Ordination Page 7
“Ware the guards,” he called, his voice quiet, but pitched to carry. Then, with a deep breath, he started up the planking that led to its top. They bent under his weight, and the sound of his ascent carried quickly. Two muzzy voices called down, each rising over the other to be heard.
“Stand away lest we shoot!” shouted one. “Bugger off!” warned the other.
Shoot at what? The darkness? “I would speak with you good watchmen if you have a moment.” Allystaire paused. “There could be silver in it.” Your purse isn’t endless.
Good that I do not plan to pay them, then.
Soon, a beam of light shone down from the tower as one of them lit a lantern and two pairs of boots bowed the planking. They were of a piece with the guardsmen he’d met before—dirty, noisome, wearing mismatched gear. Both carried crossbows and wore the same clumsily sewn badge.
As soon as the light appeared, Allystaire took two large steps away and put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the approaching lantern beam. He rolled his shoulders; spread his feet; and took deep, even breaths.
He didn’t look up until the guards were close enough that the light from the lantern was ambient, rather than direct. By then, he could smell the sour reek of wine off the guardsman directly in front of him.
“Gentlemen. Glad you could see your way clear to giving directions to a poor lost soul. Let us say I was interested in bringing some new volunteers to milord’s host. Particularly, let us say I wanted…” He shrugged expansively, raising his free hand, “oarsmen.”
“Eh? We’ll be havin’ no freezin’ press-gangs in Bend,” said the lantern bearer. The other, whose free hand carried a heavy, sloshing skin, snorted.
“He’s not here to press anyone, Rogit. He’s lookin’ t’ buy ‘em.” He turned toward Allystaire. “Ain’t ya, yer lordliness? Well, we can help but ‘twill cost. A silver link’ll keep us in wine fer a few long nights o’watchin’ an’ guardin’, what say?”
Allystaire smiled, hoping the shadows concealed his gritted teeth. “If the information is reliable, then yes, a silver link will do as you described.”
“Fine. Ye’ve the look o’ weight on ye.” He coughed, spat to the side, then popped open his wineskin with a flick of his thumb. “Down by the quays. Cross the Street o’Sashes from the harbormaster’s office is a big warehouse. Wains full o’goods can drive right in. Or out. Any night three lanterns are burnin’ above the door, they’s lookin to sell.”
“Truth straight from a man who knows, that is. Three lanterns, Street o’Sashes. Now about our link?” demanded the lantern-bearer.
Allystaire clicked his tongue, and if the lantern had been closer, they might just have seen his smile turn a little fuller, his jaw unclench. “What a shame.”
“Eh? What? What’s a shame?”
Allystaire shook his head. “That you got so drunk on duty that you fell while trying to descend from your post to piss.” Then, without warning, he stepped forward toward the winebibber and swung his shield straight up. The solid thunk of its iron-rimmed edge biting into the guardsman’s jaw brought a release of tension and fury that he wanted to stop and exult in.
Wineskin’s jaw snapped closed so hard and so fast that his teeth bit clean through the tip of his tongue. A bit of flesh flew into the night, a trail of blood behind it, to land wetly on the ground. Allystaire didn’t stop there; he swung his right fist overtop of the shield, straight into the jaw he’d already slammed shut, and the man dropped like his legs had been cut from under him.
Lantern was so befuddled by what was happening, and his night vision so ruined by having stared into a light source on the way down, that he barely had time to register Allystaire stepping forward, sweeping back his shield, and bashing him straight across the face. He let out a broken whimper after the audible crunch of his nose breaking, and he, too, fell to a moaning heap on the ground.
As the men dropped, Allystaire immediately relieved them of their crossbows, heaving them toward the wall as hard as he could. He wouldn’t swear that either made it over, but they were as good as gone in the darkness. He picked up the wineskin, still half full, and poured the rest of it over their prostrate forms. Wineskin was, by now, attempting to struggle to his feet; for this he earned two sharp kicks in the ribs.
Smash their heads. Slit their throats. Stop leaving live enemies in your wake. “Those who would profit from the sale of men and women might as well be slavers themselves. I should not suffer your kind to live.” His hand wrapped about the head of the hammer and began to draw it free, his right arm tensing with the need to swing. “I should spatter the dirt with the meager brains in your heads.” Am I out to prove Casamir right? I may be a killer. Am I a murderer? They are beaten men.
Allystaire spat on the ground, then raised his voice in the direction of the nearest other tower, its faint outline barely visible. “Help! Help! Fallen guardsman!” His baritone voice carried well and strong.
He turned back to the prone forms before him and dropped his voice, though he couldn’t keep anger out of it. “At least neither of you will bleed to death. Remember that. Remember that I could have killed you, and I did not. Sometimes mercy is strength.”
His words were met with slobbery moaning. He trotted off with quick steps.
* * *
Three raps on the door, a pause the length of a heartbeat, then two more. Allystaire stepped back, waited; he heard the sound of the bar being moved back, and then the door opened into a darkness that was lessened only slightly by the dimly lit coals of the small, banked fire. Idgen Marte stood just inside the door, slipping a long blade with a very slight curve into a scabbard held lightly in her free hand.
“Any luck?” she asked quietly, as Allystaire moved slowly past her into the room and set his shield down against the door, followed by his cap.
“I learned something of what I needed to know.” Soon, the large and heavy sword he wore joined shield and iron-banded cap. He took a deep breath, pulled off his gloves, pushed back his sweat-slicked hair. “Where is the Street of Sashes?”
Idgen Marte snickered as she lowered herself back onto a stool. “You didn’t hire me just so you didn’t have to take your niece whoring with you, did you?”
Allystaire, thankful of the darkness, felt a flush creep into his cheeks. You should have guessed that, idiot. “No. What I learned is that the business I have to do is on that street, and I did not want to blunder about looking for it in the dark.” He moved over to settle down in front of the bedding gathered upon its crude wooden frame; upon it, Mol slept without a sound.
Carefully, Allystaire leaned back against the low wooden board, not entirely sure it would hold against his armored weight, but it did. He drew out his hammer and laid it across his lap.
“I will need you for at least the rest of the next day. Go get some rest. Report to me after breakfast.”
Idgen Marte laughed very lightly. “Report to you? You’re used to being in command and no mistaking.” She stood, stretched a bit, and slid the sheathed sword she still gripped onto an iron frog on her belt. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna sleep sitting up in your armor like you’re expecting a stand-to in the dead of night.”
“It is not the first time I have slept like this, and I suspect it will not be the last. Casamir could decide he wants to bring my head back to his lord, after all.”
She shook her head and started for the door. “There’s a story there I mean to hear before this is done.”
“You will be disappointed.”
Idgen Marte laughed that light laugh again and left without another word. It took Allystaire a moment to realize that he needed to heave himself back to his feet and shut the door; when he stood, a sharp clicking in his left knee led to gritted teeth and a muffled curse. He shuffled over, closed and barred the door, then arranged himself back in place, hammer in hand.
He couldn’t help but t
hink over Idgen Marte’s words. No man ever regretted being prepared. But he would be stiff in the morning, the armor perhaps a touch heavier, the hammer slower. Sleeping like this was barely enough, now. “Then barely enough will have to do,” he murmured to the room, to himself, to Mol sleeping above him. Allystaire leaned his head back against the board and inhaled deeply; with the quick ease of long practice, he slipped into a light and dreamless sleep. He thought that he heard, perhaps, a voice whisper an answer: It will. But he was too tired to wonder at it.
* * *
Allystaire awoke all at once. No grogginess to shake away, no yawns to suppress; he had slept, and now he was fully awake.
There was stiffness, though, and his knees and back protested with violent cracks as he pulled himself to his feet. The room was filling with dirty grey light and the promise of thick morning heat. Mol had surfaced from underneath the bedding, her forehead beginning to run with sweat. Allystaire spared a glance for her, then shuffled away from the bed. He set the hammer that had lain all night in his lap on the small table and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, sighing as tight shoulders released.
He was staring fixedly at the dead ash of the fireplace when he heard Mol stir. “Did ya find m’folk yet?”
Allystaire sighed and turned to face her. She was sitting up in the middle of the bed, her eyes large and bright even in the dimness of the room.
“Perhaps. I think I have found out the place where slaves are sold. More than likely, your kin are there…or those doing the selling will know where they are.” Allystaire paused, then drew a stool toward Mol’s bedside.
“I am going to watch the place today to see what I might do at nightfall. I need to know things. How many guards and at what intervals.” He waved a hand dismissively. “At least, I will feel better knowing them. It is time for some plain truths, though. First is that they may already be gone, or tonight may be the night of sale. I hope neither are true. Second…”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I might not be able to rescue them. If there are ten or a dozen men in there, armed and competent, and I simply walk through the door and set to killing them, I mislike my chances.” Mol opened her mouth to protest, but Allystaire shook his head, then leaned forward to put a hand gently on her shoulder. “I cannot help you if I die foolishly.”
Smiling gently, Mol patted the back of his large hand with her small one. “Ya’ll not die. I know it. Once ya get inside, ya’ll know what to do. Y’always have so far.”
Allystaire stood and patted her shoulder. “I wish I could say your faith is comforting, but it sounds too much like the empty words of a priest telling me to trust in Braech’s rough justice, or Urdaran’s great wisdom, or Fortune’s whim.”
“If faith isn’t comforting it isn’t anything, and m’words aren’t empty. Ya’ll see,” Mol insisted, jaw set defiantly.
“Well, if I am going to die today I am not going to do it on an empty stomach. Bar the door and do not open it unless I tell you where I found you, aye?” With that, Allystaire was off to rouse the staff.
Downstairs, there was only a bleary-eyed groom sitting by the front door, but the smell of bread drifted in with the increasingly sticky heat. Soon, the haggard looking innkeep, another day’s growth of grey stubble on his cheeks, stumbled out into the room, brightening considerably when he saw Allystaire.
“An early start t’yer business then, milord? There’d be fresh bread for you and yer niece, or yesterday’s bread fried in ham fat if ya prefer.” He paused, rubbed a cheek, and added, “And ham. Tea? For a little extra copper I might find some honeycomb—”
Allystaire cut him off with a wave of a hand. “Yes. All of it. I am famished. But I do not wish to wait long. While you get it ready, send someone to fetch the woman Idgen Marte. If she complains, tell her that as long as she works for me, her day starts early. Are my animals well?”
The innkeep winced slightly and pulled his hand away from his forehead. “Er, yes, m’lord, though my grooms all have a fear o’the big grey. They say he bites and stamps, they come too near.”
Allystaire met his words with a quick smile. “Which is precisely what he is trained to do. Tell them to show some spine, but for their fingers’ sakes, do not rile him. I want the horses saddled and ready to run after the sun crests today, unless I return to tell you otherwise.” With that, he was tromping back up the stairs. He rapped gently on the door, cleared his throat, and said, “Cold well.” The bar was thrown back, slowly, and the door opened, Mol tugging it with both hands.
While he walked through the door, the girl wandered over to where his shield leaned against the wall. She reached out a finger and traced the slight nicks that the guardsman’s faces had put in the paint last night. “How’d these happen?”
Allystaire had walked past her and begun staring out the small window, frowning as he felt the heat rolling in on him. “Eh?” He turned around to face her. “Shields get nicks in them.”
“This one din’t have any before,” she insisted. “I saw. ‘twas all smooth grey.” She rubbed a finger across a spot where the grey paint had been scratched. “What’d ya do last night, t’learn where m’folk were?” She turned to him, mouth serious beneath large brown eyes. “Who’d ya hurt?”
Allystaire stared at her for a moment. How exactly did she…Doesn’t matter. He let out a quick sigh and spread his hands. “Some guards. They knew where slaves were kept and wanted silver for the benefit of the knowledge.”
“You kill ‘em?”
Allystaire shook his head slowly from side to side. “No. I hurt them. Anyone who profits from the sale of people is little better than a slaver himself. But I did not kill them.”
“Ya’ve killed men afore, tho?”
Allystaire frowned deeply. “What kind of question is that?”
She shrugged. “Why bother t’hide it? Ya told me t’save m’folk ya’d have t’kill men, lot of men maybe. So ya’ve done it afore.”
He shrugged and waved a hand helplessly. “I have, yes.”
“So why’d ya not kill them?”
“Killing a man and murdering him are two different things. I will do one, but not the other.”
“What about tha’ man from last eve, Casmir? Would he?”
“Casamir,” Allystaire said carefully, correcting her pronunciation and drawing a scowl for his trouble. “And yes. For any reason he could seize upon. He enjoys it.”
“And ya don’t?”
“Cold, lass, but you are a thorough inquisitor. I could have had use for you once upon a time.”
She set her hands on her hips. “Answer me then.”
“I do not enjoy killing for its own sake, no.”
“I dunno what that means,” Mol said, her eyes narrowing. “But ‘tis not an answer.”
Allystaire was spared further questioning when breakfast and Idgen Marte both arrived.
She looked considerably less awake than Allystaire, but for all that, her face, neck, and hands bore the scent of recent washing, her hair was carefully bound back, and her clothing and weapons were all in good order. Looking at her in the daylight, Allystaire could see more of the warrior in her. Her limbs and torso were long and leanly muscled, her wrists thick. She wore knee-high riding boots over dark trousers and a dark grey arming jacket that looked to have gussets of armor stiffening it here and there, but not so as to slow her down. In the light, her scar was more pronounced, vivid against her brown skin, far darker than any barony native.
Most telling, to him, were her eyes. Wide and brown, they had the cold, hard look of a seasoned warrior. Despite the sleep that lingered in them, they saw everything in front of them, and much else besides.
“Am I to play governess again today?” Idgen Marte asked him, as she poured tea into a mug and claimed the stool. Her voice was quiet, but not soft. It sounded as though it grated against her throat.
“What is your business?” She took a swig of steaming tea, heedless of the heat. “You aren’t whoring. You’re not here to buy passage or you’d just take her with you.” She leaned back, appraising him with cool eyes. “Whatever business you mean to do, I’m guessing the weight is blood, right? But you’re no assassin. Hunting a deserter or a renegade, mayhap?”
Allystaire met her stare with his own. He tried to be cold, but he held no malice toward Idgen Marte, so, while his facade didn’t crack, neither did hers. Something about her prevented him from flinging his usual air of command, of expected obedience.
“I’ve had every kind of stare there is in the world directed at me, Allystaire. By men and women, rich, noble, killers, madmen, artists, and teachers. You have no chance.” She grinned lopsidedly as she answered him. “Ya’ve trusted me to guard the child, and if you trust me that far, trust me with this.”
He sighed, dropped his gaze, and moved to the breakfast things. He helped himself to fried bread and ham, then took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Slavers,” he finally said.
Idgen Marte’s eyes flickered dangerously. “You aren’t buying—”