Blackthorne Page 16

  “Then you might be familiar with vendetta. I understand it’s an Acrasian patrician’s game.”

  Blackthorne swallowed a dull ache. He hadn’t seen a vendetta board in well over a year. It brought up memories of the few pleasant aspects of his former life. He stared at the board. It’d once been expensive and would’ve been highly prized. Carved from cherrywood and oak with gold and silver inlay, its abused surface was now coated with dirt.

  “Where did you get it?” Blackthorne asked.

  “Slate gifted it to me some months ago. But I have been unable to find anyone who knows how the game is played. Do you?” Moss reached into his pockets and produced marble game pieces that didn’t match the board.

  Blackthorne paused. In a community of refugees, castoffs, undesirables, exiles, and escaped slaves, Moss was only slightly less feared than himself. This, regardless of the fact that Slate had declared Moss to be worthy of trust. It was the same reason Blackthorne was tolerated—Slate’s word. That tolerance stretched a bit from time to time, Blackthorne knew more than anyone. Moss, like Blackthorne, kept himself apart. Although Blackthorne couldn’t imagine that Moss felt threatened.

  He must be lonely.

  I shouldn’t become involved, Blackthorne thought. His palm itched, and he rubbed it against his thigh. Keep your distance. It would be safer for Moss.

  A Retainer is not bound by family, friends, or lovers. There is only duty to one’s Master. Blackthorne gazed at Moss’s expectant expression—at least, that’s what Blackthorne hoped it was. Sometimes it was difficult to tell with Moss.

  I’ve exchanged one cell for another, Blackthorne thought. Is that what I want?

  “I apologize. I shouldn’t have disturbed you,” Moss said. Disappointment crested the wave of hope. “You are quite tired, I see. Please forgive me. I am still learning the social graces.”

  Blackthorne found himself reaching out to the chipped pieces, hesitantly at first. Then he righted the board, setting each figure in its proper place. “Why should you wish to learn?”

  A shy smile tugged the corners of Moss’s mouth. “Slate felt vendetta would be mentally engaging.”

  “I see.” Blackthorne swallowed. He didn’t understand why he was doing this when there were so many reasons why he shouldn’t. “Black or white? The player who selects white moves first. It is also the aggressor—”

  The kitchen door flew open, and a short, heavy man barged in. He stank of sweat, and his clothes were dirty. Stomping to the fireplace, he left a careless trail of mud and dead leaves on the clean kitchen floor. Blackthorne went rigid and dropped a hand to his pistol under the table. Technically, Jacob Nickols was human by Brotherhood standards. Blackthorne wouldn’t have stretched the definition that far.

  Damn my luck.

  “There better be more than a few scraps left around here. There ain’t, I’ll— What in the hells is going on?” The Gibson Road in Jacob Nickols’s voice often made it difficult for the others to understand him. Blackthorne understood Nickols perfectly well and so was certain it wasn’t worth anyone’s effort.

  Nickols stepped toward the table, glaring.

  “Mr. Blackthorne has generously offered to teach me to play vendetta,” Moss said.

  “He’s teaching you what?” Nickols’s mouth hung open.

  Blackthorne prepared for a fight.

  Moss said, “If you’re hungry, there’s stew available within—”

  “Making friends with the Warden, are you?” Nickols asked with a laugh. “Right. The Warden hunts the extra nonhumans. And you pop them into the cooking pot? Is that it?” He put a dirty hand on Moss’s arm. The area under the nails was black with grime.

  Grabbing Nickols by the wrist, Blackthorne kept his voice low. “Leave him alone.”

  Nickols yanked free in disgust. “So, the Warden’s gonna defend the monster? That’s rich.” He swept the game board off the table with one hand. Glass and marble pieces skittered across the floor.

  Blackthorne hopped to his feet. Glass shards crunched under his boot as he stepped around the edge of the table and snatched up a handful of Nickols’s filthy collar. Ramming his pistol under the man’s chin, Blackthorne locked the hammer with a loud click.

  Nickols choked and sputtered. “Was only funning.”

  “I don’t appreciate your sense of humor,” Blackthorne said. His whole body shook as he fought an urge to pull the trigger. He isn’t worth it. Then he mentally counted to ten and released Nickols with a shove. “Get what you need and leave before I feed you your own gizzard.”

  Scrambling backward, Nickols put a hand to his throat as if the barrel had drawn blood. “I’m reporting this. Slate’ll have you thrown you out. See if he doesn’t.” He edged to the door and scrambled through.

  Blackthorne didn’t breathe until Nickols’s footsteps had faded. Putting away the gun, Blackthorne looked down at the remains of the game. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? He blinked. Is it because he attacked someone else? “I shouldn’t have interfered. I should’ve let him hit me and have done with it. That was stupid—”

  “And unnecessary,” Moss said. “But I thank you. No one has defended my honor before.” He grabbed a broom that’d been leaning against the wall and began to sweep. “I had understood human males usually reserve such actions for potential mates.” There was an undercurrent of mirth in his words. “In which case, I feel I should inform you that my sexual preferences do not include humans. I hope my refusal does not damage our potential friendship.”

  A smile tugged at Blackthorne’s mouth. It felt strange and nice all at once—this mutual exchange of humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done such a thing. “I should go.” His head ached, and his eyes burned. Still, he knew it didn’t matter how tired he was; he wasn’t going to sleep, not now. “May I borrow a candle?”

  “Of course, you may. And please return. Tomorrow. I would enjoy continuing the lesson, if you feel you can spare the time.”

  “I look forward to it,” Blackthorne said, cursing himself for a fool.

  THREE

  He set the oak plank he used as a bolt against the door to his room. There was no other lock on the door. The Hold prided itself on having no need of them; therefore, he hadn’t the heart to install one. Still, he found he couldn’t rest without the bolt set. Having been away for months, he next took the time to see that everything was exactly as he’d left it. He didn’t know why he bothered. He didn’t keep anything in his apartments worth stealing—the stand for his pocket watch on the mantle, a three-legged stool, a pallet bed, and a homespun shirt hanging from a hook. What little else he owned traveled with him. The burgeoning community founded itself on the principle that what was needed was freely given. Thus, the Hold’s citizens looked out for one another regardless of class, creed, or race.

  Provided the person of that class, creed, or race isn’t a former Warden. He bit down on resentment he didn’t normally feel. What is wrong with you? All is as it should be.

  A Retainer is not bound by family, friends, or lovers. There is only duty to one’s Master.

  Located on one of the lowermost levels, far from the others, his apartment was a former storage room and still smelled of scorched oak and fermented barley. With no windows, the room had no outside source of warmth or light. It became dank and cold when he was away. Dropping his pack for the last time, he went to the hearth. He couldn’t rest until the fire was lit. His hands trembled as he stacked the wood and then used flint on the dried pine needles he stored for tinder. It didn’t take long. He could do so without thought. The estate’s hearth fire had been his first responsibility as a child.

  Next, he removed his boots, knelt, and then rested his buttocks on his ankles in the Retainer-student position. Taking a deep breath, he smelled the warm scent of burning oak and pine. He focused on distributing his weight evenly on his hips and ankles. When he was sure of his balance, he closed his eyes. Breathing slow and deep, he attempted to release the tension in
his shoulders and back with each exhale while keeping his head up. He visualized each intake of breath moving slowly up into the sky and then down his spine and into the earth with the outgo as if it were an ocean’s tide. Breathe in. Breathe out. These were the first steps in centeredness. Each breath was to empty the mind, leaving only calm and clarity.

  What have I gained by attacking Nickols? Nothing. I’ve left myself open for trouble.

  I wouldn’t have made that mistake before. I’m losing myself. Piece by piece. Who am I now? Is anything left of me? Stubborn tension anchored itself in his shoulders and stomach.

  Why does this matter?

  There is only duty to one’s Master.

  A silent vibration from his pocket watch marked the half hour. Half past five. There was no need to look. He gave up on meditation. Carefully retrieving his watch via the leather thong he used in lieu of a watch chain, he got to his feet and placed the timepiece upon its wooden stand on the mantle. He was exhausted. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to lie down.

  He removed his ragged coat and carefully hung it on one of the hooks set into the wall. He stared into the fire and gave reading some consideration. Rejecting the idea, he resumed the student pose. This time, he did so closer to the hearth. His muscles at last began to unknot themselves. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before footsteps echoed in the passage outside the door. At once, Blackthorne shifted from the seated position to kneeling on one knee. He turned to face the door with a hand resting on the butt of his pistol. It was done with fluid grace and practiced skill, and his teacher would have been satisfied but for one vital mistake. His gun wasn’t loaded.

  Rather than focus on self-disgust, he tilted his head to listen. One heartbeat. Two. The footfalls echoing in the hallway were accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Three heartbeats. Four. His guts twisted, and knowledge came to him with a prickling sensation under his skin.

  It is Slate, and he is alone. Blackthorne let his hand fall away from the useless gun. He went to remove the bolt before the anticipated knock landed on the door.

  His ability to know a person by the sound of their steps had been something for which the director of the Warden Academy had praised him. Although it was one of the characteristics Wardens were reputed to have, the reality was that Wardens weren’t superhuman. The myth was one of many designed to make citizens feel more secure. He had long thought it ironic. The Regnum cited the threat of magic as justification for its treatment of nonhumans and yet at the same time used myths verging on the magical to bolster its sense of righteousness.

  “Blackthorne? May I come in?”

  Blackthorne said, “Yes, sir.” He stepped aside, allowing his superior admittance.

  “Still bolting the door, I see.” Slate was dressed as he usually was, in the prim but shabby tailoring of a professor. He was also one of the few residents, other than Blackthorne, who openly wore black, because Eledorean custom dictated that only soldiers wore that color. He held a wooden cane with a round silver knob on the end in his left hand. Although he was a robust fifty years old, the grey in his brown hair had grown more noticeable over the past year.

  Blackthorne detected a frown on the man’s face in the dim light. Nickols has registered his complaint. “Yes, sir.”

  Slate entered and almost immediately tripped over the abandoned pack. Without thinking, Blackthorne reached out and caught Slate by the elbow. Slate turned to him and squinted displeasure.

  Blackthorne released his arm at once. “I—I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s quite all right.”

  “Permit me to light some candles.” Blackthorne preferred to navigate by the light of the fire when he was home. However, he understood that Slate’s blindness wasn’t complete, and the man seemed to see better in brighter light. At the same time, the glare seemed to pain his eyes.

  Going to the trunk, he fished out the three beeswax candles that a grateful Holder had given him. That had been before Nickols had told everyone that he’d once been a Warden.

  “You haven’t had time to unpack,” Slate said. “It is I who should be sorry. I can return tomorrow.”

  Blackthorne set the first candle in a small pewter holder and lit it with a twig from the fire. “I should have given you my report before retiring, sir.”

  “It can wait.”

  “Please stay, sir. There are things I must say,” Blackthorne said. He finished with the last candle and motioned to the three-legged stool by the fire. “It is important for me to do so now rather than later.”

  Slate’s frown returned, but he moved to the stool, leaned his cane against the fireplace, and sat. “Were you discovered?”

  Resuming the student posture on the floor, Blackthorne said, “No, sir. I would have come to you at once if that were the case.”

  “That’s a relief.” Slate reached inside his coat and produced a silver flask. “Care for a little something to warm up?” The fire’s glare caught his steel-rimmed lenses. Circles of yellow hid clouded eyes.

  Accepting the flask, the sweet aroma of fine whiskey drifted up Blackthorne’s nose. Is this one of his tests? He paused before taking a sip. “I understood you don’t approve of alcohol, sir.”

  “There are exceptions to every rule,” Slate said. “In any case, I thought you could use a drink after chatting with Nickols. I know I often do.”

  Blackthorne drank. He’d thought Slate to be a practicing member of an Acrasian religious sect that was strongly against any sort of vice, including drink. They called themselves Moralists.

  “I apologize for my behavior, sir.” Blackthorne kept his gaze lowered. His throat pleasantly burned as he returned Slate’s flask.

  “This isn’t a reprimand,” Slate said. “Let’s hear what happened. I want your side of it.”

  “I drew a pistol on Jacob Nickols in the kitchen.”

  “You did what?”

  “He insulted Moss. I shouldn’t have, sir. I understand the rules about weapons within the confines of the Hold. I—”

  A short laugh burst from Slate’s throat. It was joined by several guffaws. It took a while for him to stop. “Oh, God. No wonder he was so damned angry and yet was unwilling to state the cause. You got the jump on him. I wish I’d seen it.” Slate shook his head and sighed. “There have been times I wish I could’ve done so myself. Still, that was probably not the best idea in the long run.”

  “It won’t happen again, sir.” Blackthorne felt his face heat.

  “How did he get under your skin? That isn’t like you.”

  Blackthorne tried to think of an answer and couldn’t—at least none that didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. His hand tightened into a fist, and the knot between his shoulder blades sent a bolt of pain from his spine to the back of his head. So tired. He stared at the offered flask in Slate’s hand but made no motion to accept it.

  “Look. This isn’t as bad as it seems. You need allies. Friends. More than myself. You aren’t going to survive here alone. You need the others. And they need you. We all must work together.” Slate sipped from the flask and swallowed. “Besides, I can’t always be there to protect you.”

  Protect? Blackthorne bit down hard on a flash of anger. “Then don’t.”

  “Severus—”

  “If I’m fit to live, I will.”

  “Don’t spew Brotherhood dogma at me. I know you don’t believe that horse shit, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Blackthorne blinked. The words hit him like a slap.

  Slate said, “I believe in justice—”

  “Then you should’ve left me to die.”

  “You’ve had plenty of opportunities to kill yourself. If that is what you wanted, why didn’t you? You’re a free man. You can leave whenever you like. Why come back?”

  Because you aren’t the only one who believes in justice, and death would be too easy, Blackthorne thought. Perhaps I should’ve done the honorable thing.

  A Retainer’s life is not his own to spend. “Why did you bring me h
ere?”

  “Because you needed sanctuary.”

  “That isn’t the whole of the reason. I’m not stupid.”

  “Do you want me to tell you that you have skills and knowledge we need? That I need you to keep this community hidden from—”

  “Colonel Hännenen needs no assistance from me.”

  “And what happens when he’s killed or captured?” Slate sighed. “Do you know how many people live here? We were only a little over a hundred last spring. More than forty of them have you to thank for getting here in one piece. You’ve managed this in the six months you’ve been here. Not only that, you’ve made the journey less dangerous for those you don’t escort. Nickols couldn’t have brought in that many in a year. Not without tipping off the Wardens. Neither could Nels, much as he would’ve wanted to. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I’m useful to you, Blackthorne thought, and nodded. And I am safe as long as that is the case. The knowledge was reassuring in its familiar brutality. He didn’t know why he felt the sharp pain in his chest. Slate’s ruthless estimate of his purpose was no different than anyone else’s had been. “To fulfill one’s purpose is to be content.” A worthy Retainer is absolutely loyal to his Master. He took a deep breath in an effort to release the rage he felt. All is as it should be.

  “Content? Bullshit. You aren’t content. What do you want? Tell me. I’ll arrange it, if I can. We don’t have much here, but you should get something in exchange besides a few meals, a rickety pallet bed”—he cast his gaze around the room and motioned toward the rest of it—“and an—an empty storage room.”

  Blackthorne’s throat closed, and for a moment, he felt trapped. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer—he’d dreamed of it as often as he’d dreamed of freedom. He wanted to live as the others lived. He wanted to live without hiding, without fear. He wanted to be himself—whatever that was. He even briefly considered what it might be like to not be alone. It’d been a very long time since he’d spoken with a woman with the intent of getting to know her, let alone bed her. Two years?