Shadowcaster

  He’d known this gig was bad news from the very beginning. Why, then, had he taken it? What was he turning into?

  He hoped she wasn’t dead.

  It took him a long time to fall asleep.

  Breon stayed in hiding for two solid days, curled up in his corner, buried in hay to keep warm. Once or twice a day, Clayton, the stable hand, would labor up the ladder into the loft and pitch down hay to the horses. But he was a slow-moving, noisy sort, so Breon was always hidden by the time Clayton stuck his head up through the floor. Breon had to stay still while people were coming and going from the stable, so nobody would hear him moving around overhead. After most of a day spent in one spot, he was so stiff he could barely move.

  At night he’d creep out into the stable yard to empty his night soil bucket and have a quick smoke, but the bluejacket patrols were so thick he never got far before he was driven back inside. He had no prayer of getting across the bridge without being seen, even if he left his jafasa behind, and he had no plans to do that.

  By the third day, he was out of leaf and getting desperate. Finally, luck came his way in the form of a wagon that parked in the stable yard long enough to swap out the horses, and also long enough for Breon to slide under the canvas that covered the cargo. He had no idea where the wagon was going, but he figured it must be better than where he was, with blue-coated guards swarming everywhere. If he could get across the river, he’d stop in at the crib and fetch Aubrey and Goose, and they’d be on their way, with or without jingle in his pockets. There was always a way to make a little jingle. Versatility had always been one of his strengths.

  The wagon’s destination was another market some distance away. When the driver went in to dicker with the merchants, Breon slipped out of the back of the wagon. As he crossed the market, he nicked a carved walking stick from one of the stalls displaying “clan-made” goods and a battered cloak that was stuffed into a basket of rags.

  Wrapped in his scroungy cloak, the jafasa underneath so he looked like a hunchback, he hobbled along with his walking stick. That disguise was enough to get him across the bridge.

  By then, darkman’s hour had come, the temperature was dropping, and the slush in the streets was beginning to freeze again.

  He was just turning into the street where the hideout was when he heard someone hiss his name. He looked, and it was Aubrey, motioning from the doorway of a tavern.

  Apparently his disguise wasn’t as good as he’d thought it was. Taking a quick look around, he ducked inside.

  She was huddled at a table to the left of the door, where she could look out of the open window. That must’ve been how she saw him passing by. A drover’s cap was pulled low over her face, and she had big dark circles under her eyes.

  “Aubrey!” he said, but she hushed him right away and pushed his jafasa under the table.

  “You can’t be carrying that around,” she growled. “They’ll catch you.”

  “I was on my way back to the crib,” Breon said. “I’ll stash it there.”

  She shook her head. “You got to ditch it. I was about to give up,” she said. “I figured you was still alive because they’re still looking for you. You really stepped in it this time.”

  “I stepped in it?” It sounded like she thought it was his fault. “I can’t wait to get my hands on Whacks. He set me up.”

  “Whacks is dead,” Aubrey said, “and so’s Goose.”

  Whacks . . . and Goose. Both dead? Breon felt like he’d been clubbed. Whacks was the kind of person who always landed on his feet, no matter who he had to stomp on to do it. And Goose? He’d cut your throat for a wad of leaf, but other than that he’d always been a harmless sort.

  When Breon said nothing, Aubrey pressed on. “And we’d be dead, too, if we’d of been there when they came.”

  “When who came? The bluejackets?”

  She shook her head. “Them that hired you. I guess they didn’t want to leave anybody behind to tell tales. The bluejackets is the least of your worries.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’ll worry about them just the same,” Breon said. “Did you see who did it?”

  She shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to.”

  “How were they done?”

  Aubrey hesitated. “Their throats were cut.”

  “But you weren’t there?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said . . .”

  “Who told you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who told you how they were killed?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “I don’t remember.”

  “What do the bluejackets say?”

  “I couldn’t very well go ask them,” Aubrey said. “Anyway, they might not know yet. All I keep hearing about is that blueblood you sung to.”

  “Is she dead, too?”

  Aubrey nodded. “That’s the word on the street, anyway.”

  Guilt welled up inside him, regret for the part he’d played in the murder of the brown-eyed girlie. Her Highness, who wasn’t very good at lying.

  “Are the bodies still there?”

  “What bodies?” she growled. Breon could tell she was rattled, because she was so prickly.

  “Goose and Whacks.”

  “Probably. Why are you being like this?”

  Why are you being like this?

  “I want to know,” Breon said. “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Look, you can’t go anywhere near there. I wouldn’t be here now, ’cept I was waiting for you. It hasn’t been easy staying alive this long, I don’t want to ruin it now.” She gripped his arm. “C’mon, Bree. Let’s get out of this town. Let’s go back to Baston Bay, like we said we would. We can start over.”

  Suspicion flickered through Breon. Aubrey had wanted to leave without Goose and Whacks, and now she was telling him that they had no choice.

  Maybe they weren’t dead after all. Or maybe she’d been the one that—

  No. This was Aubrey. You wouldn’t trust Aubrey with your purse, but she wasn’t a killer.

  Either way, he needed to know.

  “You stay here. I’ll go myself. When I come back, we’ll leave.”

  “Don’t go,” Aubrey said, then added, in a rush, “Look, I’ve got a little leaf. We can smoke it up, then hit the road.”

  “That’s a good plan,” Breon said, “for when I get back. Watch my jafasa for me?” He was like a lýtling with one broken toy who keeps dragging it around after him.

  “I may not be here when you get back,” Aubrey muttered. “I’m making no promises.”

  “If you’re not here when I get back, well . . . good luck,” he said, turning away.

  He wished he wasn’t a stranger in this town. He wished he knew his way around better. He wished he was a pirate sitting on bags of swag. Wishes were free, after all.

  The street outside the warehouse was eerily deserted, like everybody outside knew what had happened inside.

  Everybody else is smarter than me, he thought. I should just turn right around and go back and smoke some leaf and forget this town and everybody in it. Including her brown-eyed highness.

  He paused a moment outside the door, and almost turned away. No. He had to know. He looked up and down the street, saw nobody, and pushed the door open.

  He all but stumbled over a body sprawled facedown a few feet away from the door, arms stretched out as if he still hoped to make it out. A faint scent of decay wafted up.

  It was Whacks, dressed in his usual tattered finery, his face mashed into a sticky puddle of blood. Aubrey was right—it looked like his throat had been cut. His hands were swollen, purpling. The killers hadn’t even taken his rings.

  That, in itself, was terrifying.

  Whacks. Running away from trouble, as usual.

  Goose hadn’t put up much of a fight, either. He lay on his back in the same corner where Breon had last seen him, eyes peeled open so he looked surprised, his pipe lying close to his hand, his throat neatly c
ut from ear to ear. He was a bit further along in decay than Whacks had been, maybe because it was warmer in his corner. It took everything Breon had not to peer into the bowl of the pipe and see if there was any leaf left.

  Goose wouldn’t be using it after all.

  Telling himself he was looking for clues, Breon searched both bodies. Goose had nothing, of course, except a heel of rock-hard bread in an inside pocket. Whacks, though, had a full purse—the one he kept tied inside the waist of his pants. Mostly girlies, a few steelies. No note signed by the killer or anything.

  The fact that the purse was still there signified: one, it wasn’t a robbery, and two, nobody else had come in and found the bodies.

  Breon tucked the purse away. They had traveling money after all. He searched the rest of the crib but found nothing telltale.

  With that, he returned to Goose, thinking he should do something to send him on his way. What was Goose’s actual name? Dillon, maybe? It seemed wrong to call him Goose at a time like this.

  Breon tried three times to close Dillon’s eyes, but it was a no-go; it was like they were glued open. Finally, his own eyes watering, he pulled the threadbare blanket up over Dillon’s face. Then he tried to put the pipe back in his hand, but it just kept falling out. Finally, he set it on top of Dillon’s chest.

  At least he died doing what he enjoyed, Breon thought.

  The longer he stayed, the edgier he got. It was time to go.

  He was three steps from the door when he heard somebody fumbling with the latch. In an instant panic, Breon looked for a place to hide. Then he realized that no matter where he hid, if they searched the place, they’d find him. In the end, he flattened himself against the wall next to the door, hoping whoever it was would walk past him without noticing. When the door banged open, he ended up behind it.

  It was four rushers, all muffled up in coats, all bigger than Breon.

  “. . . Darian says we gotta search this place and make sure there’s no loose ends to tie us to this thing,” one of them was saying.

  “He should’ve told us up front what the job was,” another one whined. “I don’t need this kind of trouble. I can’t make a move without running into a swiving bluejacket.”

  “Which is exactly why we need to check this place out,” Rusher Number One said. “When these ones begin to stink, they’ll be found.”

  Their attention immediately fastened on Whacks. Breon couldn’t help wishing he’d dragged the body farther from the door.

  “You two, search this one,” Number One said, nudging Whacks with his foot. “You, come with me. Darian said there was another one in the corner. Then we’ll sweep the place and be out of here.”

  When the other two left to have at Dillon, the remaining ones knelt next to Whacks.

  “I don’t know why this is our job,” Number Three whined. “We didn’t do ’em. We should be out hunting that scrawny street-rat of a busker.”

  “You wanna tell Darian you refuse? I don’t. Matter of fact, I’m clearing out of this town. Who’s to say he won’t do us like he done them?”

  Breon edged forward so he could peek around the door. They were patting Whacks down. Breon knew he should leave, but still he stayed, hoping he might hear something that would tell him who’d done this thing and who’d given the orders.

  And if you do find out? What are you going to do about it? Hit him with your jafasa? Sing him to death? Send a note to the guard?

  He was just so damned tired of working so hard not to think about things.

  “Hey! This one’s got rings on,” Number Three said. He began trying to wrestle the rings from Whacks’s swollen fingers.

  “Stop that!” Number Four said, looking toward where the other two were searching Dillon.

  “Darian don’t need to know,” Number Three whispered. “Keep your mouth shut and I’ll share ’em with you.” Leaving off tugging at the rings, he pulled out his knife.

  No. Breon didn’t want to see this, and then have to try and forget it. In a heartbeat, he’d cleared the door and was back on the street, running for his life. Behind him he heard shouting, but he neither slowed down nor turned around until he burst through the tavern doorway. Once inside, he peered out around the doorframe, but he’d apparently lost them.

  To his mild surprise, Aubrey was still there. Her head jerked up at his noisy entrance, and then she smiled in relief.

  “I told you I’d be back,” he said, dropping into a chair and trying to catch his breath.

  Aubrey looked toward the door, maybe wondering what kind of demon was chasing him, then back at Breon. “Well? Did you learn anything?”

  Yes. He’d learned that murder had a name, and that name was Darian. Breon wasn’t all that sentimental about Whacks, but Goose deserved better. And so did the brown-eyed princess.

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Whacks liked to say, and Breon had always followed the same philosophy. But just now he wasn’t sure what he would do if he met up with Darian.

  Best to avoid that meet-up.

  “Aye,” he said. “I learned that we’d be better off in Baston Bay.”

  18

  COUNCIL OF WAR

  Two days after the concert, Lyss crossed the parade grounds, heading for the barracks. The barracks yard was all but deserted. Normal people were already celebrating the holiday, but Lyss had scheduled a drill for her salvo in late afternoon.

  She ought to cancel it. Her soldiers had fought hard all summer. They deserved a rest. Anyway, what good would an extra drill do? It wouldn’t prevent attacks like the one at South Bridge.

  It had left her more angry than frightened. And grieving and guilty over the two that they’d lost.

  Maybe she’d be better off crossing the border on her own—just one gray wolf with a longbow, a sword, and a thirst for vengeance. She’d keep ranging south, taking lesser prey along the way, until she found the king of Arden. And then she would show him what it was like to be hunted.

  There hadn’t been much progress in finding those responsible for the attack. Though all of Southbridge and Ragmarket were on the watch, in addition to swarms of bluejackets, they’d found no trace of the busker. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up.

  Nobody’d seen him busking around Ragmarket before, so he was either new to town or new to busking. Although Lyss had made a detailed drawing of the jafasa, nobody had seen one before, and none of the luthiers in the high street had seen one come in for repair. Shadow had pursued the theory that it might have been flashcraft, but had had no luck. As far as they knew, all flashcraft originated with the upland clans, but none of Shadow’s contacts had seen an instrument like that, or heard of one being used in that way.

  Speaker Jemson had found a scholar at the Cathedral Temple that was an expert on musical instruments through history. He thought the drawing resembled the jafasaii, a type of traditional musical instrument from Carthis. Perhaps it had been brought here by a Carthian pirate.

  If the busker’s smart, Lyss thought, he’ll have dumped it by now.

  He had left a bit of a trail in the markets, at least up until the attack. One of the temple dedicates, Samuel Bannock, recalled that a boy who fit the busker’s description showed up at the food ministry the morning of the concert. He was dressed shabbily, and looked—and smelled—like he hadn’t had a bath in a month. Samuel had mentioned the concert to the boy. Now Bannock was worried that he’d somehow contributed to the attack, especially because one of the guards at the temple door had seen a well-dressed boy with an instrument case come into the sanctuary during the performance.

  One of the librarians recalled that that same boy had come into the library the afternoon of the concert. He’d asked for books about sailing ships.

  All through the interviews and debriefings, Lyss studied faces and body language, transcripts and reports, alert for the scent of treachery.

  Someone in the city was collaborating with Arden. Else how would the busker have known what flowers to buy? How would he
have known she’d be walking in the street after the concert? True, her concert appearance had been promoted all over the city. The rushers could have waited outside and followed her to Ragmarket.

  But her instincts told her she’d been set up by someone here at court. Could that treachery go back five years? Could it go all the way back to Hana?

  Sasha and Captain Byrne kept her up to date on new findings, but Lyss wasn’t holding her breath, waiting for an arrest. It would be just like before. Captain Byrne and his Wolves would question everyone and scour the queendom, chasing leads into dead ends as the trail grew colder. And then the wait for the next attack would begin.

  When Lyss walked into the duty room, she was surprised to find Hadley standing in front of the map of the realms on the wall, hands clasped behind her back, studying it. On a table against the wall, food and drink were laid out. There were bread and cheese and sausage and cakes, along with two promising-looking kegs. That was rare—unclaimed food never remained unclaimed for very long.

  “Hadley! What are you doing here?” Lyss waved a hand, taking in the food. “What’s all this?”

  “There’s a meeting,” Hadley said.

  “A meeting? Here?”

  “We thought that would make it more convenient for you.”

  Lyss racked her brain, trying to remember if there had been a meeting scheduled that she had forgotten. And came up with nothing.

  “You’re welcome to use the duty room, if you want,” she said, “but I’m supposed to meet with my salvo in half an hour.”

  “They know about it,” Hadley said.

  If they know about it, then why didn’t I? Lyss thought irritably.

  Right at that moment, Sasha walked in, brushing off snow. “I’m here for the meeting,” she said, pulling off her gloves and warming her hands by the stove. “It’s sure cold around here. I wish we could go someplace warmer.”

  Then it was Shadow, and Julianna and Finn. Followed by Lyss’s lieutenants, Mason, Littlefield, and the newly promoted Demeter Farrow. Ruby Greenholt, another member of her guard. And Ty Gryphon.