Valor of the Healer (9 page)

Was he? Kestar winced, but didn’t look away from Celoren’s concerned eyes. “Something the girl said while we rode down from Lomhannor...I can’t get it out of my head. That her master always said the Hawks would come and Cleanse her of her sin. That she had much sin to Cleanse away.”

“Sin?” Celoren stiffened astride his horse, and Pasga, sensing the change of his rider’s mood, snorted restlessly. “Did she mean her magic? But that’d mean—”

“That His Grace the Duke of Shalridan knew one of his slaves was a mage. And I think Enverly knew it too.” Kestar scowled. There was no chance they’d be overheard on an empty road, and yet he pitched his voice down. “You heard what they said to one another—‘I’ll make every effort to see that she remains useful.’”

Horror welled across the older Hawk’s eyes at the reminder, all the prompting he needed to utter Holvirr Kilmerredes’s reply. “‘I’ll expect you to keep her in the state in which I give her over to you now.’ Blessed, All-seeing Anreulag. The good Father doesn’t intend to Cleanse that girl at all.”

At any other time Kestar might have smiled to see Celoren’s mind in accord with his own, but now he could only nod and tug Tenthim’s reins to turn the horse back the way they’d come. “And at His Grace’s behest. No wonder he was so anxious to send us on our way.”

“He was right about one thing, though. Kilmerredes can destroy us both.”

“That’s why we’ll return to Camden under the cover of darkness.” His scowl deepening, his urgency conveyed to the animal he rode by the set of his frame and his legs, Kestar pushed Tenthim into a gallop. “That girl may be a mage, Cel, but she may also be our only witness to a sin almost as great. We need to talk to her. Now.”

Chapter Seven

Malcolm Andershaal, blacksmith of Camden, looked up from his anvil as a trio of watchmen rode past his forge—for the fifth time that day. He frowned within his beard. Though many years and many miles separated him and his birthplace, he still remembered the last time he’d seen so many watchmen on the streets; in those days the watchmen of Dareli had hunted
him
. Now he and his children were safe. But even when they’d been fugitives, they’d never warranted a hunt like the one that had swept Camden in the past two days.

They’d never warranted the Hawks.

“Da!”

The door burst open, letting in cool outside air, the smell of the potter’s kilns down the street and the panting figure of his son. Though he didn’t yet match his father’s breadth and bulk, Roki aided him at the forge. And like his father, Roki had spent the past two days anxiously watching the activity in the town. He was only fourteen, but old enough to remember when their family had fled west to Kilmerry Province.

The blacksmith grunted at his son’s arrival but didn’t pause in his work. With sturdy tongs, he moved the iron hinge he’d just finished hammering from his anvil over to a bucket of water on his bench. Heated iron hissed and steamed at the dunking. Satisfied, he turned at last to his offspring.

“What is it, lad?”

“There’s a gentleman outside asking if we can shoe a three-legged horse.” Brown eyes thoughtful, Roki stepped forward and held up his hand. “He said to bring you this.”

The sleek bit of darkness in his son’s fingers, blacker than the soot on his own massive scarred hands, told Malcolm all he needed to know of what had turned the town upon its ear.

“Well,” he rumbled, “this ought to be interesting.”

Plucking the raven feather from Roki’s grasp, he stumped over to toss it into the glowing coals in the hearth. Once the pinion caught fire and curled into a wisp of ash, Malcolm hauled a deep breath into his lungs. It tasted of smoke and hot iron, and it steadied him. It reminded him of the new life he’d made for himself and his children, and of the man who’d made that new life possible.

“You all right?” Roki’s face crinkled with concern.

“Aye, I’m fine. We’ll be fine, lad.” Malcolm clasped his boy’s shoulder to give his assurance extra weight. “Mind the forge. Put the tools away for the evening and douse the fire once you’re done. I’ll go see what our visitor’s about.”

“All right, Da.”

He spared Roki one small proud smile as his son set to cleaning up after their day’s work. Only then did Malcolm venture out to discover what the Rook had brought to his door.

* * *

Never mind two near-sleepless days of riding. Never mind the utter lack of time to bathe, and barely enough to retrieve garments and certain powders and other accoutrements for disguises. Rab had a gift for looking every inch the outraged young gentleman, even in clothing that had not an hour before been locked away in a storage chest in a barn on Camden’s outskirts. The crumpled velvet doublet, linen breeches and battered tricornered hat lent him a perfect air of a travel-worn, travel-weary fop.

Rab’s irritation, on the other hand, needed no artificial encouragement as he stalked the length of the cottage Malcolm Andershaal kept next door to his smithy. Though the furniture, hearth and stairs took up much of the single chamber that made up the lower floor, there was still considerable room for Rab to pace. “I tell you our presence here is madness! How long can we hide in a town full of prying eyes? Did you count how many of the watch patrol the streets?”

“If you took issue with my intentions,” Julian snapped, “you should’ve said so before.”

The Rook wasn’t garbed nearly as elegantly as Rab; his woolen shirt itched, as did the false beard that hid most of his face. It made him look like a servant, which was the point. But though he could vanish into his chosen role for whatever length of time was required, right then his disguise felt as ephemeral as air. An uncharacteristic nervousness had tormented him all the way to Malcolm’s forge, making him hyperaware of each man, woman and child they’d passed, certain that at any moment someone would cry out and bring the watch down upon them. Even more vexingly, a small superstitious part of himself he’d never been able to banish, even though he’d turned his back on the Church years ago, kept expecting the Anreulag Herself to appear out of nowhere and smite them on the spot.

Julian loathed that nervousness, for it told him Rab was right. They’d outrun a lion only to ride right back toward his very den. It was madness—yet here they were in Camden. Julian had yet to figure out precisely why, which aggravated him even more.

“I did say so before!” With a relentless speed that betrayed his own frayed nerves, Rab kept a dagger twirling without breaking the rhythm of either his pacing or the automatic sweep of his attention past every doorway and window in sight. “And I’ve yet to see—”

The front door opened, cutting Rab off, and the sight of Malcolm Andershaal’s husky frame filling the doorway let the assassins marginally relax. With an effort Rab exhaled and secreted away his dagger, while Julian rose from his chair.

“Hello, Malcolm,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Six years.” The blacksmith closed the door behind him. Without surprise he took in the apparent gentleman, his shabbily clad apparent servant and the alert, tense stances beneath both men’s attire. “I suppose all the fuss in the streets has something to do with you, Richard.”

Julian cracked a smile. The name was as false as his beard, but the sound of it was oddly cheering. “A bit.”

“Do I want to know?”

“No. For the sake of your family, don’t ask.” He stepped forward to embrace the blacksmith, prompting Malcolm to crack a grin of his own, and after they pulled back from one another Julian clasped the other man’s wide shoulders. “Gods, it’s good to see you and your little ones—Roki, at any rate.” He cast a droll look toward the stairs. At the very top of the stairway a small shadow shifted position, the only sign he’d glimpsed thus far of Malcolm’s younger child. “Elette has yet to grace us with her presence.”

Malcolm followed Julian’s gaze, his expression gentling. “She’s a shy fawn, my Lettie. Talking barely more than she did when you saw us last, but she pays attention. If she has a mind to, she’ll join us.” His attention returned then to his guests. “We’ve not forgotten what you both did for us. But we didn’t expect to see you again.”

Julian said, “Our debt’s clear, Malcolm, but this time Rab and I need your help. We’ll tell you nothing that’ll risk you and your children, and we need only food, a place to stay for the next few hours, and information.” Reaching into the pockets of his disreputable clothing, he pulled a gold coin out just far enough for its glint to catch the light. “We can pay.”

Malcolm snorted. “That’s too much for the likes of me. But I’ll take silver if you’ve got it.” He grabbed both Julian and Rab by their shoulders, maneuvering them to the table where his family took their meals. “And you’ll take that food now. Whatever you need to know can wait till after dinner.”

Roki came in from the forge as his father set out a meal of meat pies and ale, day-old bread from the nearest baker, and a salted potato mash that was the apex of Malcolm’s humble cooking. The smells of food drew Elette out of hiding, but the little girl made no noise creeping down the stairs, and only when she appeared at his elbow did Julian realize she’d joined them. As he’d pledged, he said nothing before the children of the connection between his and Rab’s presence and the swarming of the watch on the streets. Instead he occupied the eager Roki with gossip of the nobility of Shalridan and Dareli, the exploits of the last ship’s crew he’d encountered, and stories of the battles fought with the warrior clans of Tantiulo. Julian noted with satisfaction that the boy had inherited his sire’s canny sense. Entertained though his broad smiles pronounced him, the knowing gleam in his eyes spoke even more clearly of his awareness of what was truth and what was improvised.

Afterward Malcolm set his offspring to clearing away the dishes, and at Julian’s look, Rab strolled after the youngsters. “So then,” he slyly inquired, “who wants to see me juggle my knives?”

Roki lit up, and even his sister found this suggestion worthy of comment, fixing her huge solemn gaze upon Rab. “You only got nine fingers.”

“That I do, young miss, but therein lies the challenge. Any ordinary man, with ordinary hands, may juggle proficiently. But take one finger away—” Rab splayed his hands before his face, letting the children see all nine of his digits. “And you give him a special perception, an edge, the ability to do...this.”

He whipped out four daggers in rapid succession, and as the blades began to twirl through the air, Julian couldn’t quite hide his own half smile. Rab’s agile hands made him invaluable. His showmanship made him Rab. The sight of both, though, made him more aware than he liked of the false hand at his wrist. The stump beneath his sleeve hadn’t stopped tingling, hadn’t stopped reminding him of the girl in Lomhannor Hall.

“Seems you know more about what’s going on in Camden than I do,” Malcolm said beneath Rab’s banter. “What could I tell you?”

The throbbing in his wrist provoked an answering pulse deep within his skull, and it was all Julian could do to keep his hand relaxed and away from his brow. His mug of ale beckoned. But he ignored it, needing a clear head for the night to come. “There’s a mage in Lomhannor Hall. Has she been seen in the town at all, with or without her master?”

“
Mage
? The duke’s got elf slaves, aye. But he’s never had ’em here. Too close to the northern shore, too easy for slaves to escape.”

“He has at least one here now. I’ve seen her. And I’ve...” Julian forced his countenance to remain neutral, his strangely active nerves to settle. But speaking of Holvirr Kilmerredes’s captive brought her veiled face into sharp relief in his memory, and he felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. “I’ve experienced her power personally.”

The big blacksmith stared at him, indecision and fear crossing his face. Then he cast a long look at his children and another at the door, as if expecting the watch to burst through at any moment. “Sweet Allmother,” he whispered.

“If this goes against your faith, man, say the word and Rab and I’ll be gone and trouble you no further.”

Across the room Roki piped, “Do it with five!”

“What, young master, am I a walking armory?” Rab drawled, his daggers flying in an intricate dance back and forth through his fingers. “What makes you believe I have another blade?”

“I remember from the last time we saw you.”

“More daggers,” chimed in Elette.

The rapt interest on her tiny face turned her father’s eyes warm and full. He then looked back to Julian and sighed. “My faith stands there, and with the man who gave my son and daughter a chance to grow up in peace. I’ll tell you what I can.”

Julian smiled just a bit. Malcolm was a living example of exactly why he’d abandoned the Church of the Four Gods. He was an honest man, who worked hard and loved his children, and who’d still been branded a criminal for nothing more than revering the gods of his Nirrivan ancestors—for in Dareli, the capital, heresy was almost as great a crime as magic.

When the Church could persecute and arrest such a man, when the so-called all-seeing Anreulag could turn a blind eye to this and many other injustices, Julian would withhold his allegiance. Men like Malcolm deserved it far more.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said.

“Not that I’ve much to tell.” Malcolm returned Julian’s smile, but his gaze was thoughtful. “Your mage may not be in Lomhannor anymore. There are Hawks in Camden, Richard.”

“Hawks?” Julian scowled, alarmed, but welcoming the added urgent news. It would keep him focused. “How many? Where? When?”

“Two that I’ve seen in the past two days, headed to the church with Father Enverly this afternoon. This girl at Lomhannor—is she Tantiu?”

“Yes,” Julian breathed.

“I saw a girl in a veil and a sari riding with the Hawks. If she’s your mage, you’re too late. The Church already has her.”

* * *

“You did hit your head,” Rab muttered in Julian’s ear.

Night had fallen, but the muffled clop of hooves and quiet calls in the distance signaled that the watch was still on alert. Warned by Malcolm of extra patrols on the streets, Julian had sent Roki with his and Rab’s horses to the town saddler to get them closer to the church. The blacksmith had permitted this only when Roki had volunteered a cover story that a gentleman had arrived to get his horses shod, and that he needed new tack as well. It was plausible enough to hold up should Malcolm or Roki be questioned, and would keep both of them out of trouble. Or at least so Julian hoped.

In the meantime he and Rab had lain low at the smithy, swapping out their disguises for their working attire, and waiting for the safety of nightfall before they emerged. For three hours they’d stalked through the shadows toward the church, Rab shimmying up drainpipes to reach vantage points on rooftops, while Julian made use of unlocked doors or windows to find his own places to hide. It required patience and time, neither of which they had in abundance, but he kept to a dogged, cautious pace. He’d accomplish nothing for the girl if the Hawks captured him as well.

During their slow progress, however, Rab’s irritation grew.

They lurked now in the alley between a tailor’s shop and a bookseller’s, not far from the saddler where their horses awaited. All that lay between them and Camden’s Church of the Four Gods was an open square, paved with cobblestones and flanked by quiescent lampposts and the shuttered windows of the shops. The watch wouldn’t pass by for ten minutes, and Julian took the time to seek the least obtrusive route to the church. Rab stuck like a burr to his side, a dagger at the ready in either hand, close enough to voice his ire without being overheard.

“You must have,” he gritted out, “because I can’t fathom why else you’re trying to get us killed.”

“Rab, we’ve been over this.”

“And I still wonder what the bloody hell we’re doing!”