Wing & Claw 3_Beast of Stone

  Then it came to him.

  “CHANCELLOR LEEDS!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THE voice was so shrill that Raffa hardly recognized it as his own. He had spoken immediately—before he could think anymore, before he could change his mind.

  Every head turned in his direction, including the Chancellor’s.

  He walked toward her, stopping just a few paces away. With his bound hands, he reached for his neckline. Awkwardly, he pulled out the perch necklace and held it up. Echo hung from the twig, asleep, but twitching now from the disturbance.

  “This is the bat you want,” Raffa said, “the one that talks.”

  The Chancellor frowned. “You and your friends are not known for truth-telling,” she said. “How do I know you’re not trying to deceive me? That could be any bat.”

  The pavilion was utterly, eerily silent.

  Raffa blew a puff of air at Echo’s whiskers. “Echo,” he said gently. “I know it’s your time for sleep. But I need to talk to you.”

  “Raffa talk,” the bat said grumpily. “Echo sleep.”

  Gasps and excited whispers from those near enough to hear. Some people leaned closer in fascination; others drew back in fear.

  Tears had begun streaming down Raffa’s face.

  I’m sorry, Echo. I’m so so sorry. . . .

  Echo didn’t know it, but Raffa was betraying him: Everyone would now know for certain that the little bat could speak.

  Echo would never again be safe among humans.

  “How amusing,” the Chancellor said. She sounded ironic, her voice dry and detached. But she could not hide the gleam of surprise and interest in her eyes.

  Echo stretched his wings sleepily. He blinked a few times, then looked around and saw that they were surrounded by other people. He clicked several times rapidly, a sign that he was concerned or annoyed.

  “What is it, Echo?” Raffa asked.

  “People many,” Echo replied. “Don’t talk.”

  The Chancellor could no longer disguise her excitement. She held out her hand toward Raffa.

  “FORTY.”

  Raffa turned in surprise. It was Trixin who had spoken. Loudly.

  “Forty, isn’t it?” she said, addressing the Chancellor. “Forty-coin reward—that’s what you said, for anyone bringing you the bat. Raffa, if I were you, I wouldn’t give her a thing until she comes through with the coin.”

  Trixin went on, speaking faster now. “Forty coin—you must really want that bat! And Raffa, what will you do with the money? I’ve never seen forty coin all at once. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’d have to make a list. Boots for the little ones, for a start—they grow out of them so fast, and they’re so expensive. I’d get them in every size for Brid and the twins. And Jimble, too—he’s still small, but I expect he’ll start growing like a weed soon, the way most boys do—”

  What is she talking about? Boots?!

  “—as for myself, this will probably sound, oh, I don’t know, silly or vain or something, but I’d love a lockbox. To put my things where no one else could get to them. I’m forever searching for my hairbrush or for pins or my headscarf. I expect you don’t have to worry about that, Chancellor—your servients probably know where everything is and all you have to do is snap your fingers—”

  Then Raffa realized what she was doing. She’s stalling! She must know that the Advocate is on his way, too!

  A few of the guards tittered. The Chancellor’s face twisted in fury.

  “Is there no end to your impertinence?” she shouted at Trixin. “Guard, gag her!”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that,” Trixin said. “I’m done. For now, anyway.”

  Raffa was amazed at Trixin’s steadiness. She sounded as if she were having a perfectly ordinary conversation.

  “Give me that bat,” the Chancellor snarled.

  Raffa moved slowly. His plan had been to use Echo to distract the Chancellor long enough for the Advocate to arrive, and then to tell Echo to fly away. But the Advocate had not yet appeared—which meant that Raffa would have to buy more time by handing Echo over to the Chancellor.

  His muscles seemed to have frozen in anguish. His hands were still tied together; he had to use his thumbs to lift the leather cord over his head.

  The Chancellor could wait no longer; she reached forward and snatched the perch necklace away from him. Raffa cried out; it felt as though she had torn off his arm.

  She held the necklace up, with Echo at her eye level. “So, bat,” she said, “your first words to a Chancellor . . . What will they be?”

  Echo gazed at her steadily but said nothing.

  She gave the perch an impatient shake. Echo swayed but remained silent.

  “What’s the matter with it?” she demanded. “Why won’t it speak?”

  Raffa restrained his impulse to cheer wildly. He’s not going to talk until he hears me say the word friend. Echo, you clever, wonderful bat!

  “He—he only talks when he wants to,” Raffa said. Which was absolutely true.

  Then Echo fluttered off the perch and landed on Raffa’s arm.

  “Seize the creature!” the Chancellor said to Jayney.

  Jayney looked startled at first, then irritated; it seemed he thought the task beneath him. “Trubb, get that bat,” he said.

  Trubb winced and recoiled. “Don’t like bats,” he said. “Them claws—all scrabbly. And pointy little teeth.” He turned to the guard beside him. “You take it.”

  The guard drew back. “Senior Jayney told you to take it.”

  Trubb sniffed. “I outrank you, and I’m ordering YOU to take it.”

  “Outrank me? You’re not a guard—you don’t even have a rank.”

  Raffa seized the chance before him. He rubbed his chin on the top of Echo’s sweet furry head.

  “Go, Echo,” he whispered fiercely. “Go now.”

  Echo launched himself off Raffa’s arm.

  The Chancellor shrieked, “It’s escaping!”

  In a panic, two guards swung their pikers wildly at Echo. One blade came within a hand’s-width of the Chancellor’s nose.

  “Fool!” she shrieked, leaping back.

  “Go, Echo, go!” Raffa shouted.

  “RAFFA!”

  He whirled around in joy and disbelief. “DA!”

  Three horses and their riders burst into the clearing. Raffa saw his father, Mohan, at the fore, with Callian and Advocate Marshall behind him. They reined to a stop near the rear of the dais, between the pavilion and the stream.

  Raffa’s legs nearly collapsed under him. They had done it! All the desperate ploys by Kuma and Trixin and Raffa himself had given the Advocate and his escorts time to reach the clearing. He saw that the Advocate’s face was thin and haggard, but his eyes were bright with purpose.

  The Advocate stood in the stirrups.

  “GUARDS!” he called out, his voice strong and clear. “You are under my command—mine, and no one else’s. Draw down your arms at once!”

  “NO!” the Chancellor shouted. “REMAIN AT ARMS! The Advocate is no longer competent to lead you! I command you now!”

  “She has held me captive these past months,” Advocate Marshall said. “Dosed with harmful apothecary and imprisoned in my quarters.”

  Raffa was close enough to see Chancellor Leeds press her lips together in an effort to maintain her composure.

  “He lies,” she said. “He can no longer tell truth from reality! See for yourself how unwell he looks!”

  Heads turned back and forth between the Advocate and the Chancellor. Some guards lowered their arms; others continued to wield them. No one else moved. The silence was so tense that Raffa felt like the very air might explode.

  “Proof!” From the crowd in the pavilion, one of the guards spoke up. “Advocate Marshall, can you prove that she’s done what you say?”

  The Advocate held out his right arm and pushed up his sleeve. A guard nearby stepped forward; Raffa could not see what the Advocate was
showing her.

  “Secure him immediately!” the Chancellor shouted.

  The guard turned to face not the Chancellor but the crowd in the pavilion. “Hoy!” she called out. “The Advocate has deep wounds on his arm, both old and new. They are wounds from being bound by manacles. I consider this adequate proof that he has indeed been held a prisoner!”

  A rumble of voices quickly grew into a roar from both Afters and guards.

  “She locked him up?”

  “He’s the Advocate! How did she dare—”

  “She lied to us!”

  Guards everywhere drew down their arms. They filed away from their captives and started forming up in platoons around the edge of the pavilion. The guard nearest Raffa cut loose his bonds; all the prisoners’ hands were freed.

  Raffa was left blinking in astonishment.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  WAS that real? Or did I imagine it? He rubbed his wrists, chafed from the bonds. My hands aren’t tied anymore—it really did happen!

  The riders dismounted. The Advocate stepped onto the dais.

  “Chancellor Leeds, Senior Jayney, Mannum Trubb,” he said. “You are under arrest for treason, and I am quite certain we will find ample evidence of other crimes as well. Guards, please restrain them.”

  Before the guards could react, the Chancellor ran off the dais and flung herself onto the nearest horse. It was Callian’s horse, Mal. She yanked on the reins and dug her heels into the horse’s flanks.

  The horse did not move.

  “HI-UP!” the Chancellor screeched, and lashed at the horse with the reins.

  The horse tossed its head and stamped in annoyance—but otherwise didn’t budge.

  “Good, Mal,” Callian said. “Good horse.” He glared at the Chancellor. “He obeys only me. Dismount now, or I’ll tell him to buck you off.”

  Three guards stepped up to the horse. One of them reached toward the Chancellor.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” she shrieked. From her seat atop the horse, she turned and looked out at the crowd, Afters and guards alike.

  “Do none of you understand?” she cried out. “I love Obsidia! I did what I did out of loyalty to this land! I used the animals so that guards would not die, your daughters and sons, your husbands and wives—everything I did was for the people’s good! We are better off without the slum dwellers—surely you can all see that!”

  In the silence that followed, Raffa was struck by a realization. She really believes what she’s saying. Which means that she’s . . . small-minded. And small-hearted as well—too small-hearted to care about anyone who’s not like her.

  “Guards, take her,” the Advocate ordered.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said again.

  She slid off the horse. As two guards took her by the arms, Jayney moved more quickly than Raffa could think.

  He found himself in a chokehold, Jayney’s heavy forearm across his throat. Instinctively he raised his hands, struggling for air.

  Then he looked down and saw the glint of a knife in Jayney’s other hand, the blade pressed against his ribs.

  “RAFFA!” Salima screamed. She lunged forward, trying to reach him. She lost her balance and fell against Trixin.

  “Release the Chancellor,” Jayney said to the Advocate. “Or the boy dies.”

  Raffa could not speak, could not breathe. Panic spread through his body. He beat his hands uselessly against Jayney’s arm.

  The guards who had taken charge of the Chancellor looked at the Advocate questioningly.

  “Let her go,” the Advocate said.

  Freed, Chancellor Leeds hurried to stand behind Jayney, who still had firm hold of Raffa. He eased the pressure on Raffa’s throat just enough to allow for a quick breath. Jayney began walking backwards toward the edge of the dais, dragging Raffa with him.

  “Let him go!” Salima cried out. “You have the Chancellor. Let him go!”

  Jayney ignored her. He jerked his chin at the Advocate. “We are going to ride off now,” he snapped. “If you follow us, I will kill the boy. Once we’re safely away, I’ll leave him off somewhere.”

  Mohan was staring straight at Raffa. Raffa stared back in fear and desperation. Mohan raised his fist to his mouth, biting his knuckle in a gesture of sheer anxiety.

  Even in his state of terror, Raffa found that he was still able to think. Odd . . . I’ve never seen Da do that before, bite his fist like that—

  Then he knew.

  He’s signaling me!

  Raffa turned his head toward Jayney’s shoulder. He opened his mouth and bit down with all his might, so hard that he felt flesh tearing beneath his teeth.

  Jayney screamed in pain and loosened his grip. Raffa ducked and slipped out of his grasp; he fell, hitting his head on the edge of the dais. Sparks whirled in his vision. He heard a tumult of shouts and boots thudding—

  “Guards!”

  “Someone—quick—”

  “No, DON’T! He has a knife!”

  “MOHAN! NO!”

  The last was Salima’s voice.

  Raffa’s brain jangled with pain; he had to hold his breath to keep from vomiting. Da! I have to help him. . . .

  It took him three attempts to get to his hands and knees. He began crawling to the edge of the dais as Salima threw herself down next to him. “Are you all right?” she asked urgently.

  He nodded, then held out his hand. She hauled him to his feet and helped him step down off the dais.

  Jayney lay on the ground. He was groaning and just beginning to stir; it was clear that he had been momentarily knocked unconscious. Guards rushed to restrain him.

  A small group of Afters and guards were clustered nearby. They stepped out of the way as Raffa and Salima approached.

  Mohan was sitting partway up, holding one hand to his head. Blood streamed from under his hand.

  “Da!” Raffa cried out.

  Mohan shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said. “Salima, quickly.”

  He jerked his chin to the left, where another man lay sprawled with his face in the dirt. Two Afters squatted next to him.

  Salima hurried to the man’s side. Raffa followed her and was just in time to see her roll the man gently onto his back. The entire front of his tunic was soaked in blood.

  “Mannum Fitzer!” Raffa cried out.

  He fell to his knees next to Fitzer. One of the Afters handed Salima a knife. She sliced open Fitzer’s tunic. The hilt of Jayney’s knife protruded from Fitzer’s belly. Salima’s hands moved quickly, but the blood continued to spurt from the wound. Raffa glanced quickly at his mother’s face—and saw only bleakness there.

  Fitzer opened his eyes and looked right at Raffa.

  “Hoy, young Santana,” Fitzer whispered.

  Raffa crept closer, his face wet with tears. “We did it, Mannum Fitzer,” he said.

  “We did,” Fitzer wheezed in reply.

  “We were—” Raffa was sobbing now. He wiped his eyes quickly. “We were a good team.”

  “None better.”

  Raffa leaned forward and kissed Fitzer on his cheek. On the skinstain.

  “None better,” Fitzer whispered again. He turned his head and gazed upward.

  Raffa saw the sky reflected in his friend’s eyes before they closed forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “MANNUM Curiss Myers.”

  “Mannum Curiss Myers.”

  “Missum Willa Garcia.”

  “Missum Willa Garcia.”

  “Mannum Sherrum Lexin.”

  “Mannum Sherrum Lexin.”

  It was four days after the battle. Advocate Marshall was speaking at the Commons, in exactly the same place where the Chancellor had given her fateful speech. The Advocate had begun by honoring the battle’s dead.

  Raffa stood with his parents, listening as the shouters echoed each name in turn. Two Afters had perished from wounds inflicted by the animals. Four guards had died when they tumbled into a hidden crevasse on the Mag. The counci
l’s strategy of surrendering in the clearing had doubtless saved hundreds of lives: There had been very little hand-to-hand combat.

  Dozens of Afters and their allies had been injured by the animals, some of them seriously. And many animals had been killed when things had gone wrong—the collars had failed to burst, or people had panicked.

  Advocate Marshall called out the last name.

  “Mannum Decklin Fitzer.”

  “Mannum Decklin Fitzer.”

  Tears spilled from Raffa’s eyes yet again. He was crying a lot these days.

  Tears of sorrow for Fitzer. Who had saved Raffa’s life during the wolf attack, then saved Mohan’s, too. Jayney had been trying to stab Mohan when Fitzer intervened, despite his injured arm, and took the blade himself.

  Raffa recalled their first-ever encounter, when Fitzer had come to his aid as he tried to cross the river to enter Gilden. Without knowing who I was—without even seeing me. I needed help, and he gave it.

  As simple as that.

  Fitzer wasn’t an After. But he was well aware of what it was like to be treated unfairly. In the too-short time that they had known each other, Fitzer had shown Raffa how to fight unfairness with both determination and decency.

  It was hard to think of a more valuable legacy.

  More tears of pain and loss, for Garith. Uncle Ansel was in the Garrison, awaiting trial, along with Jayney and Trubb and the Chancellor herself.

  Garith had decided not to attend the speech. He and Trixin were with Jimble at the Commons infirmary.

  Jimble had survived the wolf attack. He owed his life to Garith, who had stanched the bleeding, then cleaned the wound and plastered it with yellowroot leaves. But the bite had been so deep and ragged that Jimble’s leg had to be amputated below the knee.

  Thanks to a scarlet-vine poultice, Jimble’s wound was healing quickly, and he was making a remarkable recovery. Although he was still in pain, his spirit was undeterred, and he had already begun experimenting with crutches. Salima, who was treating him, thought he might be able to go home in another few days. And Raffa had reassured him that he could soon begin training as an apothecary.