Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (14 page)

“And what then? I cannot imagine I will enjoy the comforts of a roof and daily bread forever.”

“We shall see,” said Corin.
 

“We should ready her for the cell, sir,” said the other constable, the one who had accompanied them through the city streets. “Take her weapons and such.”

Corin grunted assent. While the other constable took her arm, he knelt at Loren’s feet and squeezed her boots. The constable felt her hunting knife under the leather, and his fingers plunged to withdraw it. He stood and grasped her bow, prying it off her—gently, so the string did not break.

“Is that all? It will go better for you if you speak the truth.”

Loren thought for a moment of withholding the dagger. But he would only search her anyway, and lies would not help to sway his mood.
 

“There is a dagger at my waist.”
 

Corin nodded, threw back her cloak, and froze.

His grim face became a mask of shock. Loren stared at him, eyes wide, unsure of what to do.

“Sir?” said the constable at her arm.

Corin seemed to recover himself. “That is enough here. Get up and see what is taking constable Bern so long.”

The constable looked at Loren with a frown. “But sir . . . ”

“You have an order, constable,” said Corin, his voice suddenly gruff. “Obey it.”

The man left with a final doubtful look at Loren.

Under the door guard’s gaze, Corin seized Loren’s arm, marched her around the corner to a narrow alley, and pushed her into its mouth.

“Why did you not reveal yourself earlier?” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder as though the King himself might hear.

Loren swallowed, her thoughts spinning. She had no idea what he meant, but the constable had sent away his only companion to exchange words alone. That had to mean something, and she must carefully choose her reply.

“I saw no reason to do so. Why should I?”

Corin glanced behind him again. “I might have . . . done things differently. Was this your intention? Do . . . do
they
require you to be placed within the prison?”

They.
The constable’s emphasis on the word had been unmistakable. Who were
they?
It must have something to do with her dagger.

“They do not. I must remain free. To carry out
their
work. And,” Loren added, struck by inspiration, “to continue my pursuit of the wizard.”

Corin’s eyes filled with relief. “Then I am not entirely derelict in my duties. Find him, then, and bring him to their justice. Though I wish it were the King’s, I think he will find yours less to his liking.”

“Indeed,” said Loren, her heart racing. Could this mean what she thought?

“Go, then.” Corin glanced over his shoulder again then shoved the hunting knife and bow into Loren’s hands. She hastily returned them to their places. “I shall make it look as though you overcame me. And when you return to your masters, tell
them
I helped you.”

“I will,” said Loren, in an earnest tone she did not have to feign. “And I promise you, Constable Corin,
they
will be grateful.”

She turned with a whirl of her black cloak and started down the alley. But a thought seized her, and she turned back one last time.

“Constable,” she said. “Where did the girl’s mother go? The merchant Damaris?”

Corin’s lips pressed tightly together. “The Wyrmwing Inn, in the north of Cabrus. But if I may advise my lady, I would warn you away from that place. Her guards will seek you out most eagerly, and they do not share our mutual . . . respect . . . for your masters.”

“Your advice is well given and well heeded, Constable Corin. Fare thee well.”

Loren turned and vanished into the alley with a flutter of black.

seventeen

Loren ran until she could no longer see the jail towering above the neighboring buildings, and then ran several minutes more. Once she felt safely away from the place, she found a narrow gap between two buildings and slipped inside, doubling over to catch her breath. The air reeked of human refuse and rang with the sounds of shouting men and crying children. Loren decided she rather hated the city.

She must find Annis. Mayhap the girl had abandoned Loren to the constables, or perhaps she had planned to return and rescue her. But Loren must give her the benefit of the doubt, and not just for honor’s sake. Loren knew precious little about Cabrus or the lands beyond, and Annis seemed wise in all the ways Loren was not.

Her eyes raked the narrow alley, wondering which way to proceed. An absent mind sent fingers brushing her dagger’s hilt.
 

What was this thing she carried upon her hip that could entrance a constable into abandoning his duty? Who were
they,
the mysterious unknown people Corin spoke of? The dagger seemed more useful now, and more dangerous. For anyone powerful enough to sway a constable must surely have enemies equally powerful.
 

But whatever Corin knew of the dagger, not everyone shared the knowledge. Damaris had seen it but granted the weapon no special significance. Some shadowed knowledge, then, some great secret, surrounded the thing. Loren wondered if she would ever learn the truth.

For now, she must think only of finding Annis. Loren drew her cloak closer, covering the dagger against careful eyes with a curtain of black. Then she emerged from the alley and into the street, wandering south and east away from the jail.

Before long, her stomach spoke, so she found a bakery and bought a roll—two pennies from her purse. She ate idly, losing herself in the streets, eyes traveling everywhere. In her forest, she had had a keen sense of direction, but here that proved useless. She had to stop every few minutes to observe the sun and ensure she maintained a southeasterly course. Every building seemed new and confusing, different just like all the others.
 

Then she saw something that
was
familiar—red leather armor. A pair of constables emerged from a door along the street to freeze her heart. As Loren readied herself to flee for the nearest alley, the men burst into raucous laughter and threw their arms about each other. Together, they stumbled off down the street. From inside Loren heard many loud voices raised in laughter and song.

A tavern, then. Loren sighed with relief but resolved to keep a warier eye.
 

Soon, Loren found herself coming under the gaze of many passersby. Some eyes roved the length of her fine black cloak; others fixed upon the bow at her back. Fine clothing and simple weapons—these were an oddity, and many remarked upon them. Loren kept her head down, eyes averted. She did not wish for tales of a green-eyed girl in a fine black cloak to reach the constables. It would not do to rely on Corin’s protection.

Eventually, curious eyes grew too heavy. Loren ducked down an alley, feeling better as her wariness abated.
 

She thought of removing the cloak and stowing it in her travel sack. But that might worsen things considerably. Loren had well noted that she looked different from most in Cabrus. She had seen complexions of all hues, but few as pale as hers. And not once had she seen eyes of green. Only dark brown.

No, she must retain the cloak, which brought its own kind of attention. Perhaps she could find a simpler shawl, but she had seen no clothiers and did not know where to find one.

Loren walked farther down the alley to find a surprise. It split both left and right where she thought it had ended. Both directions proceeded behind the buildings for many yards before turning once more.

Perhaps she could make her way through the city’s shadows. Annis had even said something about hiding in the city’s poorer parts when they entered. If Annis still walked free, she would likely seek the dark corners behind buildings as well.

Loren followed the alleys, keeping to the shadows of taverns and houses. She had to cross unsavory puddles and gingerly sidestep piles of refuse, but at least she avoided most eyes. Every so often, she saw beggars and cripples curled into corners. Some eyed her with interest, and one or two rose, but Loren flashed her dagger and they vanished. That gave her a thrill, and she found her confidence growing.
 

Soon she made a game of leaping from darkness to darkness, avoiding the sunlight at all costs. Loren fancied that she looked a bit like Mennet dancing with his shadows. When a beggar would look up at the sound of her footsteps, she would dart to the nearest doorway and shroud herself in the blackness until they looked away.
 

But soon she tired of the game. After all, it brought her no closer to Annis. The next time Loren saw a beggar, instead of dancing by she walked right up to the woman.

She seemed impossibly old, her face holding more wrinkles than space in between. Still, the beggar’s shriveled eyes glinted bright in their sockets, and those eyes rose sharply at Loren’s approach. Her face seemed blithe, but her hand hovered, ready for the dagger.

“Well met, friend,” said Loren. “Mayhap you could help me.”

“Mayhap not as well, for I’ve got no friends.” The woman had a voice like an iron pot flung down a rocky slope. “It depends on what help ye seek, and what gifts ye have for those who aid ye out o’ the goodness o’ their hearts.”

Loren smiled and reached to her belt. From her purse she pulled a silver penny. But when the woman pushed forth grubby hands to claim it, Loren danced it back on her fingertips—a trick she’d learned from Bracken long ago.

“Now then,” said Loren. “Where would one go to find more like you, and worse besides?”

The old woman’s lips drew back in a sneer. Loren nearly flinched at the sight of her old and well-browned teeth. “You’re headed the right way a’ready. Keep your feet pointed south and east, and ye’ll find the scumsucking backside of this place soon enough.”

“Thank you.” Loren flipped the coin into the air, and the beggar woman caught it deftly, shoving it up her sleeve. Loren pulled another from her purse. “I seek a young girl, perhaps one running from constables. She stands as high as my chest, with skin like the night and a fine purple dress. Have you seen her?”

The old woman shrugged. “See all kinds, I do, and not just here. Oft time I make for the streets, where folk are plentiful and their coins more so. I seen plenty like what ye say along the street. Young noble’s daughters love to flounce about on their pretty ponies with steel-clad guards close by, just to remind the rest of us how fat their bellies might be.”

Loren could not hide her disappointment. Still, she flipped the coin. It, too, disappeared into the old woman’s sleeve. “Very well. May your day be bountiful.”

“It shall,” said the woman, with a curious leer.

Loren felt a heavy blow against her back. She cried out and bounced against the wall beside the old woman, crashing to the ground on hands and knees. Another heavy blow struck her ribs, and she flipped to her back. A young man, skinny as a sapling but with wiry muscle, fell atop her. His grasping fingers seized her wrist as she went for the dagger, while his other hand groped at her purse.

“Younglings don’t do well to flash around so much silver,” said the old woman, looking down at Loren with vicious amusement. “They get all kinds of eyes on them what they don’t want. We don’t want to open ye up, girl. Give us what else ye may.”

Atop her, the young man gave a mad laugh as his fingers circled the coin purse. But if he thought Loren a helpless young maid far from help and home, he thought wrong. Not for nothing had Chet refused to tumble with her after his third try.
 

Her attacker held her dagger hand but neglected the other while reaching for the purse. Loren clapped it against his ear. He released her wrist, howling, and Loren brought the hand hard against his other ear. He tumbled off her and hunched over his knees, glaring with hate.

Loren gained her feet, ready when he came again. She took his first punch on her shoulder and sank her own fist into his gut. His breath left in a
whoof,
acrid and foul, and she struck him again just left of his temple. He fell back again, blinking hard.

A knife flashed into his palm.

Loren’s eyes widened, and he came after her. It was all she could do to avoid his wild slashing. As she ducked and stepped back at the same time, her boot landed on her cloak and sent her crashing to the ground. She recovered and rose just in time, his blade slicing the air where she’d lain.
 

“Hold!” she cried, though she knew it a mad request. He did not mean to scare her—he meant to slit her throat and take the purse from her cooling corpse. Still, she tried again while scrabbling for her dagger. “Hold!”

She heard her only reply in the old woman’s cackle.

Her fingers closed on the dagger’s hilt as another figure stepped into the doorway’s shadows. Its fist lashed forth to mash into the young man’s face, and Loren saw the gleam of metal. The guttersnipe crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. Loren looked for the old woman—but she had vanished into the twisting alley.

Loren’s rescuer stood with his back to her. She could see only a red cloak thrown over broad shoulders, above which a shock of grey hair spoke of age. But as the man turned around, Loren was surprised to find light blue eyes set in a beardless face nearly free of wrinkles. Not as young as she, but perhaps not much older than Xain. Still, she could not deny the heavy wisdom that weighed in his eyes. The man had a face that Bracken would have called, “A grandfather’s soul in the head of his son.”