She spotted Delia near the front of one table and nodded. Kathryn still felt a certain discomfort around the younger woman, still picturing the stolen kiss with Tylar. She knew such resentments were petty and unfair, and over the past days, they had begun to fade as the two women were forced to work closely alongside each other. Delia had proven herself as adept as Keeper Ryngold in maintaining some degree of control over the various households of the gods. Kathryn had come to rely on her calmness in the face of strife, on her evenhanded decisions. She was surprised how relieved she was to find Delia already at work today. It was good to have one ally.
There certainly were enough here with complaints.
The leader of the disgruntled fronted the second table: the lithe, snow blond Hand from Oldenbrook. Alongside her sat a swarthy slug in purple, the sole Hand dispatched from neighboring Foulsham Dell. Despite their plain dislike for one another—and more disparate appearance and manner—they had joined forces to plague Kathryn for the past two days.
Filling the rest of the boards, divided almost equally into the two camps, were the other heads of the retinues trapped at Tashijan. With Delia sat the representatives from Mistdale, Snowfox River, Crooked Wood, Fitz Crossing, and surprisingly the embittered crook-backed Hand from Moor Eld. The other table bore the hard faces from Akkabak Harbor, Five Forks, Wintering Isles, and Martyrstone.
Liannora rose to her feet before Kathryn even reached the teaching dais. “Thank you for attending to our grievances.”
Kathryn mounted the single step to the raised stage. She ignored the woman.
“Castellan Vail,” Liannora continued, “we understand the dangers that have beset Tashijan, and we all here want to help in any manner we can. Toward that end, what we propose—”
“Propose?” Kathryn snapped as she turned. “What I propose, with all respect, Mistress Liannora, is that you take your seat. This meeting was not called to listen to your arguments but for you all to better understand the plight of your situation. While Tashijan values your knowledge and skills in regards to handling humours, there are no gods here. It is skill with sword, or mastery of alchemy, that is most needed.”
Liannora’s features brittled even harder. She kept her feet. Perhaps for no other reason than that she might snap in half if she sat. “Warden Fields has given me his word that we would be heard here.” She glanced down her table. “Is that not so?”
Murmurs of agreement acknowledged the same.
So the woman had been a plague not only upon Kathryn. Argent must have been equally assaulted, but the warden had somewhere to push the complaints—back at Kathryn.
“What is it that you propose, then, Mistress Liannora?”
“We believe that as representatives of gods that bless the First Land and its distinguished neighbors we should be more involved with the defenses here. Not left to languish in our rooms. We have no desire to hide, or worse yet, run from our duty to Myrillia…like craven cowards.”
She stressed this last word. Kathryn had heard the same word being spread by the Fiery Cross. Tylar’s flight from Tashijan was seen by many as abandonment, or worse yet, outright spinelessness. It was plain on which side of the fence Liannora had decided to stand. The woman had an uncanny ability to sense the flows of power and to bend them to her advantage. Kathryn remembered her earlier flatteries; those had turned to insolence at about the same time Kathryn had been banned from the fieldroom. Liannora had recognized the ascendancy of the Fiery Cross and sided with their arguments and slights.
“I have yet to hear your proposal,” Kathryn said. “Do you wish to take up swords yourself and defend the stairs?”
Liannora dismissed her words with a flutter of an arm. “Certainly not. Our strengths lie in our keen experience and expertise. We would wish no more than to be ready with a suggestion, to act as counsel to those that wage our defenses. To be represented and involved in the stratagems.”
Kathryn’s brow crinkled.
“I’ve discussed it with my fellow Hands,” Liannora continued, nodding to her table. “And we think it only best that we cast stones amongst ourselves and proffer one of our own to join those in the fieldroom who truly defend these towers.”
A slight cocking of the woman’s eyebrow accentuated the insult, directed at both Kathryn and the departed regent.
Kathryn did not rise to the bait. Instead, she found herself bemused by the woman’s posturing. Delia had warned her about the Hand, cautioned against underestimating her cunning and lust for power. If Argent had been born a woman, here he would stand.
Kathryn lifted her hand yet again. “I encourage you to cast your stones. I think it wise that you select one amongst you to represent all. It would certainly expedite matters of communication.”
Liannora bowed her head, accepting the compliment with poised humility.
“But,” Kathryn went on. “The warden certainly would not allow any but the heads of Tashijan to attend his meetings in the fieldroom.”
Kathryn offered a look of apology. Let Argent deal with the woman if her ire was piqued.
“Oh,” Liannora said, straightening with an arch glint in her eye, “I’ve already discussed the matter with Warden Fields. He concurs and invites our participation.”
Kathryn gaped for a moment, taken aback. Why would Argent allow—? Then she knew. What better way to further humiliate Kathryn? To be banished while the likes of Liannora were allowed entry.
Liannora stepped into her silence, addressing the others. “So with all in agreement, we will cast stones.” She glanced to Kathryn. “If you’d be so kind as to count the tally, it would be most appreciated.”
Kathryn had no choice but to concede, having been artfully manipulated into this position.
The Hand from Foulsham Dell stood up, clearing phlegm from his throat with a grousing hack. He teetered slightly on his heels, plainly soused. His purple cloak and shirt must have been selected to hide the spill of wine down his paunch of a belly.
“I think there can be no doubt who should represent us.” He bowed with exaggerated flourish. “Mistress Liannora has shown herself to be of ample skill and of quick mind. Hear, hear!” He called to his table, raising an imaginary goblet. “Bring on the stones!”
At the other table, Porace Neel of Moor Eld gained his feet with a groan, supporting the crook in his back. “And I propose Mistress Delia. All know her and hold her in genuine esteem. She is wiser than the whole lot of us.”
A few at her table rapped knuckles on the board, agreeing.
Not so at Liannora’s table.
“I’m sure Mistress Delia would prefer to avoid such a burden,” Liannora said. “All know the tension between warden and daughter. And dare I say, we must acknowledge here that Mistress Delia is not in fact the handservant of a god, but only a man.”
Delia stood. “For the good of Tashijan, I am more than willing to set aside such tensions.”
“And as we had all gathered here to honor that man,” Kathryn added, “to acknowledge his rightful place as both knight and regent, I certainly don’t think we can cast Mistress Delia in a lesser light.”
Liannora stared at Kathryn and read her resolve.
The woman dipped her chin. “Of course.”
With only the two names proffered, it did not take long to cast stones. Each Hand placed a stone into the bag: white for Liannora, black for Delia.
The bag was brought to Kathryn. In short order she tallied the count and announced the result. “We have an equal number of stones for each.”
Liannora hid her disappointment behind pursed lips. Delia merely kept her arms crossed.
“Are there any here who would wish to change the cast of their stones?” Kathryn asked.
No hands were raised.
“Then I see no other recourse as castellan of Tashijan than to declare it an even match. Since the warden has so wisely chosen to expand his council, then what better way to acknowledge his wisdom than to send him two from our assembly? Mistress Li
annora and Mistress Delia.”
Liannora wore a momentary expression of irritation, but the look swept away just as quickly, replaced with a feigned smile of acceptance as the others congratulated her.
Delia met Kathryn’s eye, offering her own smile. For days, they had been cut out of the strategies waged in the fieldroom. Now Argent had unwittingly opened the door again.
After all the well wishes had been passed around, the Hands departed to spread the word among the others. Delia paused to touch Kathryn’s arm.
“I will pass on your greetings to my father.”
“Please do.”
Liannora waited at the door, plainly wishing to speak with Delia. If there were any match for that woman, it was Delia. Kathryn waited until the room was empty to step out into the hall.
She found a welcome figure waiting, leaned against a wall. Another of their dejected party. Master Hesharian had had her friend officially sanctioned for his participation in the subterfuge atop Stormwatch. She was surprised to find him here.
“Gerrod?”
He straightened and fell in step beside her. “I heard word of the ploy being set up here. Master Hesharian was never one to keep silent with his gossip—especially if it involved the humiliation of another. And I still have secret allies among his inner circle. Oh, you should have heard what was said when it was discovered that not only had Tylar escaped but he had taken their only weapon against seersong.”
“I can imagine.”
Gerrod accompanied her toward the stair. She could hear the smile hidden behind his helmet. “Master Orquell came near to throttling his benefactor when he heard about the skull vanishing with Tylar.”
“We had no choice,” Kathryn mumbled, suddenly tired. It was a long climb back up to her hermitage.
With his usual acuity, Gerrod sensed her exhaustion and grew silent, offering her nothing more than his company as they climbed together. She appreciated it.
Still, as she wound her way up, her worries mounted with each step, stacked one atop the other. Eventually they toppled out. “What if he can’t find the rogues? Maybe it was a mistake…?”
“Hush. Such thoughts will only drive you into a state of inaction. We did what was necessary. If Tylar escaped the storm, word of our plight has spread. We must do our best to maintain here.”
“So we wait, hoping for rescue.” She shook her head. “I still wish there was something beyond our defenses we could bolster.”
“Keeping alive may prove fight enough from here. Our best offense was in breaking Tylar free to seek the rogues.”
Kathryn was reassured by his confidence in their decision, but little settled. Perhaps her dissatisfaction had more to do with being banished from the inner council of Tashijan. At least a small victory had been won this morning. With Delia admitted to the fieldroom, Kathryn would be kept better abreast of Argent’s plans and defenses.
At last, they reached the level of her hermitage. She would break her fast with Gerrod, then proceed with her day.
As she pushed into the hermitage, her maid Penni greeted her in her usual flustered manner. She had the hearth glowing with low flames. A small table had been spread with marbled breads, hard cheeses, and jams. Kathryn thanked the maid, then dismissed her. She knew that Gerrod preferred to keep his countenance hidden in his bronze armor unless alone with her.
Once Penni vanished down the back door, Kathryn turned to find Gerrod standing, almost shyly, only a few steps from the door.
“We won’t be disturbed,” she assured him and waved to the low table with the morning fare.
One arm slowly raised. His voice echoed hollowly out of his helmet. “Kathryn…”
Gerrod’s arm stiffened with a grinding creak. She stepped toward him.
“Can’t move…” he said, strained. “Mekanicals freezing up.”
She remembered when his armor had last grown sluggish. When he’d been exposed to the sapping of the storm, the Grace drained from his armor’s alchemies.
She heard a scratching behind her.
Twisting around, she drew her sword and pointed it toward the far drapes. The flames in the hearth damped to embers, then even the red coals dimmed. Cold spread across the room.
A long, skittering scrape sounded against the windows, dry branches on glass.
Gerrod groaned behind her, stiff in his armor. “Run…”
Laurelle wrinkled her nose. She found that Kytt carried a distinct odor about him. A musk, like a boy after a heavy run, only cleaner, with a slightly woody scent. She stood beside the young wyld tracker as he listened at the door. They were holed up in Brant’s room, listening for noises out in the hallway.
Kytt had taken to sleeping here, watching over the cubbies.
Barrin lolled beside the hearth, all but blocking the glow with his bulk. The two wolfkits wrestled across the breadth of his form, worming under legs, over haunches, growling and nipping at each other. They still used a pair of the giant’s boots as dens at night and had shredded one of Brant’s shirts as bedding.
They had seemed to settle well into the space.
But that was about to change.
Laurelle had come every morning and night for the past three days, slipping out of her halls and down to where the Oldenbrook retinue made their home. As the towers grew more crowded, this level was also shared by the four men from Akkabak Harbor, home of the Gray Traders. Freck-twist, the god of that realm, tolerated only men as his Hands. He had little regard for women in his realm, seeing them as little more than broodmares. His Hands also gleaned that same sentiment, as if burnt into them by his Grace.
She heard them pass by the door, grumbling under their breath. She heard Delia’s name, but she could make out little else. Then they were gone. Laurelle suspected Kytt heard every word as clear as if they were in the room.
“Is it safe?” Laurelle asked.
Kytt held up a hand. She noted that his fingernails were short, but filed to clawed points. In fact, Kytt seemed all sharp edges: tips of ears that poked slightly through his dark hair, the pointed squint of his eyes, even the hint of wolfish teeth when he allowed a shadow of a shy smile to form.
Then Laurelle heard it, too. The approach of two others. She was able to make out their words, spoken with little regard to who might hear, so confident in their positions that they did not bother to blunt their rudeness.
“I can’t believe the regent’s sellwench squirmed her way into my shadow,” Liannora hissed. “She’s certain to be favored by the warden, what with her being Fields’s daughter. I’ll be ignored.”
Her companion consoled her. “Who can ignore you? You shine brighter than the sun when you enter a room.”
“Oh, Sten, you can be so simple sometimes. I see how the warden watches her when that grubbing Hand isn’t looking. There’s no outshining family.” Liannora sniffed with disdain. “If only she stepped down or was made to step down…”
Sten’s voice lowered to a whisper, but by now they were passing the door to Brant’s room. “Missteps do happen. It is easy to trip on a stair. To break a leg…or even a neck.”
Liannora responded in equally low tones, but by then they had moved on down the hall. A bit of laughter carried back, then after another moment, silence.
Laurelle pulled her ear from the door. “Kytt, did you hear what that ice queen said? Were they merely speaking tall or were they serious?”
Kytt shook his head. “Even my ears are only so sharp. Her lips must have been at his ear.”
“I must find Delia.”
“What about the cubbies?” he asked.
She nodded. “We’ll move them first. Like we were planning. Then I’ll seek out Delia and warn her.”
Kytt strode toward the cubbies, sensing her urgency. “You take the boy. I’ll take the girl.”
Laurelle nodded. They had a pair of roughspun carryalls, meant to sling babies across a woman’s chest. They would each take one whelping. The plan was to abscond with the wolf cubbies and carr
y them up to Lorr’s abandoned rooms. Kytt had heard talk among the Oldenbrook guards that some harm was intended them, and as the wyld tracker was not of their realm, he had no real authority to stop them. The wolves remained the retinue’s property.
So the plan was to get them somewhere safe.
But thievery was beyond either of their skills. They didn’t know how anyone from Oldenbrook might respond, so they intended to make the move without any eyes about. The cubbies had escaped once already. It would be easy to explain away another disappearance.
Laurelle gathered up her carryall and lured the smaller of the two cubbies, the boy, notable for the extra white on the tips of his black ears, with a piece of dried mutton. She had the cubbie quickly bundled and contentedly chewing the salted meat. A low growling flowed as she slung the carryall over one shoulder and cradled the wolf across her chest.
Kytt had his cubbie, too. He held her back from the door, leaned his ear, listened for another couple of breaths, then nodded.
Barrin was already on his paws, ready to follow.
Kytt opened the door and led the way out. Laurelle followed. The bullhound padded after them.
The hallway was empty, except for one of the knights at the level’s landing. They moved quickly. A door opened behind them. Voices carried. Guards.
Ducking down, hidden by the bulk of the bullhound, Laurelle heard Sten, captain of the guard, call brusquely toward them. “Who goes there?”
Kytt shrugged off his carryall and slid it over to Laurelle. He motioned for her to continue. Barrin’s form filled the hall. With care, she should be able to reach the stairs without the guards seeing her.
She squeezed Kytt’s hand, then sidled low to the floor, close to one wall. Kytt straightened behind her, edged past Barrin, and signaled by hand for the bullhound to keep his place.
The wyld tracker called to the guards. “It is only I,” he said, though surely the guards knew Kytt. Who else traveled with a bullhound? Plainly they only sought amusement by hassling the young tracker.
Laurelle reached the stairs, laden with two squirming cubbies, both arguing in low growls through the roughspun at one another. She thanked the gods of the aether that neither of the two barked. The knight at the landing glanced to her above his masklin. She nodded and slipped around to the stairs.