Flamecaster (6 page)

“I have to go to Oden's Ford,” Adrian said. “The . . . the last thing my da said to me . . . he gave me his amulet and he said, ‘I want you to go to Oden's Ford and learn how to use it.' But there's no way my mother would let me go now, after what's happened. It was bad enough after Hana.”

“Tell the queen what your father said. I'm sure she'll want to honor that. If not this year, you can come to Spiritas next year. I'll hold a place for you.”

“You don't understand,” Adrian whispered, his voice catching. “It's not just that.”

Taliesin gripped his hands, leaning in toward him. “Tell me what I don't understand.”

“I can't go back. I—I just can't go back, and have to tell my mother and sister how he died. They deserve to know, but—I don't want to have to see their faces, and know that I should have done something to prevent it. I can't go anywhere in Fellsmarch without noticing the big hole he left behind. Every time I turn a corner, I'll remember something he said, or did, or a story he told. He was like the beating heart of the city, and the king of Arden put a blade right through it. And people will look at me, and know I'm the one responsible.”

“Do you really think they'll blame you, Mageling?”

“Why shouldn't they? I blame myself. I'll think they're looking at me that way, and every time, I'll die a little bit. I'd rather just get it over with.” He was shaking again, whether from grief, or fever, or what, he didn't know.

“Have some more tea,” Taliesin said softly. “It's not a cure for a broken heart, but it does take the edge off.”

This time, Adrian drank deeply. “I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm not even looking for you to agree with me. I just want a way out. I just want the pain to stop. If I can't
come with you, I'll find a way to end this on my own.” His gaze met hers, and his fingers found the shape of the packet of gedden weed in his breeches pocket.

Adrian could tell that Taliesin understood his meaning immediately, and believed him. She always took him seriously, always treated him like a grown-up even when he didn't deserve it. It was one of the things he liked about her.

“What if you know something that might help to catch the killers?” she said. “Do you want that knowledge to die with you?”

That was like a punch to the gut. What if?

“What if you might be able to prevent another murder?”

Or at least avenge the ones that have already happened.

That idea, once kindled, was hard to put out. Once at Oden's Ford, he'd be closer to the enemy. And yet—that would mean there would be no escape from the pain anytime soon.

He tried to think back, to recall if he'd seen or heard anything that might help. But it was like the memory was walled off, too painful to poke at. He reached up and fingered the knot on his head. Had someone hit him over the head? Or had he fallen? Maybe both? He looked down at his hands, picked at his scabbed palms.

She sighed. “About Oden's Ford. School is hard work under the best of circumstances. I want you to have the best chance to succeed. I need you to succeed, if I'm going
to persuade the deans at Mystwerk to cooperate with me.”

“I
will
work hard,” Adrian said. “I won't disappoint you.”

For a long moment, Taliesin studied him. “Do you really think that would help—to be somewhere else, for a while, anyway?”

“I don't know,” Adrian said. “Maybe. Probably.” The tea was kicking in, and his thoughts had become clumsy, aimlessly stumbling into each other.

“If you feel guilty about your father's death, one way to heal is to help others.” She seemed to be trying to convince herself. “There are so many people dying needlessly that want to go on living. Saving a life can offset the taking of life.” The Voyageur noticed his drooping eyelids. “Come,” she said. “Sit down on the bed before you topple over.”

He moved to the pallet on the floor, then eased into a lying-down position.

Taliesin sat on a stool next to him. “In truth, it may be safer for you to go south with me and let everyone here think you're dead. You can heal yourself by healing others. Perhaps that's what the Maker intends for you.”

“I don't understand,” Adrian said. “How does it make sense that the Maker would take my father and Hana and leave me behind?”

“It's easy to die, Mageling,” Taliesin said, stroking his hair. “It's staying alive that's hard work.”

It had been a long time since Jenna Bandelow had been up the road that led to the Number Two mine. As that one played out, new ones had opened, farther west and lower down.

There had been changes since four years ago, when Maggi and Riley had died. Most of the trees were gone now, burned for charcoal to feed the hungry steel mills, or cut down so there wouldn't be cover for ambushes along the road to the garrison house. The Ardenine regulars (everyone called them mudbacks because of their uniforms) had moved the headquarters up here so the soldiers coming and going wouldn't have to pass through the dangerous streets of the city, where soldiers disappeared on a regular basis.

Four years ago, it had been a miserable March day, with the sleet pelting down, and the wind howling out of the witchy north. Today, it was a clear cold night in October, but the wind still blew, carrying the promise of winter from the fresh snowfalls in the Spirit Mountains.

Last time, Jenna had been packed into the wagon with Riley and Maggi, who were about to die, but none of them knew it. This time, she sat high in the driver's seat, with a slightly older boy named Byram beside her. A younger boy rode in the back with the barrels. He called himself Mick.

They shouldn't have much to say to each other, but that didn't keep Byram from talking all the way from town.

Byram wouldn't be his real name—not if he was smart. He knew Jenna as a boy named Flamecaster. Sometimes she went by Sparks instead. That was just easier, all the way around. It had been so long since she'd been a girl that she wasn't sure she remembered the ins and outs of it.

Jenna preferred to keep her mouth shut and play her cards close. That way, if any of them was caught, they wouldn't have much to say to the blackbirds, either.

When she wasn't on Patriot business, Jenna answered to the name of Riley Collier, a skilled blaster from the Heartfangs. She rotated from mine to mine, boring the blasting holes, packing them with powder and setting them off, moving rock off the coal seams so the miners could get at them.

It was a good job, for a mining job, if you had steady hands and the nerve to do it. Unlike some of the other jobs, it didn't require a lot of muscle. It also wasn't so strenuous that you were fit for nothing else when you went off shift. Her days were shorter, with nobody looking over her shoulder, because none of the bosses was eager to go down there with her. It allowed more time in the fresh air, less underground, and she'd learned useful skills—skills she would be using tonight.

They were nearing the turnoff to the garrison house when Byram said, “Hold up.” Jenna reined in, and he stuffed some papers into her hand. “Here's your paperwork, in case we get stopped. We got flour and oil for the kitchens, see? If it's clear when we get to the bridge, turn the wagon around and pull onto the shoulder. Soon as you come to a stop, me and Mick will roll the barrels under the bridge and light it up. Once it blows, we'll hop on and hit the road. Take it nice and easy, though, 'cause we don't want to get noticed. Got that?” For some reason, Byram fancied that he was in charge.

Jenna got it, but she didn't like it. The upside of traveling at darkman's hour was that there wasn't much traffic on the road. The downside was that once the bridge blew, they'd be prime suspects to any soldiers who happened to be on that side of the bridge. Especially since they'd be driving away, when any other person would head for the noise, to see what happened.

“We'll be the only ones on the road except for mudbacks and blackbirds. Once the bridge goes up, they'll be all over us, with no place to hide.”

Byram snorted. “What's the chance there'll be mudbacks this side of the bridge in the middle of the night?”

“Not mudbacks so much as blackbirds. From what I hear, that new commander is mean as a snake. I want to be far away when it blows.”

“If you're scared, you should've stayed at home,” Byram said.

“If you're not scared, you're stupid.”

“Look,” Byram said, in the manner of someone instructing a small child. “Somebody's got to light the thing; after that we got no more'n a couple minutes.” His eyes narrowed. “Or are you thinking me or Mick should stay behind while you beat it back to town?”

Jenna shook her head. “I brought this.” She pulled a long, thin tube out of her carry bag. It was made of cotton, coated with pitch, and stuffed with black powder.

“What's that?” Byram poked it warily with his forefinger.

“Something new. Blasters in the Heartfangs are beginning to use them in the deeper shafts. Light one end, and it takes as long as a half hour to burn through.”

“I never heard of that,” Byram said, as if that was that.

It would help if you talked less and listened more, Jenna thought. “I heard about it from a collier who
was passing through town on his way north,” she said vaguely. She didn't care to reveal her sources to anyone who might spill.

“How do we know it'll actually work?” Byram said. “We don't even know how to use it.”

“You don't, I do. You get the kegs down there, I'll handle it,” Jenna said. She slapped the reins and they rolled forward again. Her heart was beginning to hammer as it always did during this kind of job. She tried not to think about what would happen if they got caught. Instead, she thought about Riley and Maggi, who were dead, and her da, and everyone else in Delphi, squirming under Arden's thumb.

She thought of Arden going up in flames, leaving nothing but a charred skeleton behind. That always gave her the heart to do what she did.

They turned off the main road toward the garrison headquarters. It was in a manor house the army had taken over when they moved out of the town. Now the army encampment spread on both sides of the road, and squat, ugly warehouses had been raised behind the stables and the manor kitchen. There were still bits of what must have been a garden around the building, but it had been trampled into mud by men and horses. A few winter-blasted shrubs still framed the house. All of this was encircled by a high stone wall.

The wall was new. It seemed that the garrison's young
commander, Halston Matelon, had grown tired of hit-and-run attacks.

The military road crossed the river midway between the main road and the wall. Jenna drove across the bridge, found a wide place to turn around, crossed back, and pulled over.

Mick and Byram wrestled four kegs of powder off the back of the wagon. They hauled them down to the water's edge. Jenna set the brake on the wagon and scrambled down after them, her carry bag slung over her shoulder. “Mick, you go up and keep a lookout,” she said, though she'd have rather sent Byram. With him looking on, smirking and rolling his eyes, she was more fumble-fingered than usual, so it took longer than she expected to get everything tied together—two kegs on either end of the bridge, each with its own fuse.

Kindling a spark, she lit both fuses. “These should go off at about the same time,” she said. “I just don't know how long we have.”

“Maybe we should wait and see if it actually works,” Byram said.

“You can wait if you want,” Jenna said, beginning the climb back to the road. “I'm the one with the wagon, and I'm heading back to town.” After a moment, she heard Byram following after her.

They scrambled back up the bank to where Mick waited with the wagon. Back in the driver's seat, Jenna released the brake and flicked the reins, and they began their descent
toward the main road. The horses knew they were heading back home, so it was hard to keep them reined in. Before they reached the intersection, they saw a dozen riders galloping toward them from the main road.

“Scummer,” Mick muttered. Mick never said much, and when he did it was usually “scummer.”

As the riders drew closer, Jenna could see that they rode black horses with silver fittings and wore black capes over their black tunics and gray breeches.

“Blackbirds,” Jenna muttered, and thought, Scummer.

“Blackbirds?” Byram squinted at them. “There's no way you can tell, that far away, in the dark.”

“My eyes are better than yours,” Jenna said. “You wait.”

Before long, there was no question who was riding hot toward them.

Jenna would have preferred mudbacks, who'd leave you alone if you didn't get in their way. Most of them were reluctant recruits from the down realms or mercenaries with no ax to grind. They just wanted to survive their time in the north and go back home.

Blackbirds were the king's personal enforcers in the empire, known to be as cruel and ruthless as the king himself. Meanwhile, behind them was a bridge that might blow up any minute.

Jenna's heart had been beating fast before, but now it was thumping so hard it seemed the blackbirds couldn't help but hear it.

Byram shifted on the seat beside Jenna as if he might launch himself into the dirt at the side of the road.

“Don't you move,” Jenna said, gripping Byram's forearm, digging in her nails for emphasis. “You can't outrun them, and there's nothing looks guiltier than running away. And keep your mouth shut.” Byram bobbed his head, his face pasty in the moonlight. He seemed more than willing to shut up now.

The troop of blackbirds surrounded their wagon, blocking the way. One of them nudged his horse in closer, so that when Jenna looked sideways, his black boots were all that she could see. She looked straight forward, gripping the reins hard, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

There was one thing in their favor: being scared of the King's Guard wasn't unusual—it would have been more suspicious if they hadn't been nervous.

“It's late to be out on the road,” the blackbird said. Something about his velvet voice made Jenna's hair stand up on the back of her neck.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Would you care to explain it?”

“We—we was bringing dry goods to the kitchens yonder.” Jenna nodded toward the garrison house.

“In the middle of the night?”

Jenna nodded, her gaze fixed on the wagon team.

“Look at me, boy.”

Jenna looked up at the blackbird. His eyes were like
twin coals set into his skull, or maybe more like marbles set over a straight nose and an almost lipless mouth. He was completely hairless—no brows or lashes, and his head was smooth as a billiard ball. He wore the signia of an officer.

Scummer, Jenna thought. It's Clermont.

Marc Clermont was the commander of the King's Guard in Delphi, the spider that maintained the king's web of control here in the north. He was rumored to have a knack for torture. Once you came into Clermont's hands, you would talk. And when you'd spilled everything, then you would die. Slowly.

At least he's not a mage, so he can't spell me, to make me tell the truth. Jenna could always tell a mage—they had this peculiar glow about them, to her eyes, though others said they didn't see it. Very few mages ever came to Delphi, and those who did were all in the army or the King's Guard.

Jenna suddenly realized that the commander had said something, and she'd missed it. “I'm—I'm sorry, sir. What was that?”

“There's no reason to be frightened,” Clermont said with a smile. He put his hand on her shoulder. When she flinched, he tightened his grip. She didn't like him touching her, but didn't dare fight back. Now she was the one who was tempted to bolt blindly, without a plan.

“What's your name?” Clermont said.

“Munroe, sir.” To Jenna's surprise, the lie spilled right
out. So you
could
tell lies to the Breaker after all.

“Munroe. That's an unusual name.” His voice had an odd, soothing quality. Byram was staring at him, like a rabbit at a hawk. Jenna kicked his shin to bring him back to his senses.

“Tell the truth now—why are you really out here in the middle of the night?” Clermont said.

She tried another lie. “We had to come late, 'cause we work in the mine in the daytime. And then there was nobody around, so we had to unload it our own selves. That made us late heading back.” Remembering Byram's papers, she pulled them out and thrust them toward him. “Here's our papers.”

Clermont made no move to take them. “Doesn't day shift in the mines start in just a few hours?”

“That's why we're in a hurry,” Jenna said. “Elsewise, we won't get any sleep at all.”

Clermont gave her a long, searching look, then released her shoulder, settling back into his saddle, frowning, as if he didn't know what to make of her.

“What about you?” Clermont said to Byram. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Nossir,” Byram croaked.

Turning to the other blackbirds, Clermont said, “Search the wagon.”

That didn't take long, because there wasn't much to see except Mick, huddled in a corner, ready to piss himself.
Still, it seemed like a lifetime to Jenna, who sat, shoulders hunched, waiting for the blast that would signal the end of the world.

Finally, the blackbirds jumped down from the wagon. “There's nothing, sir,” one said.

Clermont rubbed his chin, squinting at her like he was fascinated. “Your eyes,” he said, “are an unusual color. Like old gold, or candlelight through honey.” The way he said it gave her the crawls. She didn't like him noticing anything about her. It made her glad she was dressed as a boy.

“Sir?” one of the blackbirds said. “You want to bring them along, and see what the garrison commander says?”

Clermont hesitated, then shook his head. “No. We've wasted enough time here.” When Jenna still sat frozen, afraid to move, he snapped, “Are you deaf? Go on, then.” He waved them on down the road.

Jenna loosened the reins and slapped them across the broad backs of the horses, and they rattled into motion. Behind her, she heard one of the blackbirds make a rude joke, and the rest of them laughing.