Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (26 page)

“What good will we do up here? We must find our way to the street.”

“Very well, but quickly! If we lose sight of him, the day’s waiting will have been for naught.”

“I think it will be in any case,” grumbled Gem. “But very well. Come!”

They skidded along shingle and tile until they found a drainpipe. Loren slid too fast in her haste, hands burning against the iron. She winced and slowed herself, blowing on her palms upon reaching the ground.

“He went this way,” Gem said in a low whisper.

They took many quick turns left and right, soon sliding through a thin alley that narrowed by the step. Loren poked a cautious head outside when reaching its mouth.

There he was, walking the street toward where they were standing, his steps slow and certain. Loren saw him approach two constables chatting by a low wall. One noticed him and nudged the other. Loren watched them turn and
bow.

What manner of man is this?

“Pssst!” Loren hissed. “Jordel!”

He stopped, his light blue eyes searching the shadows. She saw a spark of surprise in those eyes, and then he made for them. So wide were his shoulders, Loren wondered if he would fit in the alley at all. He did, but only barely.
 

“Loren,” said Jordel. That voice, so soothing, so gentle. “And . . . ” He gave a pointed look at Gem.

“Gem,” said the boy. “Master pickpocket, scholar, and sometime medica.”

“My honor, then,” said Jordel, bowing his head. “What brings you here?”

“You seem surprised.” Loren raised her chin. “When last we spoke, you thought our reunion fated.”

“Something like that, yes.” A slow smile crawled across his face. “Come now, tell me your business. Is it to do with Xain? Have you told him of me?”

Loren hesitated and said, “I have, and he seems to think you might be worth trusting. But before he will meet you, we need something. Something stolen from me, quite important, that I must retrieve.”

Jordel leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “I understand your concern, but fear to tell you that I am no thief.”

“This seems obvious. You have neither the build nor the temperament,” said Loren, trying to sound scornful. “And yet you seem to have influence. Constables do not bow to every man in Cabrus.”
 

“No, they do not. But how do you think that will help you?”

“Mayhap you will know. If I can tell you where this stolen thing is, and who holds the key to its freedom, can you not summon a squadron of constables or loyal men to swing swords in your name?”

The lines of Jordel’s face set, resolute and somewhat sad. “Maid Loren,” he said slowly. “I fear that you ask for a favor beyond my abilities. I cannot help you in this, except perhaps to offer counsel.”

“Counsel?” Loren stomped her foot. “What good is that? I do not need counsel. I need men with strong arms and loyal hearts. I am full to bursting with wit, but what good is that without the strength to back it?”

A spark flashed in Jordel’s eyes, and to Loren’s fury, he smirked. “With enough wit, the strength of an enemy is useless. A lesson I try to impart on all of my students. You say that some foe has stolen something from you. What do you still have that this enemy wants?”

Loren felt herself shrink. “Nothing I can give, for she wants only me.”

Jordel’s broad smile held a crafty smirk. “Well then, why not give that?”

Loren snorted. “You must be renowned as a great teacher. If for a moment I fell into my foe’s hands, it would be the end of me. I could hope only for a constable’s cell, or worse, to find myself handed over to one who hates me even—”

She stopped. Her whirling doubt subsided. Suddenly, as if for the first time, she saw with crystal clear and blinding clarity.

“I think the student has taken the lesson to heart,” said Jordel.

“Thank you,” murmured Loren. “Gem, let us be off. We have much to do.”

“What?” said Gem. “Where?”

Jordel thrust out a hand. Loren took his wrist absentmindedly and led Gem down the alley, looking back once to see Jordel silhouetted in the alley’s mouth. Shadow covered his face, but Loren imagined his smile.

“What madness has seized you? I feel as though the man whispered secrets only you could hear.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Loren’s thoughts settled, the plan now clear before her. “We must busy ourselves. Quickly, find a constable.”

“What?” Gem looked as though his companion had lost her mind.

“Never you mind,” she said, exasperated.
 

She found an outlet and out poked her head. There. Four stood not far off, hands on swords as they waved away flies with mail-gloved hands.

“Now, you must go to them—” Loren began.

“What?”
said Gem, his voice nearly a shriek.

“You must go, and tell them this exactly: You have seen the girl that the constable Bern searches for. Do you hear? Constable Bern. Tell them that she will be at Auntie’s hideout tomorrow as dawn breaks, and they must inform Constable Bern immediately.”

“I do not think many constables know of Auntie’s hideout,” said Gem doubtfully.

Loren cuffed him gently on the back of the head. “Of course not, fool. Explain to them where it is and what it looks like. Now, quickly. Go!”

Lorem shoved Gem out of the alley and slid out of sight. She saw him stand for a moment, frozen in uncertainty. Then he squared his shoulders and marched off toward the constables. She slid out, just enough to see the ghost of his image around the corner. The constables’ eyes locked on Gem almost immediately, and his steps almost faltered. But he kept on and soon stood before them, dwarfed by even the shortest. Loren saw his arms swing wide as he relayed her words, and the constables looked at each other with concern. Then one spoke gruff words while Gem nodded. Finally, he held out a hand. Three of the constables scowled, but the fourth barked a sharp laugh and drew a coin. With a sharp flick of the wrist, he flung it into Gem’s chest. He caught the coin easily and turned, heading back toward Loren, who stepped out of sight.

Gem appeared in the alley moments later, flipping a silver penny in the air. “Done and done, with a coin for my troubles.”

“We are hardly poor.”
 

“It helped the story. What constable would believe a beggar boy unless he begged?”

Loren rolled her eyes. “Come, then. Now for the great gambit.”

She walked with purpose through the alley, toward the open square where they had met Jordel. Gem’s steps slowed as they neared the alley mouth, but Loren pressed on.
 

“Loren
 
” he whispered.

She stepped out into the open air. He squeaked, and she heard silence behind her as he considered his move. Then he jumped out and ran after her, bare feet slapping against the cobblestones.

“What are you doing?”
 

“I hope I know,” she admitted.

Straight to the front doors of the Wyrmwing she strode. The guards looked up at her approach, but Loren walked with such confidence and purpose that they glanced at each other, uncertain. Their moment’s hesitation proved plenty, and she marched straight through the front doors as though she held the deed to the inn and every building on the street. Gem whimpered as she set foot on the sawdust-covered hardwood floor.

The whole of the Elf’s Purse could have fit in the common room. Loren scanned the tables as she walked. Many sat in the room’s center, level with her as she entered, but more ran along a raised walkway a few feet off the ground. At one such table Loren found what she sought.

She climbed the stairs and walked straight to Darmaris’s table.
 

The merchant’s startled gaze never left Loren’s face. Gregor stepped forward as she approached, but Damaris raised a hand to stop him. Without a pause or a second thought, Loren plopped into the chair opposite Damaris and leaned back, resting her boots on the table. The shock rocked Damaris’s goblet, tipping it enough to send red wine spilling from table to floor.
 

“Greetings again, Damaris of the family Yerrin,” said Loren. “I wager that we have much to discuss.”

thirty-one

No one moved for several tense moments. The merchant’s piercing eyes remained impassive, and Loren became acutely aware of Gregor’s hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Even the servers around the bar froze, all eyes upon the table’s occupants. Though she tried to remain still, Loren’s tongue snaked out and slithered across her lips.

Damaris spoke first. “I will admit more than a little surprise at seeing you here, Loren of the family Nelda. I thought you had scurried off like a dog, tail between your legs. That was a disappointment, for I had thought so much more of you.”

Loren felt a pressure at her elbow as Gem tugged on her sleeve. He whispered, “Who is this?”
 

“Be quiet, Gem.” Loren gave a pointed glance at Gregor. “The adults are talking.”

Damaris smirked, and Loren hoped the merchant’s amusement would outmatch the captain’s fury.

“You say there are words to be had,” said Damaris. “Thus you seem to know what those words might be. Please, explain.”

“I thought you might help me acquire something,” said Loren. “Something stolen from me.”

“Your dagger?” Loren flinched, and the merchant’s smirk widened. “I noticed its absence the moment I saw you. And too, I wondered, where is the fine cloak I made you a gift of?”

“It rests in a safe place. I find it draws too much attention outside of shadows. I thank you for it nonetheless.”

“My pleasure,” said Damaris, inclining her head. “You deserve such and finer, and that is something I would say of few I have met in my travels. Wine?”

Loren nodded and removed her boots from the table. “Thank you.”

Damaris waved at one of the room’s serving women, who rushed to fetch an empty cup while Damaris righted and refilled her own.
 

Loren’s head felt light. Here she sat, talking with Damaris as if nothing lay between them. She played a dangerous game, riding upon the edge of a knife that could cleave her in two. The merchant would not harm her while Annis’s location remained unknown, but the longer the conversation continued, the more control Damaris would claim. Loren must move quickly.

“As you no doubt have guessed, there are two sides to the deal.”
 

“Indeed,” said Damaris. “I suppose that if I help you retrieve your fine weapon, you will return my daughter to me.”

“Just so,” said Loren.

“What?” said Gem, aghast. “Loren, Annis—”

“Gem, be
silent!”
Loren snapped. “Wait for me outside.”

“No, I will be—”

“You will be outside. Go.”
 

Better to remove him before Damaris thought to take the boy hostage. Loren felt resolute, but might waver if they harmed him.

Gem stalked to the inn’s front door and then out, glancing back at the threshold. The serving woman appeared with Loren’s cup. But when she offered to fill it, Damaris waved her away, electing to pour it herself.

“It seems we aim to discuss matters of some delicacy,” Damaris said. “Might we retire to my quarters? You may not mind, but I would rather our words did not reach the wrong ears.”

Loren thought quickly. This might be a trap. But could Damaris harm her in so public a place as this? If she killed Loren, the merchant would never learn her daughter’s whereabouts. And she could not harm her, for even in a room, screams would surely draw too much attention.

“Certainly.” Loren sipped her wine and stood.
 

Damaris placed her goblet in Gregor’s paw and led Loren to a spiral staircase at the room’s rear, cutting through the inn’s four floors. Every step glowed with polished mahogany, edged by a bannister carved in an intricate pattern of leaves. For a moment, it reminded Loren of the Birchwood, a thought that brought a surprising pang of longing.

Damaris led her to the top floor, strolling down a hallway with few doors. A final door stood at the hallway’s end. Two of Gregor’s men stood to either side, mail gleaming in the sun streaming from a skylight above. They did not so much as glance at Loren.

“Here we are,” said Damaris. The door swung open under her hand, revealing a room that stole Loren’s breath.

The opposite wall opened to a balcony that yawned the width of Wyrmwing. Loren had noted it from outside. Three separate doors opened to the balcony, each paned with clear glass, hanging with lace curtains that wafted in the breeze. The room was almost all one unit, but at one end Loren saw a door that, she presumed, led to a bedroom.
 

Against that same wall, she noted with interest, sat a great chest that stood half as tall as Gregor. A fat lock sealed it closed—not fastened around iron rings but worked into the wood itself like the lock on a door. From the fine silver banding the chest, and the lid’s gold inlay, Loren could only imagine what might be inside. If the room were a pile of glistening gold, the chest looked a prize ruby whose luster outmatched the hoard.

The place looked large enough to hold a half hundred, perhaps more. Every inch had been built for comfort, with plush furniture of rich leather and fine cloth, decorated in gold laced patterns. Loren had never imagined this level of opulence, or the life one must lead to take it for granted.