Shattering the Ley (19 page)

But first . . .

“What is this Wielder’s name, the one who attempted to repair the distortion?”

The two Primes traded a look. “Her name is Kara Tremain. She received her purple jacket and was assigned to the Eld node a month ago. All of those we questioned at the college said that they fully expect her to become a Prime once she completes her training at the nodes.”

Augustus’ lips thinned. “So she is already being considered as a Prime?”

Ashton nodded. “She is set to be transferred to another node in four years.”

Most Wielders—those not thought powerful enough to become Primes—remained at the same node their entire career, to keep information about the ley network from spreading. No one Wielder was allowed to be intimately familiar with more than three nodes. However, those who might become Primes were transferred to multiple nodes during their training, to prepare them for the much more complicated task of overseeing the Nexus and the entire ley network in Erenthrall.

“Good. Make certain that we keep an eye on her. If she continues to show promise, we may want to bring her to the Nexus earlier than usual.”

Ibsen Senate.

That was the name Hagger had gotten from Sedric, the Kormanley priest he’d interrogated. The Dogs had moved on Ibsen’s flat in Eastend immediately. Since the collapse of the riverboat trade with the advent of the ley barges, Eastend and its docks had declined steadily, even though the district abutted Shadow and remained relatively close to Grass, the heart of Erenthrall. Ibsen was located a few streets from the decrepit docks, in a mudbrick building with no remaining glass windows, everything boarded up, a few tail ends of yellowed curtains trailing out through cracks in the boards. They’d scouted the surrounding streets, then stormed the building, crashing into Ibsen’s flat to find it empty.

Or rather, abandoned. The furniture had been scattered, cupboards left open, drawers half pulled or emptied onto the floor. Most of the kitchen remained untouched, some food left rotting on the shelves. The bedroom looked as if it had been tossed, the straw from the mattress littering the floor. Only one of the ley globes that remained worked, its light fitful, cloaking the entire flat in strange shadows.

Hagger began spitting curses as soon as they entered. Allan scanned the room once, his gaze narrowing on the old fireplace in the center of one wall. He moved toward it, dismissing the rest of the flat.

“Search it!” Hagger ordered with a gesture, then crouched down beside Allan at the mouth of the firepit. “What have you got?”

“Scraps of paper, probably burned when Ibsen left.” He drew a few of the scraps out of the ashes that filled the grate carefully, trying not to smear the soot or damage the paper further. He held up the largest pieces to the flickering light and the stray streams of sunlight that filtered through the boarded windows. “It looks like some of the same cryptic messages we found at the other locations.”

Hagger grunted and stood. “Doesn’t look like there’s much left.”

“No, nothing we can use.” Allan stared at the long-dead fire, then the rotting food. “I’d say Ibsen left as soon as he heard that Sedric had been taken. A few days at least, probably more like a week. He hasn’t been back here since. Who knows where he’s hiding.”

“Not us Dogs, for certain.”

Allan turned, something rough and dangerous coloring Hagger’s voice. He found the old Dog standing in the middle of the room, staring down at the floor, a strange smile on his face.

Hagger stooped down, straightening again with a scrap of cloth held in one hand. “Not us Dogs. But we can use the Hounds.” He motioned with the cloth. His smile twisted, turning nasty. “They’ll be able to find him, no matter what cesspit he’s tried to crawl into, as long as it’s still within Erenthrall. All they need is his scent to follow, and now we have it.”

A cold sweat broke out across Allan’s shoulders and he stood to hide his discomfort, aware that some of the nearest Dogs who were scrambling through the debris of Ibsen’s life had paused, were listening intently. Allan didn’t like the Hounds’ . . . intensity. They didn’t appear any different than the Dogs, or anyone else in Erenthrall, but their sheer presence was disturbing.

And they were hard to handle. He’d seen the aftermath of one that had gotten out of control, bloodlust taking over. He shuddered at the memory.

He didn’t want to deal with the Hounds unless he was ordered to.

“Ibsen is pretty low on the food chain,” he said.

“He’s the only lead we’ve got at the moment.”

Allan managed to keep from frowning. “What about the papers we found? There was one coded note that wasn’t outdated. It referred to the issue of
The Ley
that’s coming out two days from now.”

Hagger scowled.

“It could be significant,” Allan retorted, knowing his voice sounded too defensive. “It could be the location of a meeting, or perhaps another attack.”

“And it could be nothing! They know we’ve captured Sedric and his papers, and they’ll know we’ve raided Ibsen’s place, even though he’s already run. What makes you think they’ll even use
The Ley
again? What makes you think they’ll follow through with it?”

“Because over the last four years we’ve been closer to them than this before and they’ve always followed through. They aren’t afraid of us. And they don’t know we’ve figured out their code.”

“They should be afraid,” Hagger huffed. He glared at the scrap in his hands, stuffed it into one of his pockets, then met Allan’s gaze and said grudgingly, “We’ll see what this news sheet has to say, but we’ll sic the Hounds on Ibsen as well. The Baron wants answers, and I intend to give them to him.”

He stalked toward the door and one of the younger sentries they’d left outside. “Douglass! Send word to the Tower. I want one of the Hounds ready to track by the time we return.” He spun toward the rest of the Dogs already inside. “The rest of you, rake this place. I want everything Ibsen could have touched or worn collected and ready for the Hound within the hour.”

Allan watched as the elder Dog began pacing through the flat himself, tossing tables aside and scouring beneath for anything of importance that might have been left behind. Uneasiness washed through him at his partner’s energy, frantic and skittish, laced with excitement and adrenaline. He frowned, thought of Moira and Morrell as he’d left them that morning, Moira already in her amber clothing for her return to work at the Tower, the wet nurse who’d care for Morrell cooing to the child in the background. The two images clashed. He suppressed a shudder, shook himself, and forced himself to begin searching the flat as well, although he stayed clear of Hagger.

Two hours later, they left Ibsen’s flat, a ley cart loaded with what little they’d found trailing behind them, escorted by the Dogs. The citizens in the street parted before them, those within Eastend with furtive glances behind as they ducked into alleys or shadowed doorways, those in Shadow stepping to one side, gazing at the contents of the cart with hooded curiosity. In Grass, the Dogs and the cart were studiously ignored.

Back at the Tower, Hagger gestured sharply for Allan to follow. Passing through the main hall, another training bout in session, they descended to the interrogation rooms below, two other Dogs following them at a look from Hagger. He spoke briefly to the two Dogs on watch, then moved to one of the doors, stepping through without hesitation.

Allan halted inside the door, the other two Dogs moving to either side of him. Hagger stood in front of Daedallen, the captain glaring down at him.

“I’ve brought a Hound,” Daedallen said, and Allan realized with a start that there
was
someone else in the room, standing against the far wall, near the corner. He hadn’t noticed him, the dirty-blond-haired, nondescript boy barely coming up to his shoulders, no more than fourteen years old, possibly a few years younger. He wore street clothes, like anyone within Grass would wear, but his face was plain, his hair slightly unkempt. Like all of the other Hounds, everything about him appeared normal. His most unusual feature was his eyes, a cool gray that met Allan’s evenly. No emotion showed in the Hound’s face or flickered through his gaze, but the uneasiness that had begun in Ibsen’s flat with Hagger’s actions intensified. The most disturbing thing about the Hounds was their ability to blend into the background. When Daedallen shifted slightly forward, drawing Allan’s attention away, the Hound vanished, as if the boy weren’t truly there, even though he was easy to see if Allan concentrated.

“I’ve brought the Hound,” the captain said again. “What I want to know is what for?”

Hagger stiffened. “We raided Ibsen Senate’s flat. He was no longer there. He’d tossed the place, burned any evidence that could have been useful, and fled, probably the moment he knew we had his Kormanley accomplice in custody. But he left behind a few things.” He pulled out the old swatch of cloth and Allan realized he hadn’t let anyone else touch it, here or at the flat.

Allan watched the Hound. As soon as the cloth appeared, the boy’s attention fixed on it and he drew in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. Tension thrummed through his body, as if he were a harp string that had been lightly plucked. But he didn’t move, his gaze shooting toward Daedallen, his eyes narrowing, then swinging back toward Allan as if he sensed the Dog’s attention.

The hackles on the back of Allan’s neck rose.

“And do you feel this is an effective use of the Hounds?” Daedallen asked.

It took a moment for Allan to realize the captain wasn’t speaking to Hagger.

He snapped back to attention, found the captain watching him. He met the captain’s gaze, knew that Hagger was glaring at him, expecting him to repeat what he’d said back at Ibsen’s flat. But he’d had enough issues with Hagger lately. He didn’t need to give the old Dog another reason to despise him.

“I don’t see that we have any choice. We’ve run out of other leads and the Baronial Meeting is a few weeks away.”

To the captain’s right, Hagger relaxed and nodded once in approval. The captain’s expression hardened. “Very well.” He turned to Hagger. “Give me the rag.”

Hagger handed it over, Daedallen taking it carefully between two fingers before moving to stand before the Hound and passing it on.

“Seek,” he said, his voice taking on the harsh pitch of an order, as if he were speaking to a true dog, not a youth. “Do not kill.”

Irritation and regret flashed across the Hound’s face and Allan half-expected to hear him emit a plaintive whine, but he merely raised the cloth to his face and drew in the scent deeply, closing his eyes. His expression clouded, and when he opened his eyes again, his gaze latched onto Hagger. Allan saw the old Dog flinch, one hand shifting toward the blade at his side. The Hound stepped forward, Hagger jerking back as he leaned in to get a good whiff of Hagger’s body odor.

He smelled the rag again, appeared to concentrate, as if picking through the different layers of scent, discarding Hagger’s and focusing on what was left, and then, without a word, he headed toward the door, throwing it open and vanishing into the corridor outside.

“He’s found the scent,” Daedallen said, his voice soft.

“Already?” one of the other Dogs asked.

No one answered.

Hagger shook himself, as if trying to rid himself of the Hound’s presence. “Blasted Hounds.”

Daedallen moved toward the door as well, saying, “He’ll have found Ibsen Senate by the end of the day tomorrow, if he’s still in the city. Let’s hope he’s still alive. Baron Arent won’t be happy with this use of the Hounds if he isn’t.”

As soon as the Hound isolated the smell of woodsmoke and the underlying thread of disease that permeated the cloth, he moved. Jogging through the Dogs’ lair and up and out into the sunlight, he filtered through the miasma of scents that overlay the world in layer upon layer, his skin prickling as the thrill of a hunt settled over him. He paused once, to glance up at the sunlight and savor its touch, then flinched and glanced around, waiting for his alpha’s fist to descend and punish him for the distraction. Nothing should break a Hound’s focus during a hunt; nothing should keep him from his prey. Seek. Subdue. Kill. The mantra had been beaten into him since he’d woken in the darkness of the den, surrounded by stone, four years ago.