The other giant, redheaded like the first, rolled to his side. Dart saw his arm was jammed down a hole at the base of the wall. He fought to pull his limb out. “Got myself stuck.”
Malthumalbaen went to his aid. It took a moment of yanking, twisting, and cursing to finally free the snared giant. Once that was accomplished, the one called Dral rolled to his seat, cradling his head in plain misery.
Pupp had sidled past the loam-giant and sniffed around the opening. Since stone blocked Pupp as surely as any other, the opening proved too small for even him to nose much deeper.
Malthumalbaen narrated their story. “We were just getting ’em outta that skaggin’ crate. They looked near on death themselves, all wet with their own piss. Scared to a lick, they were.”
He lifted an arm and pointed to a cage door that hung crooked on one hinge, the other broken. “We were just shutting them up, when off it comes.”
“I should have been more careful,” Dral moaned.
“Them little ones, they were out like arrows. We tried to snatch ’em back up, but down that rat hole they both went. Like they knew where they were going.” The giant shook his head. “Don’t even know where it goes.”
“I tried to see if I could reach them,” Dral added, then shrugged and covered the top of his head with his hands.
“The blame is not yours,” Brant said.
Dart had been so busy listening to the giants and watching wide-eyed, that only now did she note how dark Brant’s face had become. Looking into his eyes, she could almost smell the burn of brimstone off him. But he kept his fury locked inside him. His words to the giants were gentle and firm.
“I should never have brought them here,” he added to himself. He bent a knee to study the hole. It was cut smoothly into the back wall and plainly canted down at a steep angle. “Do you know where this leads?”
“We asked the keeper. All he knew is that when they swamped out the keeps here, they washed everything down that rat hole.”
“Into the sewers?”
Malthumalbaen shrugged. “Keeper seemed not to think so. Says his houndskeep is older than all of Tashijan. Before they plumbed and dug sewers for this place.”
Brant stood up. He held a fist tight to his side.
“But the keeper called for some help. They should—”
The entire houndskeep suddenly erupted with howls and baying barks, drowning out the giant’s words. Loud snatches of cursing accompanied the cacophony.
“That must be him,” the giant said.
Brant headed down the passage toward the commotion. He held off both giants with a raised palm and Dart with a stern look of worry.
Still, Dart trailed him. She kept a few steps back, fearing she might be recognized.
Brant reached the corner and peered around.
Dart noticed him flinch in shock. As the hounds continued to howl, curiosity overcame fear of discovery. She moved behind Brant and stared down the passage.
“Git that monster out of here!” the keeper yelled.
Near to filling the low passage stood a shaggy-furred beast that could have challenged the two giants in size and stature. A bullhound. It padded deeper, heading toward them. Its head was the size of a shield, and the remainder of its muscled form was banded in fur the color of burnt copper and ebony. Ropes of drool dangled from its half-snarled lips, capable of etching stone with its caustic touch if the hound were riled.
Brant reached behind him, intending to push Dart back to safety, but she avoided his hand and ran past him and down the hallway. With all the demands on her time, she had not seen the bullhound in ages.
“Barrin!” she called out, too delighted and relieved to care who might see her.
The bullhound snuffled and tossed its head a bit. Saliva flew to the walls, etching the stone. It then lowered its muzzle to accept Dart’s affection. The stub of its tail wagged in a blur.
Dart hugged the great beast, grabbing both ears, which required a full spread of her arms. She tugged a bit and heard a rumble of contentment.
“You’re going to spoil the kank,” a voice growled behind the bullhound’s shoulder.
A familiar figure stepped around to the front. He wore his usual furred breeches and knee-high mud brown boots. But it was his face that was the most welcome, a friend after the horrors of the past bells. The lower half of his face protruded in a slight muzzle, marking him, like the loam-giants before, as one touched by Graced alchemies in the womb. But only Tristal, god of Idlewyld, produced such men and women, wyld trackers, blessed with air and loam like the hounds here, creating the most skilled of Myrillian trackers and hunters.
“Lorr!” Dart called out happily.
She released her grip on the bullhound and hugged the wyld tracker with as much enthusiasm, though she didn’t tug his ears.
All around, the hounds continued their baying.
The houndskeeper stalked around, keeping well clear of Barrin’s haunches. “Got ’em all riled up! Your beast is going to put ’em all off their feed.”
Lorr shifted out of Dart’s embrace, but he still kept an arm around her. She felt a tremor deep in his chest, and while not a sound came from him, the hounds quickly quieted as if commanded.
The houndskeeper kept his fist on his hips, but he nodded. “That’s better.”
Lorr glanced up the passage. By now, Brant and the two loam-giants had stepped into view. “So someone brought a gift of Fell wolves to the knighting—and now you’ve gone and lost them.”
Dart heard the disdain and thread of anger behind the tracker’s words.
Dart touched Lorr’s arm. “They—he’s a friend of mine from back at the school in Chrismferry.”
Lorr studied Dart, then nodded. Some of the anger drained from him, but a trace of disdain remained. Friends or not, the tracker had little use for fools. “So then tell me what happened? Where have these whelpings gone off to?”
Brant pointed to the side passage. “Over this way.”
“Show me.”
Brant, trailed by the two giants, led the way back to the hole in the hall.
Lorr shifted closer to Dart and whispered to her. “I smell blood on you. Fresh blood.” He nodded to her hand. “What happened?”
“There was some trouble,” she offered lamely, avoiding the longer story.
Lorr nodded forward. “That boy didn’t—”
“No!” Dart cut him off. “The opposite. He saved me from worse harm.”
Lorr seemed satisfied, and Dart was happy to let him move to other matters. How was the castellan faring? Had Dart heard about Tylar’s bumpy arrival? Moments later, they reached the last cell in the passageway. Lorr noted the rusted and broken hinge, and as the story of the escape was related again, Lorr inspected the hole in the wall.
“And you’re sure they were Fell wolf cubbies and not loamed rats?”
Brant stood off to the side, arms crossed. Dart didn’t like the way his nose had pinched since Lorr’s arrival, as if he smelled something distasteful. Lorr, in turn, was unusually hard and abrupt with him during the telling of the tale. An unspoken tension remained between them. Dart could not understand why.
A new voice called from behind them. Dart jumped slightly, surprised by the sudden appearance. She had not heard a single booted tread. And no wonder. When she turned, she saw the stranger was also a wyld tracker, muzzled like Lorr, though perhaps slightly less protuberant. Then again, it might be the new tracker’s age. Fourteen winters at best. Also, while Lorr’s hair was a match to his brown boots, the younger tracker had long locks the color of a raven’s eye, black with a hint of blue. His skin shone with a ruddy blush and was as smooth as river stone worn by rushing waters.
“My sister’s son,” Lorr said. “Kytt.”
Brant’s nose crinkled even more. Dart suspected that if Brant had had fur, it would be bristling right now.
Kytt held out a hide flask. “I’ve fetched the musk secretions and had the alchemists dilute it in yellow bile as yo
u ordered, Tracker Lorr.”
“Piss and musk?” one of the giants mumbled. “Mind me never to share a drink with these two.”
Lorr accepted the flask. “Musk from a fox will carry a scent far.” He bit the stopper free and decanted the flask’s contents down the hole. “We’ll see where this leads us.”
He stood up and tilted his head slightly as if testing the air. He remained like that for a long breath, then stirred again.
Lorr stepped away and waved the younger tracker ahead. “I will let you know what I discover.”
Brant stepped forward and blocked them. “I would go with you. The Fell wolves were my duty. I will not forsake it.”
“Too late for that, it seems. Besides, there have been enough mistakes this day. We need no one who smells of the Huntress muddying up the trail with his bumbling.”
Brant refused to move. Only his shoulders tightened, ready for a fight.
Dart failed to understand the layers of friction that lay beneath all this posturing. She knew that Brant hailed from Saysh Mal, the cloud forest and god-realm of the Huntress. But what difference did that make to Lorr? She stepped to intervene—and not just to settle a peace between them.
“I would like to go with you and Kytt,” Dart said. She should be safe with the trackers, and where they’d be searching would surely be away from the more traveled areas of Tashijan. Also, if she wanted to hide, it might be best to keep moving while doing it. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d let Master Brant come with us.”
Brant nodded to her, but his countenance remained far from grateful. “The whelpings know my scent,” he added. “It will be easier for me to lure them from hiding.”
Lorr glanced between Dart and Brant. His senses must have been heightened enough to suspect layers of intent beyond Dart’s words.
The tracker finally shrugged.
“Then let’s begin this hunt.”
7
A RUMOR OF DAEMONS
“WELCOME TO TASHIJAN,” THE WARDEN SAID.
Tylar gripped Argent’s hand across the threshold to the new accommodations granted him at Tashijan.
“I assume these rooms will meet with your satisfaction,” Argent ser Fields said. His fingers tightened on Tylar’s, not in a friendly manner.
Tylar matched his grip and kept his gaze fixed on the warden’s one eye. The plate of bone over the other reflected the firelight from the chamber behind Tylar’s shoulder.
“You are most generous,” Tylar responded. “Any of the rooms in the knights’ quarters would have sufficed.”
“Ah, but you come with all your Hands in tow,” Argent said, still holding tight. “It wouldn’t be right to allow someone who arrives like a god to be housed in so low a manner.”
Tylar’s jaw ached from biting back harsher words. The past bell had been a chaotic flurry of high-blown flattery and barely contained resentment, most of it voiced by the warden himself. But Tylar kept his tongue civil. Especially since beyond the warden stood representatives of all of Tashijan: Master Hesharian of the Council of Masters, various leaders of the shadowknights’ castes, even Keeper Ryngold, who oversaw the house staff and underfolk. They had all escorted Tylar’s party down to their rooms, which took up almost all of this level, an embarrassing generosity in such overcrowded conditions. Tylar was sure the warden had let it be known to all how well the regent was being accommodated.
“A private feast is scheduled at the next bell,” Argent finished, relinquishing his hand. “After you’ve all had a chance to refresh yourselves, I’ll send my man to escort you and your Hands down to the dining hall.”
“Most generous again,” Tylar choked out.
Argent turned with a nod of his head and waved the escort down the hall ahead of him. The remainder of the party from Chrismferry had already retired into their respective rooms. Delia had come close to slamming her door in her haste to escape her father’s stiff and false affection.
The only one left in the hall was Tylar’s ever-present shadow, the Wyr-mistress Eylan. She stood stoically, almost bored.
“Keep any ears from this door,” he instructed.
She gave him a barely perceptible nod.
Tylar closed the door behind him and leaned against it, glad for a moment’s peace. But he wasn’t alone. He turned to find four people arrayed near the back of the room, three maids and a manservant, resplendent in fine liveries. Their dress was a match to the room itself, as if their clothes had been cut from the heavy draperies. The remainder of the main chamber was equally grand, appointed in rich silks, tapestries, padded chairs, and a hearth tall enough to walk into upright, presently ablaze with a cheery fire.
The switch-thin servant bowed deeply, then straightened. “Welcome, your lordship. We’ve already discharged your bags. If you’ll show me which dress you’d like to wear to the feast, I shall do my best to freshen and brush them.”
Tylar waved them off. “That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer a few moments of solitude. If I need anything, I will send for you.”
“Ser, your bath has not been—”
“Not necessary,” he said with a bit of a snap. He was immediately ashamed at his harshness. He knew better than to vent his anger upon those who sought only to fulfill their duties. He calmed his voice. “Most welcome, but that will be all.”
With another bow, the manservant herded the maids amid much curtsying out a narrow door that led down to the staff quarters. A silk-wrapped pull-rope hung beside it, ready to summon assistance when needed. Tylar had no intention of tugging on it while here.
Once alone, Tylar sighed. Though his empty stomach growled, he had no great desire to attend the feast. His nose, though, did note the platter of hard cheeses and steaming bread set atop a table by the hearth, along with a silver flagon of spiced wine. Maybe there was some small gain in being a visiting regent.
He stepped toward the platter.
A knock on the door stopped him. He closed his eyes against yet another interruption. What now? Rubbing at the stubble on his chin, he turned from the hearth and crossed back to the door. Eylan surely would have blocked any stranger from disturbing him. Perhaps it was Delia, reappearing now that her father had vacated the halls.
He pulled open the door and found himself mistaken.
A knight in a damp shadowcloak stood at his threshold. “Tylar.”
He stepped back. “Kathryn.”
The castellan had been notably missing from the formalized greetings after the hard landing atop Stormwatch. And while Tylar had wondered at her absence, he was pleased at the exasperation it had caused in the warden. He lifted an arm, inviting her inside.
She brushed through the doorway, barely meeting his eye.
Tylar closed the door. He studied her as she crossed to the hearth. She looked paler than usual, but maybe it was the cold. She lifted both palms toward the fire. He noted meltwater dripping from the edge of her cloak. A few wet hairs had worked free from her riding braid and were pasted to her cheeks.
She spoke to the flames. “I have Gerrod and two of his fellow masters examining your flippercraft’s mekanicals. If there was any sabotage or misdeed, they should be able to discern it before you return to Chrismferry.”
Tylar relaxed the slight stiffness to his shoulders. So that was why she had been missing earlier. He had feared a part of her absence might be some discomfit with his arrival.
Relieved, he approached her. “The captain believed it was the stress of burning too much blood,” he said. “Or perhaps some weakness in the alchemies. Either way, the failure was most likely happenstance and not anything malicious—but it does warrant investigation.”
She nodded.
Tylar reached her side. The heat of the hearth finally drove her back a step. Or maybe it was his own nearness. She moved to one of the chairs and examined the platter of small fare with a bit too much intensity.
“Kathryn…?” he started softly.
She picked up a piece of cheese, then returned it
to the plate. “I assume you know Rogger arrived two days ago. With the god’s skull.”
“I got your raven,” he confirmed, not pressing her. It seemed such topics were easier for the moment.
“Gerrod’s been examining it in secret and has already come up with some answers.”
“So soon?”
Kathryn frowned, as if the question somehow rankled her. “He has a mind like no other.”
“I have no doubt,” he said softly. “What has he discerned?”
Kathryn slowly outlined all that the master had discovered, sketching out his speculations. As she continued, Tylar’s interest drew him nearer to her, brows pinched in concern.
“Seersong?” he asked as she finished.
Kathryn glanced at him, meeting his eyes for the first time, as if testing an icy stream before jumping in. She spoke with a firmer voice. “That is what Gerrod suspects. An echo of some curse still trapped in the bone.”
“And Krevan came looking for the skull, too. Strange.”
“I suspect he’ll be back. But whatever has driven him here, he seemed reluctant to talk openly about it.”
Tylar shrugged. “Well, Krevan was never known to be garrulous.”
His words drew the faintest of smiles from her. It always amazed him how her entire face could soften with just the smallest of movements. He found himself staring a bit too long at her lips, reminded of a different life. It was now his turn to glance away.
“We’ll simply have to outwait Krevan,” he mumbled.
Remembering his empty stomach, he plucked up a bit of dry hardcrust and chewed an edge.
Kathryn studied the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Your Hands? They are settled into their rooms?”
“Indeed. Argent has given practically this entire level to house all of us. Why do you ask?”
Kathryn waved away his words, a bit brusquely. “No reason. It’s just…I’m sure Dart will be thrilled to see her friend Laurelle again. She’s still your Hand of tears, correct?”
Tylar nodded. “The girl practically filled the flippercraft’s hold with gifts and sweets for Dart. Insisted that her arrival be a surprise.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Where is the child, by the way? I thought she’d be at your side.”