The Pool of Two Moons (55 page)

So Dillon had volunteered himself and his lieutenants for the task, arguing that none knew the city as they did, who had lived on its streets all their lives. They knew where to go and whom to ask, which the Blue Guards did not, and could make contact with the rebels hidden in the city without arousing suspicion. Lachlan knew a secret way out of the palace grounds into the city, for he and his brother Donncan had often sneaked into Lucescere when they were meant to be at their lessons. More than twelve years had passed since Lachlan and his brothers had been transformed into blackbirds, though, so the prionnsa had no idea whether the drainpipe would still be there. It was an alarmingly tenuous possibility, and if it should prove unviable, the children would have to search for an alternative. The palace was heavily guarded, and any ragged child found prowling around would be instantly thrown into the dungeons. Although Tomas said confidently that he would call Ceit Anna to rescue them again, Dillon preferred to stay out of the Red Guards' grasp.

Until Lachlan knew what was happening in the rest of the country, he could not relax. So delicate was the balance between success and failure that one misfortune was all it would take to overthrow their plans. He wanted to know what news there was of Meghan, and whether she had escaped the Awl. He wanted to know where his brother Jaspar was and how he was faring. He wanted confirmation that the rebels were ready to strike if needed, and that they had infiltrated the city successfully. In particular, the League of the Healing Hand were to seek news of Isabeau, for without her they could not join the dismembered Key, and without the Key, Lach-lan could not get to the Lodestar hidden away in the maze. Meghan had assured him Isabeau would somehow get the two parts of the Key to Lucescere, but with the sorceress in the hands of the Awl, her confidence did not reassure him.
Samhain Eve

Lightning flashed, illuminating the ruined buildings uncannily. One by one the boys ran from the doorway, always choosing the darkness that came after the flash so that the dazzled eyes of the guards would be less likely to see them. The puppy Jed ran at Dillon's heels as always, his ears flapping. Finn stayed till last. Despite all the reassurances that Glynelda was dead, she still feared falling into the hands of the Awl. Trying to overcome her attack of nerves, she crouched in the shadow of the great doorway. Goblin put one paw out, miaowed pitifully and drew it back again. Finn scowled. Like the elven cat, she hated getting wet.

After a moment she took out the cloak she had found that afternoon and wrapped it about her, pulling the hood over her head. She tucked the elven cat into one pocket, stepped out into the rain and flitted silently across the garth.

She crept up behind the boys, who had gathered in the shelter of a great yew tree. "Where's that blasted Finn?" Dillon peered back toward the tower. "She's always doing her own thing, she should stay close and no' get into trouble."

"Why?" Finn replied cheekily, and the others all jumped and looked about them in bewilderment. Realizing the cloak was blending into the gloom so they could not see her, she put back the hood and stuck out her tongue at Dillon.

"Shut up, Finn," he said rancorously. "This is no time to be fooling around. Let's get out o' here as fast as we can."

The palace at the end of the garden was blazing with lights. Two guards marched along the flagstones, but their faces were lowered against the rain and they did not even glance in the children's direction. Staring with bright-eyed curiosity up at the palace, they made their swift and silent way around the side, freezing whenever sheets of lightning irradiated the sky. Luckily the gardens surrounded the palace on all four sides and so there was plenty of shelter from hostile eyes.

A long avenue stretched from the front of the palace to the gates into the city, lined by bare-branched trees. On either side was an expansive lawn, offering little cover. Lanterns blazed in the great courtyard before the palace doors, casting their radiance far across the lawn, while the city was bright with lights as well.

"Something must be up," Dillon muttered. "There be soldiers everywhere!" They looked at each other and shrugged. It took a long time to cross the garden, and by the time they reached the corner their hearts were all hammering. They found the drain at last, half buried in leaves and hidden behind the hanging branches of an evergreen bush. Jay slithered through first, Finn following as soon as he gave the signal, stripping off her cloak and folding it away first. She did not want it ruined by mud. Anntoin almost got stuck halfway through, but with Dillon pushing and the others pulling, they at last hauled him through. Artair scrambled through and Dillon came out hard on his heels, and they grinned at each other in delight. They were safe inside the city.

Despite the rain, the streets were filled with people. It was the eve of Samhain, and the city was carousing. Lanterns hung everywhere, and the crowds were dressed in brilliant colors, defying the night of death.

In sharp contrast to the gaiety of the city folk was the blank misery of the beggars clustered in the corners. A few were begging for food or money or a place to stay, but most were just sitting on bundles, their hands lying helplessly.

Peering out from the dark side-alley, Dillon and Ann-toin exchanged glances. Lucescere had always been known for its beggars, but never had they seen so many, particularly in the fine streets near the palace. Many were dressed in the neat, plain clothes of artisans or crofters; they carried children, shepherds'

crooks, bags of tools and, incongruously, silver teapots and ladles.

The children slipped into the busy thoroughfare one by one. They had split into three groups, Anntoin and Artair as always pairing off, Dillon declaring himself best able to scout alone, and Jay and Finn shrugging and standing together as directed. They had only a few hours to gather what information they could, for they had to be back before midnight. Midnight and the day of the dead.

Iseult looked up from
The Book of Shadows,
which she was trying to read by the capricious light of the fire. "What's wrong, Gita?"

The donbeag was running back and forth in front of the door, chittering in distress. He looked up at Iseult and made a high, sharp sound, as if in pain. She got up. "Are ye hurt? What's wrong?" He stood up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on the door. "Do ye want to go out? Is there danger?"

She opened the door carefully, her
reil
in her hand, ready to throw. The guard sitting opposite jerked up his head and, seeing Iseult, scrambled to his feet. "I be sorry, my lady, I was just . . ."

"No need to apologize," Iseult said, following Gita as he scampered along the hall. The donbeag led her to the narrow side door, put his paws up on the wood and looked up at her, squeaking again. Very carefully she eased it open, expecting to see guards approaching. To her horror, Gita immediately bolted out into the stormy night. Within seconds his small body had disappeared from view. Although she called him, with both her mind and her voice, he did not return.

Dillon moved easily through the maze of alleys, the black-faced puppy bounding at his heels. They both sniffed the air luxuriously, enjoying the familiar city stench. Never would Dillon have thought he could miss Lucescere so much. After seven months in the mountains it was a relief to be elbowing his way through tight-packed bodies, lifting a few purses just to keep his hand in. Dillon had been born in Lucescere. Until he left to travel with Jorge and Tomas, he had lived all of his twelve years in these cramped, filthy streets. It was good to be home.

Soon the spray from the waterfalls was mingling with the rain so all the walls glistened with water. Barefoot, he was conscious of the chill striking up through his feet.
Ye've got soft,
he chided himself and quickened his pace, rubbing his arms.

He sidled down a narrow alley, careful not to meet the eyes of any of the people squatting along the walls. They were dirty, scarred, pockmarked and squint-eyed, bristling with daggers and almost as ragged as Dillon. This was the poorest quarter of the city, the home of thieves, cutthroats and curse-mongerers. Here you could arrange a kidnapping or a murder for a handful of pennies. Even after all his years living on the streets, Dillon found this part of his journey a test to his courage. Occasionally he saw the flare of torches as revellers ran down one of the wider streets, singing and chanting against the demons of the night. In this evil-smelling passageway there was no light and no singing. He evaded the grasp of a thin man with a crimson eyepatch, who called him "my pretty," and he had to jump aside to avoid a knife fight, catching Jed up in his arms so the puppy would not be rolled on. As he hurried down the alley, he heard a cry go up from the watching crowd, and then saw the trickle of water running between his feet turn red.

His heart pounding, he ducked through an archway, making his way through a maze of filthy courtyards and twisting steps until he was below the lip of the waterfall. On one side the water thundered down, white and churning over sharp, black rocks. Rickety shanties were built into the side of the cliffs, coated with slime. Dillon climbed the stairs of one and knocked on the door.

A young man answered, dressed only in an old kilt, his black hair ruffled. He was yawning. "Wha' do ye want," he snapped, before his bleary eyes recognized the beggar boy standing on the step, a shaggy white pup in his arms. "Scruffy!" he cried and hauled him over the lintel, casting sharp glances up and down the alley. "Wha' be ye doin' here? Up to no guid at all, if I ken ye! This is no' the time to be wandering Murderers' Alley by yourself, no' at all!"

"Why?" Dillon asked.

The man looked at him sharply, rubbed his head vigorously with both hands, and said, "None o' your business that I can tell."

"How be ye yourself?" Dillon asked, perching on a rickety table while his old friend Culley pulled on a woollen shirt and splashed whiskey into a glass, first wiping it out with the tails of his shirt.

"So-so," Culley answered. "I spent more time in the bloody baron's blaygird dungeons, thanks to ye, charged with treason and inciting rebellion, o' all things. I was lucky to keep my head, and many o' my mates were no' so lucky. Ye left a fine tangle behind ye, Scruffy, when ye went off wi' that lad wi' the healing hands."

"Indeed? We heard there'd been fighting . . ."

"Och, aye! It were grand. The streets ran red with their blood, but at last they beat us back and we had trouble avoiding the widow-maker, that I can assure ye."

"How did ye?"

Culley laughed, and tapped his nose. "So wha' is it ye are wanting wi' me, lad? I ken ye have no'

appeared on my doorstep after half a year gone just to hear how my health is. Wha' do ye want?"

"Do I have to want anything, Culley?" Dillon said, hurt.

"I be no fool, Scruffy."

He laughed. "I need to see His Highness, King o' the Thieves."

Culley raised one brow. "Ye be a plucky lad, that I have to say for ye."

"It be very important, Culley."

"It always is wi' ye, Scruffy. Wha' be your business?"

Dillon eyed him consideringly, then said abruptly, "All right, I'll tell ye but ye must promise me no' to flap your gums unless I give ye leave, or ye'll have me to answer for."

"Obh obh! Threats now, is it? All right, all right, keep your kilt on! I willna tell a soul unless ye say so." Dillon told him nearly everything—the only thing he did not tell was where Lachlan MacCuinn and the Blue Guards were hiding. That was one secret that was best kept, he thought. Culley whistled once or twice in surprise, but otherwise waited until Dillon was silent again. Then he said slowly, "It all ties together. There's been some auld biddy whispering in His Highness's ear this past month, saying the same sort o' stuff, all about Sam-hain and the winged lad who's going to save us all. We've been told to spread the tale, for there are many here who have no' heard it, being refugees from the countryside."

"Why? How come so many people in the city?" Dillon asked. "We've had no news in a month or more." Culley guffawed. "Well, make yourself comfortable, my lad. How long have ye got?" By the time he was finished, Dillon was white. Bright Soldiers controlling Dun Gorm, Fairgean in the river and lochan, the Righ forced to flee to Lucescere—no wonder the palace had been so closely guarded, so brightly lit! What would Lachlan say when he discovered his brother was at the other end of the garden?

Culley tossed down the last of his whiskey, and said, "Well, His Highness will be most interested to hear all your news. He's had to move a lot lately, for the Awl have been searching the houses and dragging away anyone they suspect o' being a guild member. We've had a hard six months here indeed." He took Dillon back through the city, heading into the prosperous merchants' quarter. The streets were wide and swept clean of refuse, and lanterns swung every few paces, their light blurred by the constantly falling rain. Revellers sang and danced through the streets.

"I did no' expect to see the Samhain festival," Dillon panted.

"The Awl had banned it but then the Righ said the people needed something to keep their spirits up, and that he would rather leave this life ringed with fire and song than in bleakness and fear." Dillon's heart slammed. "The Righ is dying?"

"How can ye no' ken? We have been holding our breaths every day this week, and they say it is only the skills o' his healer that keep him lingering on."

"We have had no news."

"They say the shock o' the attack, and the jolting o' their retreat through the mountains . . . and the Banrigh giving birth on the road, all—"

Again Dillon exclaimed, stopping in their swift walking to stare at Culley. The rebel took his arm and led him on, saying, "I canna tell ye all the news in the street! Keep quiet and I'll take ye to the safe house." They came to an ornate gate and slipped through, giving a password to the guards standing in the shadows, then they walked up a short drive, edged by thick shrubbery and lined with the delicate shapes of winter-bare trees. Ahead was a grand house, the roof steep above the tangled network of twigs, many windows lit with golden light. Dillon tugged at the tattered hem of his shirt and called Jed to heel with a quiver in his voice. Big houses made him nervous.