The Gate of Bones (41 page)

Even then, he wouldn't have made it. He stayed
between
long enough to know that, the chill creeping into his bones, when he should have Crystaled here to there in the twinkling of an eye. Nothingness numbed him and the longer he stayed, the more paralyzed he would become, until the end. He wrapped his arms about himself and felt a webbing of power in the abyss, tiny threads of those he loved and who had been in his last thoughts. He clung to them, Bailey's amethyst thread and Ting's of vibrant pink, and Trent's punk blue and Gavan's pewter gray, and Henry's flaming red, and all the others, a rainbow of strands that he could knot around his hand and pull himself. . . .

Home.

I
'M MAD AS a hatter,” FireAnn remarked cheerfully. “Yes, dear,” Aunt Freyah told her, patting her on the shoulder as she passed by, steaming teapot in hand. “We all know that. Hopefully we'll know even more, in time.”

FireAnn cackled to herself and sat back in her chair, near the cooking fire pit, enjoying the warmth of the banked fire. Dancing flames reflected in her wild copper hair. The promise of rain was finally fulfilled at nightfall and the sound of drizzle could be heard against the academy walls.

Rich held Jason's arm across one knee and looked at it for the tenth time or so. “I'd say it's healed,” he finally said, reluctantly. “Not neatly, and there may be some nerve regeneration needs to be done. That was quite a slice. It's numb here and there?”

“Part of it still stings and, yes, part of it's numb. Weird.”

“You're lucky you've got full mobility.” Rich shook his head in wonderment. “I don't know how you did it.”

“Neither do I.” Jason rolled down his sleeve, watching Gavan, still waiting for an answer on his earlier question of, “What did Jonnard mean by blooding a crystal.” Gavan hadn't responded yet, but stirred as he sensed Jason's attention.

The Magicker flicked a finger against his mug. “As for your question, I haven't a clue,” he said, reading Jason's mind.

“Doesn't ring a bell? Nothing? Even something Brennard or the Dark Hand might have done that we think is forbidden?”

Gavan shook his head, adding, “Although it sounds as if you have the right of it there. Any kind of blood ritual sounds like their portion rather than ours.” He stood. “It's been an exceedingly long day. I'm going to check on Eleanora and turn in.”

Freyah perched on one of the stools. “Wait a moment, Gavan.”

He paused.

“I can't stay here. I think we need to discuss moving Eleanora, FireAnn, me, and my brother.”

“And where would you suggest?” Although weary, his voice took on an edge. Jason didn't blame him. He'd just gotten Eleanora back; now Freyah wanted to move her away. “And how would you protect yourselves?”

“I'd go with her,” Rebecca said quietly.

“And I.” Madame Qi tapped her cane firmly on the floor. “She cannot take care of everyone by herself, and I would not lose a good teacher. At my age,” and she flashed a wrinkled grin, “classes are not to be wasted.”

“Grandmother,” said Ting, moving close to her, and putting an arm over her shoulders affectionately.

“This earth is good to me. Yet my days do not stretch forever in front of me.” Madame Qi nodded.

“That does not answer my concern. Where would I send you? Where could you be safe?” Gavan frowned and his jaw tightened before he could say more.

“We have drawn attention here,” Tomaz said mildly. “You know that. Freyah is right, they should be moved. The where of it, we'll have to consider.”

“Avenha? It's almost rebuilt for the winter.”

“Perhaps,” Tomaz replied to Henry. “Much to think about.” He stood. “Isabella won't be happy.”

“Even more reason for us all to rest well, while we can.” Gavan tipped his fingers to his brow in a wry salute and went up the stairs to the rooms given to Eleanora and FireAnn. Freyah watched him leave, then released a tiny sigh.

She stared into the fire's flames for such a very long time, she did not seem to notice as everyone else, even FireAnn, said good night and drifted away. George stirred then, and came to her side and butted her, as her drooping fingers nearly dropped her teacup and saucer. She patted the tray. “Thank you, George. Deep thoughts on a deep subject nearly put me into a very deep sleep.” She rose and followed after.

 

“I have killed people for lesser failures,” Isabella intoned.

“As I have, for lesser insults and reprimands.” Jon raised a defiant eyebrow. He stood his ground.

“The Leucators are gone, now the hostages. How do you expect me to make a stand on this world?”

“I don't think I need to point out that your coin purses are quite full now.”

“But my fortress is empty.” Isabella paced angrily, turning her back on him, another insult. If she respected him at all, she'd be afraid to show him her back. Jon stared at her, his eyes gone steely hard. His shoulder ached, marked deeply black and blue from the rock blow, and his anger grew icy deep inside him. He would take out the Magickers, one by one or all at once. He no longer cared if they had power they could contribute or if they could be subverted by him. They would be his and regret the moment they became so. Fools with Magick were still just fools.

“Your fortress stands, as does your Gate.”

“The Gate. Where would an abyss like that lead?”

“It doesn't matter.”

She swung on him. “Doesn't matter! Listen to yourself.”

“No, listen to you.” Jonnard leaned forward. “I opened one Gate, I can open another. Did that possibility escape you? Or did you think it a fluke? Did you think I tripped and flicked a finger, and a Gate flew open by accident?”

An expression glanced across her face that he couldn't read. Had that indeed been what she thought of him? Jon contained himself though he wanted to shake in anger and continue shaking till the building dropped in rubble about them, but he did not let himself. He clenched a fist until the sore wound of his shoulder throbbed with the force of it. He moved for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he grated through clenched teeth. “In case you've forgotten, someone knew we were moving our goods for sale. Someone in the Trader Guild betrayed us, and I intend to find out who. They won't do it again.” He left before she could deny him the right to go although he almost hoped she would try to stop him.

He rode the bay. The horse took to Crystaling well, and did not mind being ridden in the light rain, although both were soaked by the time they reached Naria's outskirts. Smoldering lights tried to brighten the night when he dismounted at the Trader Guild and turned the horse's reins over to a stammering stableboy who may or may not have recognized him. An apprentice let him in the front door, immediately bowing and bolting off for one of the senior guildsmen. Jon did not care who answered his call, as long as someone did. He stripped off his riding gloves and stamped his boots, shedding drops of rain.

“Master Jonnard! I am honored, honored.” Presumptuous, overdressed as much as his flesh was overstuffed, and smelling of vinegary wine, Guild Leader Shmor himself came to press his hand. He still had a cloth napkin stuffed in his waistband, obviously interrupted at dinner. “What can I do for you? The deal is done? Problems?” Shmor shifted uneasily, and his body wobbled.

“Done, yes.” Jonnard released the sweating hand as Shmor let out a long breath of relief. “Well done, no. Part of our negotiation concerned the need for utmost secrecy. I thought we had your assurance on that.” Jonnard drew his gloves slowly between his fingers.

“You had! You have!” Shmor rumbled indignantly. “I don't understand.”

“Let me make you understand, then.” Jon stepped in, neat and clean, his hand to the trader's throat. Loose skin and wattle pooled about his fingers as he began to close them. “We were compromised, Shmor. Compromised badly enough that we almost had no deal to make, and I know that no one on my end was foolish enough to wag his tongue. That leaves your end.”

Shmor began to turn red. “No, no, no! None of my people.” He gargled a bit for breath and Jon loosed his hand just a touch. “I assure you. In the old days, I would have pointed to your man Fremmler, but I doubt that now. He seems quite loyal to you. Believe me, Master Jonnard, I know of no one who would be stupid enough to go against the guild or Isabella of the Dark Hand.” He panted, his fat throat undulating against Jon's grip. “Our deal stands, and we hope to make many more. No one in the Trader Guild would run afoul of that.”

“Someone did.”

The trader gestured wildly. “I will make inquiries! I will leave no stone unturned finding out what I may!” Shmor gargled again.

Unpleasant as the man was, Jonnard believed him. He let go. Shmor hastily took a step back, rubbing at his throat. “I will not rest until I find out who, and turn him over to your tender mercies.” He bowed heavily at the waist.

“Don't throw me a crumb,” Jonnard warned. “Don't set up some poor fool to make me happy. I want the truth, and I'll know it when I see it.”

“Understood, Master Jonnard. Well understood!” Shmor cleared his throat with a fruity noise. “Have you, ermm, dined yet?”

The last thing he wanted to do was share a table with the man. “I'll find an inn.”

Relief flooded Shmor's face. “Well, then. May I recommend The Hot Spit? It's a block over. Clean, plain food, good brewery.”

“I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

Shmor brought his napkin up to his mouth. He looked as if he might be trying to stifle tears. “And I, I look forward to answering your inquiry.” He bowed but did not leave till Jonnard himself did.

He thought he heard a muffled sob as the door closed on his heels.

Unheeding, Jon made his way inside the establishment which smelled of straw and the wetness being tracked inside, beer, and sausages crackling on spits. The beer tasted like beer of old, thick and rich, not the swill served in many modern-day bars, and the sausages were not quite like any he'd ever had before, but he did not care, they filled his stomach. He sat at the table by himself, his five-fingered hands wrapped about a crude mug and endured the stares of passersby who marked him for his difference.

After two mugs of the beer, he decided he was ready to go home. He'd rattled the traders enough, something would shake out or not, although he wanted someone he could settle the score against now. The beer soothed his temper a bit. He'd have to bide his time. He dropped a coin on the table, a hand-stamped metal of unknown origin that passed for precious on Haven and drew his feet under him to stand. A sopping wet bundle of rags dashed up against him.

“Sir! Sir! A coin for a street lad? I'll clean yer boots, sir!”

Jon grabbed the small boy by the scruff of the neck. Muddy and stinking, the child struggled a bit, then went limp. “How did you get in here?”

“They let me in, sir. I clean boots. I sing, sometimes. And I draw pictures. Look, look!” Dangling from Jon's fist, the urchin still managed to open his cloak and from within his shirt, he took out a fistful of papers. He scattered them on the table's edge.

They caught Jon's eye. Drawn in firestick charcoal, they showed a bit of talent. He recognized streets of Naria, peopled by various characters, going about their lives. He picked out one. It showed fat Shmor on the Trader Guild steps, thumb in his vest, talking with a hapless apprentice. Jon peered closely. Upstairs, on the second story, a crow perched at a window. Plainly, a crow.

But crows did not inhabit Haven.

“What's this?”

“Oh, that one, sir. The Head Trader, sir.”

“I know who he is. This,” and Jon stabbed a finger at the crow.

“A great dark bird, sir. Ne'er seen anything like it, I have. It comes and goes sometimes.”

“From that window?”

The boy looked at him shrewdly and pressed his lips firmly together. Jon let him drop. He flipped him a coin. “From that window?”

“Always, sir. None other.”

Jon took the sketch and put it in his own pocket. “You know nothing.”

“Never did, sir. It's why I'm poor.” The lad scrambled together his other art, and dashed off, stowing them away, zigzagging through the inn and off into the rain.

He had to fetch his horse from the guild stables anyway. Jon put up his cloak hood against the rain which had tailed off to a fine mist, and slowed as he came upon the building. He paced the street till he saw the unusual window from the urchin's sketch. He thought he had an idea where it might be on the second floor.

The apprentice let him inside again, and hesitated. Jonnard pressed a few coins in his palm. “No need to disturb Shmor again. I think I left something up on the second floor. I'll just be a moment.”

“Well and good, Master Jonnard. Shall I wait for you here?”

“Good idea.” Jonnard took the steps cat-quick, before the apprentice could decide the bribe was too little and told someone of his presence anyway. The small offices upstairs all seemed to be dark. He lit a crystal, passing door by door. He nearly missed the one he wanted, and back stepped. Lantern light from his hand filled the small office. Stacks of papers met his gaze, an unremarkable clerk's office. Racks of books, scrolls, and maps lined the wall. The one window seemed high, but a small ladder to reach the bookshelves stood in the corner. Jonnard paused at the desk, and sifted through the top layer, trying to determine who sat there and who signed the documents.