06 - Rule of Thieves (6 page)

I began a cautious exploration of my cell, feeling my way along the walls. I discovered a stone bench and a pile of moldy-smelling straw in the floor. There was a bucket, presumably for relieving myself, and a heap of something small that made crunching noises under my feet. I immediately thought of rat bones or possibly remnants from the last meal of a previous occupant.

I didn’t find anyone else in the chamber. I was alone. It was small comfort but I would take what I could get. Beyond that, there was no good news. My obvious priority was to escape this prison before the Fists returned or, worse, whatever had extracted those screams from that other unfortunate prisoner came after me next. But my examination had revealed only one way out—the door through which my jailers had exited. I had hoped to find a small window or some other space I could possibly enlarge or shimmy through. But there was none.

I tried the door but my efforts to loosen the bars were futile. Still dizzy from my head injury, I sank to the floor in the corner and slept.

____________________

When next I opened my eyes, it was still dark. I had lost all sense of time and couldn’t tell whether I had been asleep for an hour or a day.

What had awoken me? I kept still, listening, and soon I heard it. The bold clatter of more than one pair of feet coming my way. The low murmur of approaching voices. Light pierced the shadows, dancing torchlight moving down the passage and bouncing off the narrow walls. I didn’t know whether to welcome or dread it.

The glow of the flames fell over a pair of indistinct figures. My mind leapt to the two Fists who had ambushed me, but as these visitors came closer, I saw they weren’t the same. One of them, the man in the lead, had his back to the light, leaving his details too shadowed to make out. His wore the jangling chain mail of a Fist or guardsman but was too tall to be either of the two I had already encountered. His companion, following with the torch, was less obscured. He didn’t look young or fit enough to be a fighting man, and his sloppy clothing was not the uniform of the city guard or one of the Praetor’s elite soldiers. His only weapon was a cudgel hanging from a length of rope that he wore knotted like a belt around his thick waist. Beside the cudgel jingled a ring of keys that gave away his occupation as jailer.

As the pair drew near, the jailer’s complaint drifted to my ears. “Couldn’t it wait another hour, Captain? I haven’t had me own breakfast yet, and this lot is still waitin’ on their swill.”

The response from the other man was terse. “The Praetor’s business is delayed for no one.”

My ears pricked up. I knew that voice as well as my own, and it filled me with a rush of emotions. Joy. Relief. Warmth. But hard on their heels came uncertainty and doubt.

They had arrived before the door to my cell. The turnkey thrust his torch into a bracket on the wall to free up his hands. His keys clinked in the lock, and then my door swung open with a screech.

Terrac stepped into the chamber and hesitated, probably to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

“Ilan, is that you?” he asked, peering into my corner.

I didn’t know whether it was the lighting or my battered condition that put the doubt in his words. I had all but forgotten about my Kersian disguise and winter-seed darkened hair.

For answer, I scrambled to my feet and almost threw myself at him in relief. But something in his stance made me hesitate. The stark shadows cast across his face by the firelight concealed his eyes, but he had the feel of someone who hoped to find himself mistaken. He was not glad to see me.

That sharp realization was enough to root my feet to the floor.

He was still waiting for an answer, so I said with forced ease, “I could ask you the same thing. This isn’t a setting where I ever expected us to meet. Certainly not on opposite sides of the bars.”

He came further into the chamber but stopped while there was still more than an arm’s length between us. I wondered whether he kept the distance for reasons of emotion or personal safety.

“I was only just informed you were here,” he told me curtly. “I came as soon as I heard. You are injured?”

If the question suggested concern, nothing else in his manner did.

I said, “It’s nothing. Just a few light knocks on the head. A couple of Fists and I had a difference of opinion over whether I should be locked up. As you see, their argument was the most persuasive.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “I will see that these men are punished.”

“Then they acted without your knowledge or permission?” I asked.

My magic might be gone with the dragon scale, but I knew him well enough to sense his surprise as he said, “Of course. Why would I authorize any harm to you?”

“That’s a question you can answer better than I. I hear you’ve been promoted. I suppose the Iron Fists don’t make a move without you now. You write me in Cros, warning me not to return to Ellesus or the capital city. I disregard your advice, and no sooner do I set foot in Selbius than I’m snatched up in this secretive way and tossed in a dungeon. Your underlings didn’t even identify themselves or urge me to cooperate with my arrest. Simply fell on me and knocked me senseless.”

“And I will get to the bottom of their actions. Meanwhile, I can only tell you this order did not come from me.”

I realized while he spoke that he looked different. Not that much time had passed since we were last together, but he seemed to have aged during the space of it. The planes of his face were gaunter, more defined, and he was growing a light beard. His mouth was set in a hard line, and his shoulders stooped slightly, as if they carried a heavy burden these days. My gaze dropped to his injured arm, hanging limply at his side. Was it true that he could no longer use it?

I forced myself to stop staring and return to the conversation. “Do you think the person behind my arrest is the unknown enemy Martyn spoke of? Have you discovered this man’s identity yet?”

He was silent.

I prodded, “You warned me away, so you must have discovered some reason it would be unsafe for me to return.”

“Nothing definite,” he admitted. “I need more time to uncover the truth. And while I work to do that, I thought it would be best for you to remain in Cros.”

“Best?” I repeated. “Best for who?” My mind went back to the conversation I’d had with Hadrian. “Are you sure there isn’t some other reason you wanted to keep me far away from Selbius?”

He frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning no one has better cause than you to want to keep the Praetor and me apart,” I said.

Glancing toward the turnkey still waiting outside the cell, I lowered my voice. “Things are going very well for you these days as the ‘nephew’ of the Praetor. Maybe you’re afraid my influence could jeopardize your new position.”

Terrac looked confused. “Your influence? What influence could you possibly have with the Praetor?”

I drew his attention to the brooch pinned to my cloak. The oval disk was inlaid with copper and amber-colored stones and inscribed with the two-word motto of the house of Tarius, FIDELITY and SERVICE.

“While you wore this, the Praetor mistook you for someone you were not,” I reminded. “What do you think would happen to your favored status now if I corrected his long-standing false impression? If he learned you’re no more than an imposter? Maybe your fear of the truth coming out is why you initially tried to keep me away and why I’m locked away down here now.”

It was painful to make such charges aloud, but considering our history, my doubts made sense.

Terrac’s expression turned stony. “If what you accuse me of is true, I would be a fool to ever let you and the Praetor meet again.”

With that, he turned and left me without another word.

Heart sinking, I realized I had made my situation worse by confronting him. I waited to hear the clang of the door being slammed and locked. Waited for the torch to be taken away and my world to return to shadows.

Instead, the turnkey held the door wide and gestured for me to come out. Terrac was already striding off down the corridor, and the turnkey jerked his head for me to hurry and follow.

Amazed, I realized I was free.

Eager to be out of the place, I hurried after Terrac down the narrow passage and past rows of other cells like mine. I saw no evidence of the prisoner who had cried out during the night. The corridor we traveled ended abruptly in a steep flight of stairs that carried us up to the next level. Here we paused to wait for the jailer to catch up and unlock the heavy door barring our way.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped through that doorway and left the dungeon’s atmosphere of fear and hopelessness behind. We exited onto a long passageway much airier than the close tunnels we had left.

A tense and silent Terrac seemed impatient to be somewhere else, and I matched his brisk strides as we made our way down the corridor past doorways and open chambers. We were entering a part of the keep I recognized. The shields hanging on the walls and the tapestries depicting gory battle scenes were vaguely familiar to me, as was the pair of wide iron-banded doors that soon appeared in front of us. They were engraved with the Praetor’s symbol of a black bear rearing to confront its attacker. I knew what lay on the other side of those doors. Praetor Tarius’s audience chamber. I had been there before on the occasion when I had tried, and failed, to assassinate him. I hid my surprise at Terrac’s bringing me here now. It went against all my suspicions of him.

I was still trying to puzzle out what his intentions could be when he pushed open the doors and led me into the chamber. It was a long room, its high ceiling crisscrossed with thick beams and supported by timber braces.

And there he was, seated in a throne-like chair at the head of the chamber. The man who was at once my oldest enemy and the master I was sworn to serve. Praetor Tarius had killed my parents and hanged many of my outlaw friends. And yet he might also be the last living person who carried in his veins the same blood that I did. He was the brother of my father, though he had disowned him, and my uncle, though he did not know it.

Despite his middling years and the streaks of gray in his otherwise-coal-black hair, he was physically fit and possessed an undeniable appearance of strength and power. His wide-sleeved robe, flowing in velvet folds to the floor, made him look more like a king than a provincial governor, and I suspected that was why he wore it. Certainly I had seen him just as at ease when armed and prepared for battle.

He had not seen us yet and appeared busy with a group of men gathered around. By their fine clothes, I assumed them to be advisors or minor nobles. Terrac and I hung back along the wall and waited. We were not alone. There were numerous armed guards lurking in corners of the room and more stationed a protective distance from the Praetor.

I ignored the guards as I ignored everything but the man himself. I used to be able to sense his forceful presence when we were in the same room. But I was blind now, without either my natural magic or the dragon scale that would allow me to access it. It was yet another disadvantage for me, since Praetor Tarius possessed powers of his own. He didn’t come by it naturally, as I did, but had learned the twisted art of magery, a form of trained magic reliant on spells and incantations. Knowing this secret of his made me wary. To be near a mage while stripped of my powers was as bad as being surrounded by armed men while I went weaponless.

At length, the Praetor finished with the men he had been consulting, noted our presence, and beckoned us to come and stand before him.

I stiffened beneath his dark gaze but refused to flinch, meeting his stare with one of my own.

He greeted me with, “So, you have returned to us as promised, Ilan of Dimmingwood.”

His tone suggested he’d had no doubt that I would, and I wondered if it was my word he was so confident in or his power to control me.

I said coolly, “It was not so much a question of returning but of being dragged back. Had I been given the opportunity, I would have kept my promise under my own power. Instead, a pair of Fists lay in wait and set upon me in an alley, bludgeoning me unconscious and throwing me into your dungeon for the night.”

The Praetor raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Terrac. “Is this true, Captain?”

Terrac was too quick with his explanation. “There was some sort of misunderstanding, and two of my men mistakenly arrested her as she skulked about the city after dark. I’ve yet to discover the details, but I will investigate.”

“It was more than an accident,” I cut in. “Someone told those Fists to look for me and gave the same order to the guards at the city gate.”

Praetor Tarius’s mouth thinned into a flat line. “Are you saying I do not control the actions of my own men?”

“I am saying you may be unaware of their actions in this matter and that someone else in a position of authority has given commands running counter to yours. Unless it was you who wanted me arrested?”

The Praetor flicked a lazy hand, dismissing the suggestion. “It is not my usual practice to consign to the dungeon persons I have better uses for.”

Despite his words, a shadow crossed his face, and I thought he was more disturbed by my warning than he admitted. A man such as this would not like having his authority usurped by another.

He moved on. “You should have come directly to me on arriving in Selbius rather than ‘skulking’ about the city, as the captain puts it. The province has fallen under threat, and I have need of your particular skill set.”

“You speak of the return of the Skeltai?” I guessed.

He raised a dark brow. “I see our situation is not news to you. Yes, our old enemy has resumed their raids in the forest, and we suspect they intend to move on to larger targets. They have never before expressed ambition to broaden their borders, but we’ve received information suggesting that capturing and holding Selbius itself may be their aim this time. It is important we are kept informed of their movements and swiftly alerted to their arrivals within Dimmingwood if we are to have Iron Fists in place to counter their attacks. For that, I wish to rely on your wretched outlaw friends. They see everything that occurs in that place. Unfortunately, it seems no one can establish friendly contact with the scum. No one but you.”