Shattering the Ley (23 page)

Allan began pummeling the lord, something inside his head slipping, separating him from the feel of Gatterly’s flesh beneath his fists, removing him from the slickness of the blood and snot that coated his hands as he continued, Hagger barking commands, Allan following through without thought. He kept Moira and Morrell’s faces before him, trying to convince himself he was doing it for them, knowing that it was fear. Fear of Hagger, fear of the Dogs, of Captain Daedallen and Baron Arent. Fear of what he’d become.

So he did what Hagger told him. He hit Gatterly until the lord’s face was nothing more than bruised and bloody flesh, his nose crushed and unrecognizable, his neatly trimmed beard matted. But he left the lord’s jaw alone. Gatterly didn’t break. So Hagger brought out the knives. They began on his fingers, the lord bucking beneath Allan while Hagger and the other Dog worked. Screams filled the chamber, echoed on either side by those in other chambers. When told, Allan laced his fingers together and pressed his palms into Gatterly’s chest, weight forward to compress his lungs and make it harder to breathe. He did this repeatedly, taking the lord to the edge of consciousness before Hagger allowed him to back off. Then they began on his feet.

When they started on his chest, Gatterly sobbed something unintelligible, the first words he’d muttered besides curses trapped between screams and pitiable begging. Hagger and the other Dog drew back from their work, hands and uniforms streaked and stained with blood. They shared a glance, then turned to Allan.

Choking down the nausea that roiled in his stomach, Allan leaned forward, his thighs screaming at the motion after remaining in the same position for so long. He forced himself to get close enough to Gatterly’s face that he could hear his gurgled breath, could smell the coppery stench of the blood that had pooled on the floor beneath him. It lay thick on the air, enough he thought he could taste it on his tongue.

Keeping his own breath shallow, he murmured, “What did you say, Lord Gatterly? We didn’t hear you.”

Gatterly’s breath puffed against Allan’s cheek and he drew back slightly before realizing that the lord was chuckling, the sound broken. Through the mess of his face, Allan thought he was even grinning, or at least trying to, the attempt hideous.

“You . . .” he hitched, barely audible, voice thick with fluid, “. . . yo-you don’t . . . even realize. . . . The Kor . . . Korman . . . Kormanley. . . . They’ve already . . . already infiltrated . . . the . . . the . . .”

“The Tower?” Hagger burst out, crouching down next to Gatterly’s head. “Are they already within the Tower?”

Gatterly chuckled again, shaking his head. Then he opened his eyes, the steely blue and white startling in the dark red, black, and purple remains of his face. “They’re already in the Dogs,” he hissed, and then he laughed, choked off by pain, but laughter nonetheless.

Hagger jerked back, surprise flickering across his face before it shifted into anger edged with panic. He glanced at the other three Dogs, then turned to Allan.

For a single moment, the panic in Hagger’s gaze was tinged with suspicion and Allan straightened, tensing as he prepared to defend himself. But then the suspicion faded, settling into grim determination.

“We have to tell the captain,” Hagger said.

“I still believe approaching Kara about the Kormanley is a bad idea,” Ischua said, raising his voice enough to be heard above the clatter of the printing presses hard at work in the next room. He’d found Dalton at work on the next edition of
The Ley
in the basement printing hall. After seeing that the press was running smoothly, Dalton had taken him to an office to one side, shutting the door behind them. It cut the noise enough they didn’t have to shout.

Now, Dalton poured a cup of tea for Ischua and handed it across the disorganized desk littered with papers and notebooks and a scattering of printing blocks. He stared at the aged Tender and suppressed his irritation. “Why?”

Ischua sipped the tea but set it aside immediately. “She still associates the Kormanley with her parent’s death. Every time I mention them, even in passing, she tenses and becomes belligerent. And I don’t see how we can even begin to approach her about helping us with restoring the ley without bringing in the Kormanley. However . . .”

Dalton raised an eyebrow at Ischua’s hesitation. “You have something else in mind?”

He watched the conflict play out on Ischua’s expressive face, in the creases of his brow and the lines around his mouth. But finally Ischua’s forehead smoothed and his mouth thinned. “Not something else, some
one
else.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve noticed that Marcus’ hatred of the Primes has grown, especially since Kara and he encountered the distortion at the Eld station. The Primes have been keeping a close watch on Kara since. Marcus resents it. Most of the other Wielders at the Eld node do as well—they’re protective of their own—but not to the same extent as Marcus. I think we should focus on him. He may not have the same potential as Kara, most certainly will not become a Prime, but he has the passion.”

Dalton sat forward, elbow on the edge of his desk. “Kara and Marcus have been partnered, right?”

“Yes. They were teamed up when Kara arrived. Since then, it’s grown into something more significant.” He added the last with a wry, indulgent, yet approving smile. “Much more significant if the rumors coming from Eld are true.”

“Indeed.” Dalton massaged his chin in thought. If they could turn Marcus to their cause, perhaps he could convince Kara. Then they would have two Wielders placed within the ranks. Even if the current strike against the Baron and the Primes succeeded, they would need Wielders to break the Nexus.

“Do you want me to approach him?” Ischua asked after a long moment.

Dalton sat back. “No. You’re too valuable an influence on Kara. I don’t want to destroy that if something goes wrong with Marcus. I’ll have Dierdre approach him. But we’ll move slow. I don’t want to startle him, or have him do anything rash.” Not to mention Dalton was a little busy preparing the Kormanley for the attack at the Baronial Meeting.

Ischua nodded, but Dalton still sensed something left unsaid. He considered letting it go—Ischua obviously wasn’t going to bring whatever it was up without some prodding—but he heaved a mental sigh and said, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Ischua waved a hand and grimaced. “Nothing of importance. But with all of the violence lately, violence placed at the Kormanley’s feet, I’ve begun to wonder. . . .”

Impatience nudged Dalton. “Wonder what?”

Ischua met his gaze squarely. “Wonder what we—the real Kormanley, not the violent sect that’s taken our name—really want. We claim to want a return to the natural order, to the way things were before Baron Arent seized control of the ley through Augustus’ Nexus. But is that true? Before Arent subdued the other Barons, the world was a much harsher place. The Baronies were a bloody place to live, each Baron vying for control of the other Barons’ lands. The threat of an attack hung over everyone—Baron and common man alike. They were dark times. Food was scarce, disease rampant, mortality high. Most did not live beyond forty. It was unimaginable to live as long as I have.”

And how old are you? Dalton asked himself. For the first time, he really looked at Ischua, saw the age that lined his face, the blotches that marred the backs of his hands, the weariness reflected in his eyes. If he had to guess, he’d say Ischua was nearing eighty, almost old enough to have lived during the time he described.

But what Ischua had said disturbed him more. “Are you saying you think the Baron’s abuse of the ley is justified? That he and Augustus should remain in power?”

Ischua hardened. “No. Obviously the ley is being misused.”

Dalton relaxed. “Then what?”

“I’m saying that some good has come out of Baron Arent’s thirst for power, that our lives are better in some respects. Even you use the ley, Dalton, to run your printing presses, to heat water for your tea. You would not be able to do either of those things if the ley were returned to what it was before Augustus and the Nexus. There must be some sort of middle ground between what the ley was before and what it is now.”

Before Dalton could respond, they heard movement in the outer room. Both started, then stood as something outside crashed to the floor with a rattle. Dalton’s hand drifted toward the left-side drawer of the desk where he kept a small knife.

A moment later the door to the office burst open and Tyrus stumbled into the room, catching himself on the desk. His left arm was stained with spilt black ink, but his body trembled with excitement. “The Dogs seized everyone in Plinth at the meeting last night!”

The words sizzled through Dalton like lightning. “What do you mean?” he spat, though he’d heard, even over the sudden increased noise of the presses. Ischua stepped forward and closed the door again.

Tyrus drew in a steadying breath, half laughed, then swallowed and said, “I heard from Calven. The cell in Plinth was captured last night. The Dogs knew about the meeting. They raided Lord Gatterly’s estate and took everyone there. They have them all in the Amber Tower right now. This is what we’ve been hoping for! The splinter group is broken!”

Dalton bit back a curse with effort, anger boiling up from his core. He felt it coloring his face, the heat in his skin tangible. He spun away, forced himself to face the wall so that neither Ischua nor Tyrus would see the rage, and tried to think. Behind him, Tyrus babbled more details to Ischua, his excitement grating, but Dalton had to remind himself that Tyrus thought he was part of the effort to bring the Kormanley down and that this was what he’d been working for the past four years. But they were so close! The attack on the Baronial Meeting was the culmination of months of work, of careful planning, of maneuvering people into place. It couldn’t be falling apart now.

Dalton gripped the edge of the desk with one hand until his knuckles turned white and concentrated on breathing. Lord Gatterly’s cell had been crucial to the plan, but it wasn’t the only cell he had left, and none of the members had connections to the other cells. Even Lord Gatterly’s wealth, while useful, couldn’t compare to what had been provided by their Benefactor. He could shift men from the other cells into the positions to be held by Gatterly’s men in the tower at the meeting. Their access had already been set up, everything was in place, he simply needed to send the orders to different cells.

Calmed, he released his grip on the desk and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead before schooling his face into a gratified smile and turned to Ischua and Tyrus. Both were watching him with odd looks of confusion.

“This is excellent news, Tyrus,” he said. “Hopefully, the Dogs will be able to track down the rest of the group.”

Tyrus’ face lit up. “Does this mean I no longer need to deal with Calven and the rest?”

Dalton shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” At Tyrus’ crushed look, he added, “We want to make certain the Dogs find them all, don’t we? But I don’t think you’ll have to deal with them for much longer.”

Tyrus grunted, face twisted into an angry grimace. But he sighed and muttered, “I’ll let you know what else I learn from Calven and the others about those taken.”

Tyrus left and Dalton shifted toward Ischua. The old Tender held himself stiffly, the confusion of a moment before still touching his eyes. Irritation flared through Dalton’s skin again—at Ischua’s sudden thoughtfulness and his own inability to control himself at Tyrus’ news.

“You’ll keep watch on Kara?” he asked sharply.

Ischua nodded. “Of course. Marcus as well.”

“Very well.” The note of dismissal was clear, even though he had never used such a tone with Ischua before. The Tender’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he withdrew, the clatter of the printing presses outside loud as he left the door open behind him.

Dalton turned away, fingers drumming against the desk; the noise of the presses had long become background noise for him, almost soothing. But the Dogs . . .

The Dogs were getting too close. It was time to withdraw himself from the splinter group, to sever his weakest ties, including Tyrus—
especially
Tyrus—and protect himself. At least until he could determine exactly how badly the Kormanley had been compromised.

He’d send Tyrus with the others to the tower, make certain he was one of the casualties. Since his complicity in the bombing of the North Umber ley station, Tyrus had become a liability. It ate at him. Dalton had seen it in his eyes, had heard it in his grumbling response to the order to remain in contact with Calven a few moments before. He was close to breaking, and Dalton couldn’t risk him going to the Dogs and implicating Dalton himself as Kormanley.

No, better to eliminate Tyrus and focus more on infiltrating the Wielders. Leave the Kormanley cells to finish off the current attack and then reorganize afterward.

He settled into the seat behind his desk and began to plan out the new orders. He’d have to set them in motion quickly, with Lord Gatterly’s group taken. And he couldn’t forget to set Dierdre’s sights on Marcus. If they couldn’t break Augustus’ and the Baron’s hold on the ley directly, perhaps they could do it from within.