m sure we shall manage, Lieutenant. You may go.”
Banished, the warrior had gone. The only other person was the watchman at her shoulder, slowly sweating through his uniform.
The opening door interrupted her silent regard of the priest.
“Father,” a helmeted head poked in. The honorless guard, Histil. “Magistrate. We’ve got the witness you requested.”
“Bring him in,” the magistrate bid, careful to keep his eyes from the priest’s corner. “I’d like to get this over with.”
The door was drawn wide and Bearbait propelled in. Her heart sped. She’d been dreading this moment, giving voice to her mission as Herald in his hearing. It was ludicrous, of course, this urge to spare him the knowledge of what he was: nothing but a patchwork of personalities, stitched over a ravening beast. But, if he was going to die for what lurked in him, it was only fair that he know its name. And it was only fair that she be the one to tell him.
