Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (32 page)

Marak hated the Lesser Cabal in Illan with a passion that bordered on youthful indulgence. Not a youth, he kept it firmly under control. He did not dare to openly defy the duke; not yet. It was clear that the families that held power gave more of their allegiance to the duke than to the Church—and those houses that had started relocation in the intemperate climes of the north had not yet gained a strong political foothold.

But he prayed that he would not have to wait until they did.

 

The wagon lurched to a stop at the gates embedded in the great walls that surrounded Dagothrin. Erin could see them long before she approached, but it was not their size that caught and held her attention. It was the gentle glow that had been the signature of all of the Lady of Elliath’s work. Gallin’s sword had been an artisan’s work—but it paled in comparison to this monument of stone, steel, and wood.

She did not ask. Instead she began to pay more attention to the guards that had ordered the wagons to a full stop and now made their way over to inspect them.

“Pardon, ma’am,” one man said, and Erin realized he was speaking to her. “You’ll have to step down for a moment while we check the wagons.”

She nodded meekly and followed his directions, doing her best to stay out of his way.

“What’s that, then?”

She stopped as a frown crossed his face, turning it ugly. She looked down, as he did, and flushed. “It’s a—a sword, sir.”

“I can see that. Why are you carrying it?”

She tensed, keeping her hand away from the hilt with an
effort. To her relief, the man did not ask to see it. On the other hand, the Bordaril guards were also in force, and while they cooperated with the city guards, it was clearly not out of respect for anything but custom.

“Come, come, Captain,” Hildy said, although the man was clearly not a captain. “You know the problems merchants have had with banditry these last few years; it’s not as if the Church—or the governor—has had much success in dealing with them, for all of their promises to us. We can’t possibly take too many precautions—and you’ve seen the girl yourself. Quite pretty.” Hildy flipped through a sheaf of papers that rustled and slid against the wool of heavy mittens. “Here. It’s all here. I’ve permission to arm my own guards. Bears the insignia of—”

“I know, ma’am,” the guard replied, in a tight, curt voice. “I’ve seen them already.” He turned to stare at Erin again, weighing his choices, and then abruptly deciding. “Keep it bonded in the city, girl, and don’t go wandering away from your quarters carrying it. Weapons are strictly prohibited for civilians; if you’ve a need to go armed in the city, you’d best get another set of papers to carry with you.”

Erin nodded, relaxing.

 

In another half an hour, Hildy’s cargo had been cleared. The gates were opened, and the wagons, preceded by Hildy’s guards, entered the city. The guards had obviously been through this gate before, for they led the wagons into the heart of the city without asking for directions. Eventually they approached a series of large, tall buildings. From the sounds that permeated the thick canvas of the wagon, Erin could only assume that other merchants made winter treks to Dagothrin. Only when the wagons came to a halt again did Hildy speak.

“You’ll know where I am, Erin. Remember me if you need help.”

“You’ve helped us more than you—”

Hildy raised a heavily covered hand. “Wait an hour here, and then you’d best be on your way.”

“Thank you, Hildy.”

The older woman caught Erin’s hand and gripped it tightly through her mittened fingers. She said nothing, but none of her meaning was lost through lack of words.

“Right.” Renar paced in a tight circle. “Are we ready, then?”

“Renar, you’ve asked this—”

“Yes,” Erin said, picking up her pack for the tenth time, as she cut off Trethar’s growing annoyance.

Renar nodded and peered out of the dirty window. He cursed and went back to his pacing. “Why are the guards out in such numbers?”

It was a rhetorical question; Trethar had already tried answering it twice a mere half an hour before. Nor would Renar tell them where they were going; he thought it too much of a risk. He had already gone out once, on his own, and his return had been unexpected and hastily accomplished; he would not explain where he had gone, nor why he had entered from the back roof.

To Erin, it was clear that he had managed to evade someone who had followed him; it was also clear that to gain the advantage of that, speed was of the essence. It did not seem as clear to Trethar, who had argued it for a full fifteen minutes before giving up in suspicion and disgust.

Darin took the opportunity to peer, yet again, out of one grimy window.

He sighed, his fingers caressing the hardwood sill.

“Right. Are you ready?”

Pulled out of his reveries, Darin nodded. Erin picked up her pack again. There was more cursing.

Renar pursued this ritual until the streets were at last clear of guards that Darin was almost certain were mythical. Then the prince stepped quickly out of the large building, gesturing for the others to follow. Darin went first, followed by Trethar. Erin hung slightly back, her hands fluttering above the one weapon she was certain of.

The streets were empty. Renar navigated them with the ease of one who is in a familiar house. He walked in the tracks left by horses and wagons, skirting new snow; his companions took care to follow his lead. Twice, they were forced to backtrack while they listened to the ominous sound of clanking armor. But the guards never met them; as a guide, Renar ensured that. He
did not speak at all, making his desire known with brief, curt gestures. Seeing him, Darin could almost believe that everything else he had ever shown them was an act: he was efficient, and the expression in his eyes was cold and dark.

The streets began to get larger and cleaner; the buildings became more grand and obviously better kept up. Packed dirt and cobbled stone gave way to lawn, and lawn to sweeping grounds that lay under a blanket of white, behind iron gates. Renar stopped in front of one of these.

“Here,” he said softly, his face turned to one side. It was the first word he had spoken since they’d left the merchant quarter. He walked quickly up to the gates and inserted an arm between the bars. Erin thought it odd that such a manor would have no guards, but offered no comment. The gates creaked; Renar pushed them to one side and stepped forward, motioning the others to follow.

“Welcome,” he whispered, “to House Brownbur.”

“Brownbur?” Darin’s eyebrows rose.

“No, he wasn’t born with the name. I believe that he was required to choose one to establish his house. He’s wily; he’s managed to survive the takeover almost intact. He holds more land than previously and has wider trade routes. Most of the southern-based merchants don’t choose to travel this far to the north; many won’t even come as far as Verdann.”

“Isn’t a brownbur a weasel?”

“Yes.” Renar smiled. “Yes. It’s the choice of the name that brings us here. He’s an old friend, and as I’ve said, wily. Anything that can be survived, he’ll survive. Much of what I know, I learned from him.”

“He’d have to be intelligent to have survived the fall of the city.”

“Or immoral.”

“Trethar, please.”

As they approached the front of the manor, the doors swung open. A balding head peered nervously out at the group. It nodded quickly, and Renar stepped into the house, followed by his companions.

“Hello, Anders.”

“And yourself, Your Grace.” The man gave a clumsy bow. “Not the best of circumstances to see you in.”

“Nor, one hopes, the worst. Is he awake, pray tell?”

“Aye,” a melodious, deep voice said. “Awake and waiting your pleasure.”

Darin spun first and gave a nervous smile. Lord Brownbur did, in some ways, resemble the namesake he had chosen; his face was triangular and pointed, his front teeth protruded prominently in his small jaw, and his nose, straight and short, rounded out the picture.

“These are the three I received word of, then?”

Word?
Darin thought, but asked nothing.

“No, sorry. I had to leave those three at the gates.”

“A man in your position,” Lord Brownbur said, with a smile that took the sting from his words, “can’t afford to be so snide.”

Renar shrugged. “It depends, Lord Brownbur, on the audience, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man began to laugh. “Lord, is it?” He walked over to Renar, still chuckling, and offered one smooth hand. “Brownbur, is it?” Then, instantly, he sobered. “Aye, I suppose it is now. But come, Renar, don’t insult a man in his own home. You know my name.”

“If I recall correctly, you insulted several people in their own homes, and on more than one occasion. But very well; Tiras is shorter than Lord Brownbur and slightly more bearable. Come, let me introduce you to my companions.”

But Tiras, gray head bowed slightly, had already walked over to Darin. He looked down at the youth, his gaze traveling to the staff strapped along his back, drawn like a moth to the fires.

“Aye,” he said quietly. He bent at the knees with a grace that belied the age he wore, and Darin was reminded that this was a friend of Renar’s. Another actor, perhaps; certainly one who didn’t give much away. “The staff that you carry is yours?”

Darin nodded.

“Then, Patriarch of Culverne, you and I need no introductions. I am ever at your service.” He straightened up and then bowed elegantly and formally.

“Or as much as you ever were,” Renar added caustically. “Do you think that you can get on without offending
this
patriarch?”

Tiras shot Renar a withering glare that turned into a smile at the last moment. “That much at least. But maybe more.” His hand smoothed the wave of gray that covered his forehead. “I’ve aged, as you’ll notice, and not perhaps as gracefully as I might
once have. Things change, boy. Don’t forget it.” He bowed, again, to Darin. “I had heard that the line had fallen.”

“I remain.” On impulse, Darin pulled the staff from its strap and rested its tip gently on the ground.

“So I see. And maybe not the last of the line either, if you survive the years. But who are your companions? The buffoon I know quite well; he was and is the most embarrassing of my students, but also the most brilliant. Who are the other two?”

“This is Trethar of the brotherhood. He’s a—”

“I also teach.” Trethar interrupted Darin with a subtle, dismissive wave; it was not lost upon Tiras.

“The name of your order is unfamiliar to me. Your business in Dagothrin?”

Trethar nodded slightly in Darin’s direction. “My student.”

“I see. And the lovely young lady?”

“Erin, sir.” She stepped forward. “My business in Dagothrin is the other half of Renar’s.”

“I see. Well, as Renar has kindly thought not to inform me of what his business here actually is, perhaps we had best leave it at that for the moment. Anders.”

“Sir.”

“Did you bother to prepare guest rooms in the basement?”

“Sir.”

“Good. Show our guests to their quarters, make sure they’re settled, and then return here. I’ve a mind to see about food. And baths.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was exactly the same expression that Renar often used.

“Sir.”

 

Erin circled Renar warily. His expression, a jaunty, arrogant half smile, hadn’t faltered once. He was at home here, surrounded by four stone walls and a roof that was low and gray, and he thought to take advantage of the fact.

“Come, Lady.” He twisted his wrist, bringing wooden sword around in a circle that ended with a stylistic flourish.

Erin snorted. She’d already hit him twice, although both blows, half-deflected, had only glanced off his shoulders. Still, he was better than she might have thought, given his sloppy stance and the lackadaisical way he held his weapon.

She frowned slightly, ignoring the throb at her wrist.
Be honest, Erin. He’s much better than you thought.

“Do you know what your problem is, Lady?” The sword danced up again, and Erin steadied herself. Renar was light, and wore no armor—he had been trained to count on flexibility and speed, just as she had. “You don’t talk enough. Sessions like this can rapidly become boring—” He slashed downward in a sudden, low arc. The dull thud of wood against wood punctuated his half sentence. “—without intelligent conversation. I’m certain you’re capable of it.”

She lunged before the last word trailed off, the point of her sword aimed for the center of his chest. He pulled back, blocked low—and somehow succeeded.