Blackthorne Page 15

  “Oh.”

  “Well?” Dar asked.

  Suvi gave the situation some thought. “Those aren’t great choices.”

  “I know,” Dylan said. “What do you think?”

  “I think I need to have an Acrasian military depot burgled,” Suvi said.

  “And the other option?” Dylan asked.

  “Tell your father that—that I’m giving his kind offer serious consideration,” Suvi said.

  “You’re not going to accept,” Dylan said.

  “Probably not—not now,” Suvi said. “But I can’t reject it outright. If our situation gets any worse, I may not have any other choice. I am a realist, you know.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Why did the consul take custody of the swords? For that matter, why would the Brotherhood refuse to hand them over?” Suvi asked. “Aren’t Acrasians afraid of Eledorean magic? Aren’t the Brotherhood charged with protecting Acrasia from kainen?”

  “It makes no sense to me, either,” Dar said. “Unless they plan on using them. But they wouldn’t possibly do that. Would they?”

  “Who knows?” Suvi asked. “They’re Acrasians.”

  “Then you’d be willing to steal them back?” Dar asked.

  “What other choice do I have?” Suvi asked. “But there’s one problem.”

  “And that is?” Dar asked.

  “I don’t know any thieves,” Suvi said. “And neither do the Waterborne.”

  “And who says the Waterborne will have anything to do with breaking into an Imperial military depot?” Dylan asked.

  “I thought you—”

  “Clan Kask can’t be anywhere near this,” Dylan said.

  “Right,” Suvi said.

  “However, Dylan, best friend of Suvi Hännenen, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Dar said, “Me neither.”

  BLACKTHORNE

  ONE

  THE HOLD

  GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN

  NEW ELEDORE

  FOURTH OF VERIKUU, 1783

  The campfire popped. Blackthorne placed fresh wood in the flames to reheat the tea water. A cold wind gust blasted through the camp, and he waved smoke from his face and coughed. He’d spent a good part of the morning replacing the fuel he had used from the hidden cache the night before, and his muscles twitched. He’d needed the physical exertion after the long, dull ride. The journey was nearing its end at last. Mrs. Holton’s wagon had seen them to safety. He stood and turned. The view of the valley below was breathtaking, and had he been in the right mind, he’d have meditated in preparation for the day ahead. He had need of his usual routine, but he told himself there wasn’t time, and in any case, he wasn’t alone.

  Another hour or two up Grandmother Mountain, and he would be home.

  “I’m not crawling back into that coffin. It stinks.” Tobias sat on a log next to the fire with a handkerchief tied over his eyes. “Haven’t heard anyone pass us in ages. We can’t be near a town. I counted six days since we crossed the river.”

  It’d been nine, but Blackthorne wasn’t about to correct him. Disorientation was normal under the circumstances. He knew from experience, but he’d also deliberately changed the meal routine and driven the wagon through the night—only stopping when necessary to save the horse, or when his or Tobias’s bladder required it.

  “I can’t know where we’re going. I understand that,” Tobias said. “But isn’t the blindfold enough? Can’t I ride next to you in the wagon? You’ll have to trust me at some point. Right?”

  Pouring the last of the tea into a tin cup, Blackthorne made a decision and dug for another of the vials in his pack. Then he poured half the bottle’s contents into the tea. With that done, he placed the cup in Tobias’s blind hands. “Drink while it’s hot.”

  “I heard wolves howling last night,” Tobias said with an edge of unease in his voice. “They sounded close.”

  Blackthorne raised an eyebrow. “Wild animals are to be expected. This isn’t the city.” However, he was certain the wolves that had prowled outside the camp walked on two legs, not four, and wore the remnants of Eledorean uniforms, not fur. “There was nothing for you to fear.” In truth, there wasn’t—not for Tobias, anyway.

  Tobias sipped. “This is good. When did you get honey for the tea?”

  “I could drug you.” Blackthorne returned to his breakfast. “It would make the remainder of your journey more comfortable.” He didn’t know why he said it. The smith’s answer wouldn’t change anything. Not now. Blackthorne’s words were a cheat and wouldn’t soften the repercussions. The friendly portion of their association was now ended, and he damned well knew it, even if Tobias didn’t.

  Emptying his cup in one gulp, Tobias shook his head. “I want to be awake when we get there.”

  Unfortunately, that isn’t an option, Blackthorne thought. Not if you wish to be outside the hidden compartment. Using a stick, he broke up the still-burning coals and moved the largest piece of wood out of the fire now that the tea was gone.

  “What’s the town called again?” Tobias asked. “Can you tell me that much?”

  Blackthorne rinsed the kettle with water from his canteen. Tobias had been uncharacteristically quiet since he’d become ill. Blackthorne took the fresh show of curiosity as a good sign. “It doesn’t have a name. It isn’t a town. It’s a honeycomb of warehouses once owned by the Waterborne. They call it the Hold. Are you finished?”

  “Yes, sure.” Tobias held out the tin cup. “What does the Hold look like?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. We arrive tonight.”

  Kicking dirt into the fire first, Blackthorne emptied the water bucket on hissing ashes and stomped. He hadn’t slept well in more than a month, and he was dead on his feet. The nightmares had been getting worse, more vivid. They were strongest when he spent any time in Novus Salernum. It wasn’t until he’d come to live on Grandmother Mountain that he’d known any relief from them.

  He pushed aside trivial worries and focused on clearing the campsite. By the time the packing was finished, Tobias was unconscious in the back of the wagon. Blackthorne took the steep trail as slowly as he could, for the sake of the horse. The last four hours of the journey were accomplished in fits and starts. He had to stop, move a deadfall or some brush from the path, pull the wagon forward, stop again, and then replace the path-obscuring brush. Once, he reached a stream and had to place wooden planks across it to form a temporary bridge. There were checkpoints as well. Sentries who didn’t offer to help him with his charge or the wagon. Done alone, it was hard work, but necessary. He wouldn’t and couldn’t be the one to bring the Wardens or the Home Guard to the Hold. It was almost dark when he spied the Hold’s carved mountain face.

  Before the site had been leased to the Waterborne, it had been constructed by ancient Eledoreans as a burial site. A fifty-foot edifice complete with columns had been sculpted into the canyon wall. Centuries ago, a branch of the ever-shifting Kurainen River had washed away the lower half of the carvings. During certain times of the day, the remains of the pillars appeared to float above a natural cave entrance. At some point, a door had been installed at the back of the cave. It was the only indication that the place hadn’t been long abandoned.

  Blackthorne applied the brake, hopped down, and went to the back of the wagon.

  “Who goes there?” The question was accompanied by a loud click.

  “Blackthorne.” He held his hands high in the air and waited. This was the third sentry he’d met in two hours. Since news of his impending arrival had most certainly been communicated to the Hold by now, he knew the repeated identity check was unnecessary. However, he complied anyway.

  The scent of pipe smoke filled a long silence. Exhausted and hungry as he was, Blackthorne didn’t move. Depending upon who was on watch, the guard might choose to mistake him for an Acrasian soldier. It’d happened before, and he was in no shape for dodging musket balls.

  A tall figure slid down from a hidden niche, and
Blackthorne recognized one of the Ghost’s soldiers by the blue greatcoat.

  Swive me, Blackthorne thought.

  The Eledorean officer with long blond hair and a pox-scarred face let out a loud whistle using his fingers and then moved closer until his musket muzzle touched Blackthorne’s chest. Then the gun suddenly swept the air, knocking Blackthorne’s tricorne off his head and into the dirt. “Assume the position, crow.”

  Gritting his teeth, Blackthorne got down on his knees and moved his hands to the back of his head.

  “That’s right,” the pox-scarred Eledorean said. “Flap those wings. Now give me the pass phrase.”

  Blackthorne focused on the ground. The cold gun barrel tapped his cheek. He lifted his elbows higher and turned his head away from the muzzle. He’ll grow bored. Can’t do much more than this. Blackthorne’s heart raced, and his jaw clenched. He closed his eyes and attempted to still his rage. You’d better pray our places are never reversed.

  But the truth was, they had been.

  Swallow it. It’s only pride. And the true Retainer cannot afford pride.

  “The pass phrase. Quit stalling.”

  Blackthorne forced out the question. “May I polish your boots?”

  “Brotherhood of Wardens. Pride of the Regnum. Pure.”

  Warm spittle hit Blackthorne in the face.

  “Not so haughty now, are you?” the pox-scarred Eledorean soldier asked. A quiet sound signaled the musket was no longer cocked. “On your feet, crow.”

  Wiping his cheek, Blackthorne picked up his hat. His legs were unsteady as he dusted it off and returned to the wagon for his pack. He also shouldered one of the sacks of corn that had been used to cover Tobias’s hiding place. The others would take care of the new arrival. They would see to it Tobias found a comfortable place in the community. It was how things were done.

  As Blackthorne moved past, the guard hissed a guttural phrase. Blackthorne didn’t speak Eledorean, but the emotion fueling the words was enough to understand the meaning. As usual, he let it pass without comment. The muscles between his shoulder blades tightened another notch.

  He was home.

  TWO

  He decided to leave the corn in the kitchen larder rather than walk all the way to the granary. Then he’d go straight to his pallet bed and sleep for a few days. No one would miss him. He knew he should report to Slate first, but Blackthorne didn’t trust himself to maintain self-control, let alone speak coherently. Slate’s betrayal cut too deep. Still, Blackthorne was unsure if “betrayal” was the correct word. He was an underling—a Retainer. He was expendable. Therefore, it was important to be careful. Still, the rage lodged itself in his gut.

  He took a deep breath and used that emotion to fuel the remaining steps to the kitchen.

  Upon entering, he found that the scent of baking bread, coffee, and warm food hit him like a mule kick. He remembered that he’d not eaten since breakfast. His stomach let out a loud growl that sounded huge in the empty room. Heat from mounds of hot coals in the twin cooking hearths gave the kitchen a welcoming air.

  Coffee, then, he thought. A slice or two of bread. He owned a toasting fork, a frivolous item he’d purchased on a whim in Novus Salernum. He would warm the bread at the hearth in the privacy of his room. As a meal, it wouldn’t compare to Moss’s cooking, but it’d suffice. Blackthorne would rather not risk another encounter with the Ghost’s men. He didn’t trust himself. Not now. There were always a number of soldiers around. They protected the Hold, after all. He understood that when they weren’t doing so, they travelled throughout the north, collecting what they could from the ruins of Eledore and her dwindling supporters, or harassing Acrasian troops.

  They’ll take a break from the raids soon. There will be more and more of them sheltering here. With winter coming, it makes sense.

  He wasn’t looking forward to his first winter in the north. It would present certain dangers that he didn’t think Slate had considered when he’d ordered him to stay. Blackthorne didn’t want to let more than one of the Ghost’s men corner him. It’d happened before. Once. And if it hadn’t been for the Reclamation Hospital, he would’ve ranked the beating he’d received with the worst of his life. It was a circumstance he sincerely wished to avoid repeating. As a Retainer, his life wasn’t his own to squander.

  He set the heavy grain sack next to a wooden crate and dropped his pack with a grunt. A dizzy spell almost knocked him off his feet. Placing a hand against the chilly stone wall, he breathed deep. Alone, he didn’t bother pretending the vibration in his limbs was due to the weight he’d carried. It was against everything he’d been trained to be, but he’d long understood that knowing a thing and doing a thing were two different matters. He had been afraid—more than that. Terrified. He was weak—always had been. The duke would’ve said that it was his tainted blood that made him so. The best Blackthorne could hope for was to put off the emotional reaction until he was alone. It was but one of the many reasons he’d been a failure.

  He slapped dirt from the knees of his breeches and allowed the release of delayed terror quake through him. One of these days, the Ghost’s men will kill you. He didn’t understand why he cared. He never had before.

  Breathing deep, he mentally recited a line from the Retainer’s Litany he’d memorized as a child. Acceptance of the inevitable grants clear thinking in crisis. A true Retainer does not cling to life. Such thinking makes one vulnerable. It opens the mind to cowardice. A Retainer exists only to kill and die at the Master’s whim, and the true Retainer dies only at the most advantageous moment. A Retainer is not bound by family, friends, or lovers. There is only duty—

  Footsteps drummed on the steps behind the larder door. He tensed, waiting to see who would emerge.

  Moss, one of the Hold’s few volunteer cooks with any talent for it, exited the larder carrying a tiny kitchen tin. Naturally, anything appeared small in Moss’s massive hands. Clad in flour-dusted breeches and a cook’s apron, he had the intimidating form of a massive foot soldier—provided foot soldiers were six and a half feet tall and weighed three hundred pounds. If such an infantry existed, Blackthorne never wanted to meet it. Moss’s skin was pale and mottled with shades of grey. His hair was white and thick and knotted into a gentleman’s pigtail. His eyes were an unsettling, colorless grey. It was said that when he’d first arrived, he’d given his name as Aleksander Jedediah Moss. No one used his full name. Slate said Moss came from the far north—farther north than even Eledoreans dared venture.

  The Eledoreans had a name for Moss’s kind. Slate had said it meant “people of iron and stone.” Blackthorne didn’t have a name for what Moss was. Moss’s people weren’t listed in the Brotherhood’s registry of nonhuman races. As far as anyone in the Hold knew, they were unintelligent, cannibalistic, and mute.

  Why are you here, Moss? Where did Slate find you? Are there others like you? As many times as Blackthorne had asked himself those questions, he hadn’t dared to speak a single one aloud. If he didn’t want others prying into his own past, then he couldn’t justify prying into theirs.

  “Welcome back, young Master Blackthorne. I understand your journey was a success?” Moss asked. His deep, rumbling voice matched his stone-like frame. However, the friendly yet formal tone didn’t.

  Blackthorne gave a polite nod in answer. He assumed the Ghost’s men had informed everyone of his imminent return. News traveled fast in the little community, and a new resident was definitely news. Unable to move without staggering, Blackthorne stayed as he was with one hand against the cold wall.

  Moss set down the tin container with care. It released a puff of flour nonetheless. Then he went to the big sideboard where most of the communal dishes were stored. Retrieving a bowl and wooden spoon, he placed them on the table as in invitation. His movements were graceful and quick in spite of his massive frame. “You must be hungry. Dinner was served an hour ago. However, there’s stew left in the pot. When I heard you would be returning, I thought you might have need
of it.” The warmth of his expression became lost in incisors filed to sharp points.

  Hesitating, Blackthorne asked, “Stew?” The word “cannibal” leapt to mind again before he could stop it. His stomach gave out a noisy protest, and he swallowed.

  “The meat for the evening’s repast was lamb,” Moss said as if in answer to the thought. However, his demeanor didn’t indicate that he’d understood Blackthorne’s misgivings.

  Blackthorne looked away before Moss could spy shame in his cheeks.

  “I prefer not to handle meat. However, I’ve been instructing Slate’s ward, Kat, in the culinary arts. It was one of her lessons. She won’t mind if you consume the remainder. I imagine that if the stew isn’t gone by the time she returns, she may be insulted.” With that, Moss returned to his baking.

  Armed with bowl and spoon, Blackthorne went to the iron pot heating over the grate in the first hearth. Glowing coals warmed his hands and legs. He bunched up the tail of his ragged greatcoat in one hand and used it to lift the iron lid. After filling his bowl with brown gravy and large chunks of mutton, he settled on the bench facing the door. The trembling in his knees slowly diminished. After a few bites, he forgot about insults and relaxed—as much as he could with a stranger in the room. Soon, his eyelids grew heavy, and he fought an urge to rest his head on the table. The gentle thumping rhythm of Moss’s bread kneading drifted over Blackthorne, and his thoughts dissolved into a comfortable haze. His eyes fell closed. His room seemed an eternity away.

  I’ll rest here. Only for a moment, he thought. He’d begun to dream when a loud bang jerked him awake. His right hand flew to his pistol.

  Moss pushed an old game board across the table toward him. “You were once an Acrasian patrician, were you not?”

  Blackthorne’s sluggish mind struggled for a response. It was the first time that anyone other than Slate had asked him a personal question. Shocked, Blackthorne glanced around the kitchen.

  Noble. No one uses the word “patrician” anymore. And once more, Blackthorne wondered where Moss had learned to speak Acrasian. “And if I was?” The question came out in a hoarse whisper.