Exile's Children (9 page)

Rannach caught his wrist and turned, twisting Hadustan's arm even as he laughed. “Which?” he demanded.

“Why,” said Hadustan, “I'd send you out to fight, and I”—he fell to his knees, mimicking pain, pitching his voice high—“Oh, Rannach, you're so strong. Stay warm under the furs, Rannach. Please, don't leave me.”

Rannach chuckled and let him go as faces turned toward them. “Envy!” he said. “Perhaps someday you shall find a woman like Arrhyna. It is not likely because of your resemblance to an ugly horse, but perhaps the Maker will take pity on you.”

Hadustan rose, grinning, “And meanwhile she lingers lonely in your lodge … Oh, Rannach, I'm so alone.”

“Yes.” Rannach nodded solemnly. “For a fool, you speak wisdom.” He glanced toward the circle of the Council. The akamans spoke now of clan affairs, of disputed grazing and such other matters: none of interest. “I've duties you'd not understand. I shall go.”

“Oh, Rannach!” Hadustan cupped hands between his legs. “I believe I understand.”

Rannach smiled and shook his head, turning away. The others fell into step around him as he pushed back through the crowd. They passed through the surrounding lodges and forded the stream, traversing the Commacht camp, where he waved them back.

“I think I am safe now,” he said. “I thank you for your brave duty as my bodyguard, but now … The rest, I believe I can manage alone.”

“Are you sure?” Hadustan asked. “You'll not require our aid?”

Rannach stooped to scoop up a round of horse dung and fling it at his friends. As they ducked and laughed, he strode toward his lodge, ignoring the catcalls that followed him.

Light showed through the hide and around the edges of the entrance. He thought on Arrhyna, wondering what she might have cooked, or if Lhyn would have delivered a meal. Mostly, he thought on Arrhyna, and his step quickened.

When he thrust the flap aside and found her gone, the lodge in disarray, his anguished scream split the night.

It was like the shriek of a pained lion, full of anger and anguish. Bakaan and the others halted in their tracks, spinning around to run, swift, to Rannach's lodge. They found him readying his war gear, his eyes wild with rage and loss.

“What is it?” Bakaan glanced about the disordered tent, seeing there the signs of a struggle. “Where's Arrhyna?”

“Stolen!” Rannach's voice was a snarl. “Vachyr did not attend the Council; now I know why.”

Bakaan said, “I'll saddle your horse. And mine.”

“This is my fight.” Rannach snatched up his bow and quiver, his expression softening a moment as he turned to his friend. “When I find Vachyr, it shall go ill for him, and that shall not please my father. I'd not have you suffer his wrath.”

Bakaan shrugged. “I'm your brother; Arrhyna is my sister. Your loss is mine.”

Hadustan said, “And Vachyr might not be alone. I'm coming with you.”

An instant later Zhy said, “I too. We ride together.”

Rannach looked at them and said, “My father will be angry.”

Bakaan shrugged again, said, “Wait for us,” and beckoned the others to follow him.

Rannach shouted after them, “Hurry!”

The lodge was disordered and he had little time, but amongst the litter he found his paints and a mirror of Grannach silver: when his companions returned they saw the bands of black and yellow striped across his cheeks and nose. Silently, Bakaan took up the pots and decorated his own face in the colors of vengeance, then Hadustan and Zhy.

“Where will he run?” Zhy wondered.

Hadustan suggested to the Tachyn grass, but Rannach shook his head and said, “Too obvious. He'll look to hide his trail, confuse pursuit; and Arrhyna will slow him.”

Zhy swallowed nervously and said, “If she can. Likely she's tied or unconscious.” His voice faltered.

Rannach fixed him with a gaze both hot with fury and cold as ice. “Has he harmed her, his life is mine.”

Zhy nodded and glanced at Bakaan, who said, “Remember your promise.”

“He's stolen my bride: he reneges all promises!” Rannach's mouth stretched in a wolfish smile that contained no humor, only threat. “Now do we find his trail?”

They moved out, leading their animals, their eyes downcast, searching the ground for sign. Around the lodge the grass was trampled, but they were hunters, and as they cast wider afield they found spoor, the tracks of two horses angling to the southwest. They mounted then and rode under the moon, slowly at first, casting back and forth where the trail was confused with earlier hoofprints, but then swifter as the tracks cleared the Matakwa grazing and became a double line pointing into the doubtful future. They were each armed with blades of Grannach steel and hatchets, and each one carried a bow and full quiver, a lance and a hide shield.

And all were painted for war.

Rain drummed out a rhythm on the roof tiles of Davyd's crib, counterpointed by the steady dripping where slates had torn loose in the last gale. It was too much to ask that Julius repair his property, even at the exorbitant rate he charged for the tiny under-the-eaves chamber. At five guineas a week—in advance, or else—to find a decent place with no questions asked and dinner thrown in was as much as the young thief could expect. So he forwent any notions of complaint and consoled himself with the thought that at least he had a roof over his head and need not daily face the problem of accommodation. Best of all, Julius cared only that his rent be paid—not how it was acquired.

And, Davyd told himself, it was not a very large hole. The pot placed beneath caught the inflow and—a bonus—gave him fresh water without the need to traverse the winding corridors and circuitous stairways of the rookery to the well. There were some there who would not scruple to waylay and rob a fellow lodger; some who'd not hesitate to denounce a Dreamer to the God's Militia, did they suspect; and in Evander, under the rule of the Autarchy, suspicion alone was enough to speed a body to the scaffold. Julius, at least, could be trusted to keep his mouth closed—so long as the coins found their weekly way into his purse.

The greater danger lay outside, in the streets, in the risk of capture and subsequent revelation. That thought Davyd pushed assiduously
aside: he was uncertain just how far the powers of the Inquisitors stretched and he was absolutely certain he did not want, at first hand, to find out.

And there lay the crux of his problem.

His last theft had netted him sufficient to rest awhile, not worry about the rent, and eat fairly well. Now that haul was all but gone and he must replenish his funds—which his dreams suggested was not a good idea. It was a quandary: to risk detection or risk losing his room. Neither was much palatable.

He rose from the age-mottled chair and went to the corner where wall and rafters met, finding the nook in which he hid his purse. Counting the pennies again did nothing to increase them. He must, somehow, find the coin Julius would demand before the week was out. That or find some other lodgings: Julius's only rule. He hid the few coppers and moodily resumed his place in the ancient chair, staring at the rippled surface of the catchpot.

Begging held neither much appeal nor much hope. He could, at a pinch, beg with the best of Alehouse Bob's crew—he was young enough, and thin enough of face and frame that folk felt sorry for him and pitched him small change when he stooped to such activity—but he considered it beneath his dignity. He was a thief, not a beggar. Besides, in such miserable weather—which looked set to continue for some time—there would not be many folk abroad, at least not on foot, and the gentry in their carriages never thought to toss out a share of their easy-found wealth. More likely that some Militia patrol would come upon him and, at best, deliver him a sound drubbing, at worst arrest him. Davyd fancied neither.

Endeavoring to take a more optimistic view, he told himself that the rain would keep the Militia as surely under cover as it would honest folk. That it would also render rooftops slippery was of no great consequence—he was surefooted as a cat when it came to rooftop work.

The problem was the dream.

He had survived as a thief to the ripe age of thirteen thanks to the dreams. He did not understand them, or much care to. It was enough to know them reliable, and had come to trust them surer than he did any living soul. They told him when he might successfully mount a larcenous venture, and when not. This was not, they had told him, an auspicious time. Indeed, the last had featured red-coated Militiamen and faceless, black-clad Inquisitors, and had brought him gasping up from sleep to stare wild-eyed around his crib, his chest heaving as he anticipated the pounding on his door, the shouts of warning.

But ninepence would not pay Julius's rent, and if he did not go to
work soon he must go hungry and homeless: he had procrastinated long enough.

He felt his heart begin to flutter and reached to the table where the last of his brandy stood. He poured a small measure—enough to calm his nerves or fortify his courage—and brought the battered silver cup to his lips. That was worth a crown or two, but not five guineas; and besides, it held a sentimental value. Aunt Dory had told him his mother owned it—before the Militia took her, before they took Aunt Dory and left him entirely alone—and he would not part with it. So he drank and set the cup down, finding no alternative but to venture out.

The dream had told him
no,
but what else could he do?

He sat awhile longer, pondering it, images running apace through his mind. There was a merchant's office on the edge of the port quarter where he was confident of finding coin—a watchful eye and attentive ear had told him that much—and he doubted the hexes would be stronger than his skill with the picklocks. He could see himself opening the strongbox, filling his pockets with crowns and even golden guineas. Enough to pay off Julius and leave himself secure for a few weeks.

On the other hand, he could see—or, at least, imagine—the Inquisitors' dungeons and the instruments there. Vividly, he could see the last witch burning. It had taken place in Bantar's chief plaza, the great square formed by the cathedral, the palace of the Autarchy, the Temple of the Inquisitors, and the Militia barracks. The condemned had been a woman, not very old, found guilty of soothsaying. He could not understand how, were she truly able to foresee the future, she had not predicted her fate and fled. But she had not, and the Militia had taken her. The Inquisitors had put her to question, and on a dull gray day the flames of her burning had lit the plaza bright.

Davyd could hear her screams still; he felt no wish to echo them, as surely he would, were his own ability discovered. The Autarchy frowned upon any but its own agents wielding the power of magic, and what the Autarchy frowned on was ruthlessly eradicated. Which was why Aunt Dory had impressed upon the orphaned child the need to keep his dreams secret, once the old woman recognized their nature. To that end she had taken him to the plaza and forced him—no more that five or six years old then—to watch as a condemned warlock was given to the flames. He had taken the lesson to heart, firm as the officers of the God embraced their faith. Had he one fear greater then all others, it was of that awful consumption by fire. Only his dread of water came near that terror. It had served him well; it had kept him alive. But now he had only ninepence and the rent soon due.

He groaned, his mouth gone dry, and filled his cup again, swallow
ing the last of the brandy. The rain still tapped against the roof like impatient fingers, as if awaiting his decision. He made it in a rush—no time to doubt; not now, when Julius would any day demand his tithe. He took his coat from the bed and shrugged it on. It was a good coat, quite waterproof, and of a blue-black shade that blended into shadows or the color of slates. Concealed within the lining were pockets for his picklocks and the rewards they gained him. He settled a cap over his telltale red hair, and before he might change his mind—come to his senses, said a loud voice inside his head—he thrust open the crib's one window and clambered out.

Across the sloping roof to its gable he crept, then down and across, to the overhang of the rookery's neighbor. Along the ledge there to an attic window, loose-hung and opening on a dusty, web-draped storeroom. His nimble fingers sprung the door easy enough and locked it behind him—caution, always caution; Aunt Dory had impressed that on him too—and down the narrow stairs to the lowest level. Another easily picked door lock saw him in the alley behind, and he marched briskly toward his destination.

The rain-slick streets were mostly empty—this was not a quarter frequented by upright citizens even in dry daylight—and soon he was hurrying down the narrow alleys of the docklands.

The merchant's building was as easy of access as he'd anticipated—for a rooftopper. There was a yard at the rear, overlooked only by the blank windows of warehouses, and he climbed astride the bricks, then along to where a drainpipe afforded purchase for the upward climb. He found the roof and paused a moment. The rain still fell, but here it was scented with the tang of the ocean, and dark in the twilit distance he could see the skeletal outlines of masts and crossbeams where ships lay at anchor in the harbor. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of venturing out onto the open water in one of those vessels, and then another as his imagination replaced the twigs of rigging with images of flame. He spat and crossed his fingers, and went spiderlike over the tiles to the small window set flush with the slates. It was dusty and water-swollen and it creaked horrendously as he worked it open, but there were no ears save his to catch the sound. Even so, he waited awhile before dropping into the room below, and then again at the door, listening.

The building was quiet. From what he'd heard, this merchant was too mean to invest in dogs or watchmen. He hoped the same parsimony applied to hexes. He fought off the images of his dream that sought to penetrate his mind as he descended to the ground floor, where the owner located his personal office.