“Your call, Reverend Vryce.” Lightning flashed across the southern sky. “It’s your expedition, your quest ... your call.”
Thunder rumbled across the sea.
“All right,” Damien said. “We take her with us. And since it’s the tidal fae she’s using, maybe Hesseth can teach her how to control it.”
“The rakh can’t Work for strangers,” Tarrant reminded him. “Otherwise Hesseth could serve us herself, and we wouldn’t need the child at all. As I recall, the plains rakh can only Work for their own kin.”
He thought of the small girl nestled against Hesseth’s fur, of the long claws cleaning and combing her hair with loving precision. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
More lightning flashed. Damien counted eight seconds, then thunder rumbled. The storm was moving in.
“I told you where to find Ran Moskovan,” the Hunter told him, “and I can tell you what the odds are that he’ll help us, without turning us in. Not much more than that.”
“The time you wrote down. That’s for tonight?
“That, or tomorrow. Your choice. After that he’ll be gone.”
For gone, read south. The enemy’s turf.
“Two days,” he muttered. Already it seemed too long to be staying in this place. He looked up at Tarrant and asked him, “Alone?”
“Your call, Reverend Vryce.”
The priest sighed. “You know, you were a lot easier to deal with when you were nasty.”
It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled. “You’d better start back now, priest. There’s rain coming, in quantity.” As if in illustration of his point a bright spear of lightning cut across the sky. Thunder followed almost immediately.
“Gerald.”
Startled by his use of the familiar address, the Hunter looked down at him.
The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. “If you really think we can’t win here ... if you think there’s no chance at all ... then tell me. In those words.”
“And then what? You’ll give it up and go home?”
“I came here to risk my life for a cause. Not to waste it away in some suicidal exercise. That benefits no one.” He waited for a response, but when the Hunter was not forthcoming he pressed, “I may not care much for your lifestyle, but I do value your judgment. You know that. So if you tell me that we don’t have a chance of success here—not any chance at all—I’ll reconsider our mission.”
“And turn back?”
“Well....” He coughed. “Let’s say I’d look for some other way to attack this mess.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“There is a chance,” the Hunter whispered. “A very slim chance, but it’s there. And the girl’s presence might cost you dearly, but it will also confound your enemies. Only time can tell whom that will serve most in the end.”
He felt something unknot deep in his gut, something cold and hard and—yes—scared. For the first time in several long minutes he dared to draw in a deep breath. “That’s enough, then.” Who would have thought such a tenuous judgment could give him such a sense of relief? “Thank you.”
A cold drop hit him on the head then, and another on his arm. The faint patter of raindrops sounded from nearer the shore, coming their way.
He almost didn’t ask it. Almost.
“How much did they offer?”
A raindrop splattered on the light brown hair. “Ten thousand for you, Reverend Vryce. Five thousand for Mes Hesseth. Two thousand for any other poor soul who happened to be accompanying you at the time the reward was claimed.”
He thought of the child and his stomach tightened. “Dead? Alive? What?”
“Only dead,” the Hunter said quietly. “They have, as you see, no interest in detaining you. Only in removing you from the picture.” The pale eyes fixed on him. “You’d better start back now. It’s a long walk, and there’s rain coming.”
“And you?”
“I can take care of myself,” he assured him. And added, somewhat soberly, “I always do.”
But Damien didn’t move right away. For a moment he just stayed where he was, watching the man. Wondering at the past that Tarrant had revealed to him.
His descendants may still be alive, he realized. A whole Tarrant clan, sired by this demonic pride, baptised in sacrificial slaughter. Dear God! To live and die under such a shadow.... What would that do to a child, to come home and face such a thing? What mark would it leave on the generations that followed? I shiver just to think of it.
Then the rain came down in earnest, and he quickly scrambled down the slippery rocks to more solid ground. Tarrant was invisible behind a veil of water, lost in the glistening darkness. If he was there at all. If he hadn’t somehow found shelter in that last dry instant.
Like I should have done, Damien chided himself, as he started the long, wet walk back to his companions.
Thirty-two
The Matria of Esperanova didn’t like to keep her Regent waiting. The other humans were only so much flotsam to her—she would leave them waiting for hours without a second thought—but this Regent was a special case. She had carefully nurtured their relationship down through the years, and now she had no doubt that if a puddle suddenly appeared in front of her, he would throw himself down bodily in the mud and the water so that, by treading on his back, she might keep her silk shoes dry. She even felt a vaguely maternal protectiveness toward him sometimes, like one might feel for a starving kitten, a puppy lost in the rain ... or a pet. Yes, that’s what Kinsei Donnel was. A pet.
She hated to keep him waiting, but the tides weren’t being cooperative today. She had already tried twice to put on her disguise, but the sluggish tidal force wouldn’t vouchsafe her enough power to whip up half a human nose, much less a whole convincing face. For many long minutes she struggled with it, and then, just as she was ready to throw up her claws in frustration, the power flickered into existence briefly in the air surrounding her. Not much, but it was good enough. She molded it with a practiced touch, and used it to weave a mask over her features that no human could see through. There wasn’t enough power to mask her rakhene scent as well, but that was all right. The humans never noticed it anyway.
Frustrated by the delay, she walked quickly to her receiving chamber to welcome the Regent. Like most Matrias she kept the better part of her body hidden, swathed in the robes and headdress of her calling, and that kept the effort of disguise down to a minimum. Nevertheless, there had been times when the power had failed her utterly and she had been forced to slough her illusory features before the appointed time. Usually she had managed to get to some private space before that happened, but once a human servant had been with her and she hadn’t thought to send him away until the change had already begun. She’d had him killed, of course. Some religious excuse. Heresy? Possession? She couldn’t remember. The man had seen her true self emerge, and so he had died. Finita.
Human religions were so useful.
Some of the Matrias went so far as to cultivate a quasi-human appearance, tinting their facial fur to a more human shade or even shaving it off entirely. The closer you came to looking like a human in fact, the easier it was to conjure an illusion to complete the facade. But this Matria had never been able to bring herself to do it. Humanity was a repellent species, and sometimes the only thing that got her through the day was knowing that at night—in her secret locked chamber, where no human being had ever set foot—she might cast off that hated visage along with her robes and truly relax, resplendent in fur and the features that Erna had blessed her with.
And the smell, she thought, as a human servant passed by her in the hall. The sharp, sour stink of his species stung her nose, and she grimaced in distaste. Don’t forget the smell.
Reception chamber. Small and informal, with a minimum of religious clutter. The kind of room you used when you wanted to communicate to someone that his relationship with you had taken on a truly personal air, that he was—in your eye
s—a Special Person. It was the kind of gesture that humans reveled in, and she had used it time and again as positive reinforcement for her well-trained Regent.
Stupid animals, she thought, as she opened the alteroak doors.
Kinsei Donnel was inside waiting, and as usual there was no surprise involved in greeting him. Familiar eyes in a nondescript face, faintly bovine. Limpid expression, also bovine. A faint aura of excitment about him today, which she could have read if the power were stronger. That intrigued her; Esperanova’s Regent rarely got excited.
“Kinsei,” she purred.
He came to her and dropped to one knee, that he might kiss her hand in adoration. “Your Holiness.”
“This is an unexpected surprise.” He got to his feet slowly and clumsily, not unlike a cow who had been knocked over in its sleep. “What brings you here?”
The limpid eyes glittered with rare animation. “They found them,” he told her. “Here. In Esperanova.”
“Who?”
“The strangers. From Mercia. The westerners,” he clarified, voicing the title with awe.
She felt her heartbeat quicken, and her claws unsheathed reflexively; she was glad that the same illusion which guarded her face would mask that extremity as well. “Tell me.”
“Selkirst found them. You remember him, freelance out of Justa? Seems he staked out the moneychangers and a couple of jewelers, figuring if the westerners came here they’d need some local cash. Because they’d lost a horse in Kierstaad, he explained, and maybe a third of their supplies with it. So he had his men staked out by those places, told them what to look for but not why.”
Of course, she thought dryly. Wouldn’t want to share the reward with them. “Go on.”
“He saw the priest. That is, one of his men did. He fit the description and all, real travel-worn, bearded but otherwise just like your posting said. The man followed him from a jeweler’s to a hunting supply, then to a grocery. Checked up on his purchases later, and they all fit the profile. Dried stuff, high-cal nutrient supplements and such. Vitamins.”
“Weapons?”
He shook his head. “Clothing, mostly. Mess kit, field razor, canteen. Travel gear.”
With effort she made her claws retract. “Verda,” she whispered. “So it’s our city, is it? Verda ben. We’re ready for them.”
“Do you want me to pick them up?”
“Was the woman with him?”
His brow furrowed deeply as he thought about that. “No. I don’t think so.”
“What about the horses?”
He hesitated; clearly neither he nor his informant was too sure what a horse was. “I don’t think so, Holiness.”
She managed to suppress her growing irritation. “Where is he now?”
“Selkirst said he was staying at a hotel in the tenderloin. Budget Hourly. His men are watching the place. But... ”
He seemed to hesitate then, so she urged him, “Go on.”
“It’s just ... he said they questioned the proprietor. To find out if the woman was there, to confirm it. But it was odd, he said. Like the man didn’t even know who was staying there.”
“Given the establishment,” she said dryly, “that’s no great surprise.” But even as she spoke the words, she felt something deep inside herself tighten—something primitive and bestial and very, very hungry. Our prey is a sorcerer, she told herself. And: That makes the hunt more interesting.
She had hunted a human once, in the Black Lands, long before she came north for this assignment. Sometimes she sorely missed those days. The freedom. The exhilaration. The sharp scent of hatred stirring free her rakhene blood. And now the fugitives were here, in Esperanova. Her city. It was a pale shadow of that former hunt, but it was the best she was going to get. Her claws flexed at the thought.
“All right,” she said. “Get your people on it. Have them put the building under watch, twenty-four hours a day. But no move is to be made while the man’s inside, ken verda? It’s vital.”
“I understand,” he said. His expression said that yes, he’d obey, but no, he didn’t really understand.
“We need them both, Kinsei. The woman, too. If we take the man now and she isn’t with him....” You can’t break a sorcerer for information, an inner voice warned. Not with claws.
No, she answered. But you can have fun trying. “If she’s not with him, then follow him. Discreetly. I want them both.”
“And if she is?”
“Instruct your men to wait until they’re out in the open. I don’t want any innocent bystanders hurt. Wait for open ground, then strike.”
“You want them taken?”
“I want them killed, Kinsei. I want their bodies brought here. I want to see proof of their death with my own eyes.”
He coughed raggedly. “What if ... there are others?”
“Besides the priest and the woman?”
“Yeah. What if there’s someone else with them?”
She smiled then, remembering an Earth saying that she had once heard. From one of Earth’s many religious wars. It had stuck in her mind ever since, a sterling sample of human reasoning.
“Their God will know His own,” she purred. “Let Him sort them out.”
Thirty-three
They left before sunset. The tides wouldn’t be right for travel until well after dusk—so Moskovan assured them—but Damien wanted to get moving while the daylight crowds were still in the streets. This city might be relatively free of faeborn dangers, but its people generally still kept to a daylight schedule. Human instinct. It would certainly play in their favor now; crowded city streets offered a cover that no mere Working could rival. No matter how well it was worked, an Obscuring was only as effective as the environment allowed. And as Damien’s teachers had never ceased to stress, it was far easier to get yourself lost in the multiple distractions of a crowd than it was to conjure up invisibility when there wasn’t a distraction in sight.
Not that he’d been able to Work much anyway. There had been tremors only an hour ago, barely strong enough to feel—but the fae had been like wildfire when he’d tried to use it, and he’d had to back off before the job was really perfect. If only they’d had another hour to let the power cool down, to resume its accustomed course ... but there was no point in complaining about that now. You made do with what you had when you had it, and tried to be grateful for all the times that the fae had been workable when you needed it most.
Tarrant could have Worked it, he thought. But there was still enough light in the sky that Tarrant couldn’t possibly join them yet. God alone knew where he was, or what manner of shelter he currently occupied. Damien found himself praying that the Hunter was safe. Without shame this time, and without regret. Because while they had little chance of success in their mission as things stood right now, they would have no chance at all without the Hunter’s power behind them.
They hurried down the narrow streets, trying to match the pace of the crowd, anxious to get where they were going. The girl struggled along beside them, her hand entwined in Hesseth’s, her face pale and drawn. It said much for her courage that she was doing as well as she was; Damien knew that the sounds and sensations which accosted her were nigh on overwhelming, and that it took all her strength to shut them out and keep going. So far she was doing well enough. Soon they would be out of this crime-ridden district and in a quieter quarter, and perhaps that would help. He hoped so, for her sake. He could almost feel her pain.
Then he heard Hesseth hiss softly beside him, a sound meant for his ears and his ears only. Without breaking stride or looking directly at her, he whispered, “What is it?”
“Footsteps. Behind us. Matching our pace. They’ve been there for a while,” she added.
Damien took a minute to listen. The noise of the crowd about them was chaotic—workers traipsing home for the night, mothers screaming at dawdling children, conversational snippets appearing and disappearing on all sides of them—and he found that his merely human ears couldn’t
focus on the one noise he wanted. He braced himself and muttered the key to a Working. Power surged up through his body with such force that he wondered if he might not have taken on more than he could handle, but a moment later it subsided; the earth-fae released by the tremors was quieting down at last.
He made sure that his feet kept moving while he fashioned the Knowing, careful not to break his stride. Such a Working did not require total immersion in the currents, which gave him some hope of managing it. Carefully, gingerly, he touched his will to the surging earth-fae. Barely brushing its surface with his thoughts, but that was enough: the power was like wildfire. He tried to Work it, focusing on sound rather than vision, to detect that one special rhythm which Hesseth had noted. He heard Jenseny gasp as the Working took shape—clearly she could feel it happening—but a hand on her shoulder was enough to warn her to stay quiet. She was learning.
Now he heard it. Not one pair of footsteps but two, perhaps ten yards back from them. His Knowing broke down the rhythms of the crowd into several ordered patterns, and he could hear how much those two stood out. Too fast. Too hard. Too determined, for this meandering crowd. He slowed down a bit, motioned for Hesseth to follow suit. The footsteps kept their distance. He speeded up—gradually, hoping they wouldn’t note the deliberate pattern in his movements—and they speeded up also, so that they were neither closer nor farther behind. At last he exhaled heavily and let the Knowing fade.
“Damien?” the rakh-woman whispered.
“We’re in trouble,” he whispered back.
They were coming out of the tenderloin district now, into an area of nicer housing and wider streets. It was a good bet the crowds would thin out here, leaving them without that precious shield. That’s what their pursuers were waiting for, he realized. An open field, devoid of innocent targets. A clean line of fire.