Blackthorne Page 4

  Naturally, Gerald had vanished the next morning. The fact that he’d done so without taking the hidden sterling with him had proved just how much he’d cared. That had been over a year before, and her nights were getting longer by the week. Must do something about that itch before it gets me into trouble. She thought of her friend, Mallory, and considered a visit after she’d been paid. Of course, her father would’ve insisted she marry, but she’d seen what that’d done to her mother, and she wasn’t about to follow her dull but brutal fate. So, Drake swallowed the expensive tea she secretly bought from the Eledorean apothecary, did what she could for herself, and kept her feelings and memories of Gerald buried deep.

  Love is a pretty ribbon used to tie a knot on a terrible box of goods.

  Anger flashed across the Fortis’s haughty face. “This is an important matter of the Regnum.” Blocking the mouth of the alley, he folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet shoulder-width apart. “Cadet Lucrosa should have explained you were the only one permitted. Your sergeant must leave.”

  An older pair of Wardens waited across the street.

  Oh, hell. He’s strutting for his superiors, Drake thought. “Benbow’s been in on this deal longer than I have,” she said. “He knows what to do. He works fast. And he’s capable of keeping his mouth shut. He’s here to do the real work. I didn’t become Captain of the Watch to clean up your messes.” She waited while the Fortis considered his options. “Is it a human?”

  His voice was flat and businesslike. “Elpharmaceutria.”

  A human would’ve meant more money, and she would have to split with Benbow. Still, hard cold silver is hard cold silver.

  The first cadet produced a book with a leather cover, wrote in it, and tore out a page. “Sign this.”

  When the receipt was verified and witnessed, he gave her a handful of sterling coins.

  “Don’t worry,” Drake said. “The cobblestones will be soaped off before anyone sees.”

  In the distance, thunder rolled. She hoped they’d finish before the storm hit.

  BLACKTHORNE

  ONE

  NOVUS SALERNUM

  THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA

  28 AUGUST

  THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS

  A short man armed with mismatched pistols and dressed in a grubby coat stepped onto Old Aurivallis Road. His gap-toothed smile looked like a gash in his pox-scarred, unshaven face. He was hatless, and his silk waistcoat had clearly been tailored for someone with a much smaller circumference. The white cuffs of his clean linen shirt were much too long. It didn’t help matters that he smelled like the exterior of an alehouse at dawn. Cloud-shadowed moonlight drenched him in blacks and greys.

  “What I’d like to know is how you cogged I was there. Me, being quiet as a church mouse and all.” The highwayman nodded at Blackthorne’s pistols.

  The knot between Blackthorne’s shoulder blades tightened. “What is it you want?”

  The muzzles of the highwayman’s pistols were steady. “Dismissing with the pleasantries, are we? Fair enough. If you’re legit, show me your papers. Otherwise, there’s a toll for illegally leaving the city. And I’m here to collect it.”

  Tobias moved from the safety of the tree and stood at Blackthorne’s side. “If we’re illegal, you are too.”

  Blackthorne spoke to Tobias over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the highwayman. “I told you to stay where you were.”

  “Awww, what’s this?” the highwayman asked. His predatory smile now expanded into something positively cheerful. “A half-breed? What you doing outside the Sector this time of night, boys? There’s a reward for the likes of him. Trade in escaped slaves, do you? Gots me a Syndicate permit for this road, I do.” The smile became a leer. “Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

  Blackthorne said, “Name your price. And we will be on our way.”

  “You’ve no pretty little pass to flash me?” the highwayman asked. “You’re not Syndicate, boy. That’s clear. You going to work this route? Fine. You pays for it. I wants my cut.”

  Taking up a defensive position in front of Tobias, Blackthorne purposely stepped on Tobias’s foot. Tobias stumbled backward with a loud protest.

  “Now, now, don’t be making a row,” the highwayman said. “Will draw the wrong sort of attention, that will.”

  Blackthorne blinked once before he pulled the trigger. The blast sounded like a cannon after so much quiet. Smoke billowed out of the barrel. The recoil jerked his left hand up and back, numbing his arm to the shoulder. A lightning-flash of fire illuminated the cloud like a small storm. Hot gunpowder particles hit him in the face. He tasted salt, sulfur, and grit as the highwayman collapsed. With a vengeful kick, Blackthorne rolled the gasping thief onto his back. Blood darkened the dirt road in a large, spreading patch while Blackthorne searched the highwayman’s pockets. He grabbed a folio of paper notes, the pistol, and a silver snuffbox.

  “What are you doing?” Tobias asked.

  “If he’d possessed a permit, he wouldn’t have cared about the noise,” Blackthorne said. “It’s unfortunate he didn’t. I could have used it.” He pointed his second pistol at the dying highwayman’s head, but a final shuddering breath spared Blackthorne the shot. “We’ll have company soon. Get going. I’ll be along in a moment. Follow the road north, and stay to the ruts where the dirt is hardest.”

  Tobias gazed down at the body and swallowed. “You killed that man.”

  “Yes,” Blackthorne said.

  “He’s … really dead.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? A Warden Unit is sure to have heard that shot. Get out of here.”

  Clearly shaken, Tobias turned and headed north. The moment he was out of sight, Blackthorne cut the dead man’s throat and tossed an assassin’s token next to the body. He considered stealing the robber’s coat but knew at a glance it’d be too small across the shoulders. He could take it anyway and sell it, but the cloth was as worn as his own. In any case, he’d already wasted too much time. He left the highwayman where he was and caught up to Tobias after a short run. The young smith’s face was pale, and his unease was palpable in the silence. Blackthorne knew of nothing useful to say. He’d only done what was necessary. He was certain of it.

  He spent the rest of the evening watchful for signs that the Warden Unit hadn’t been satisfied with the explanation provided. When dawn revealed a newly mowed field to the right of the road, he headed for an isolated group of haystacks. Selecting the tallest, they spent the daylight hours sleeping concealed under the hay while the mail coaches roared past. Blackthorne slept to the sound of pounding hooves and blaring horns, dreaming of battlefields and blood.

  TWO

  Time passed as they travelled north. Nights blended, one into another, in a footsore haze of cold food, hard ground, and white-knuckled vigilance. Freeson’s chatty enthusiasm had faded into an anxious quiet after witnessing the highwayman’s death. More recently, that reserve was interrupted only by a worrying cough. Thus, Blackthorne was relieved when at last they arrived at the first planned stop.

  He tensed against the near-freezing rainwater trickling down his back in the dark and studied the farm house. Lamplight poured through the open front door and cast a welcoming glow on the solitary white pillowcase hanging from a laundry line in the dooryard. An old woman in a rocking chair teetered in and out of the shadows thrown onto the front porch. Dark-streaked white curls escaped her mob cap, framing her pale face. A musket leaned against the wall within easy reach.

  He closed his eyes and listened past the hiss of rain slapping mud. A few feet away, Freeson’s teeth chattered. A bird high up in the branches shook water off its feathers. A porch plank rhythmically creaked with the weight of the rocking chair. When the unsettling twitch in Blackthorne’s stomach had passed he was certain all was as it seemed.

  “Come on,” he whispered, stepping from the brush just as Tobias let out yet another booming cough.

  Mrs. Ma
ndilynn Holton ceased her rocking at once, snatched up the gun, and peered into the darkness.

  “It’s only me, Mrs. H,” Blackthorne said.

  “Oh.” She lowered the musket and beckoned with one hand.

  Elbowing Freeson, Blackthorne gave a sideways nod toward the house. He watched the smith’s listless progress across the dooryard and frowned. Obtaining the services of a physician had been out of the question. So, Blackthorne had done what he could during the twenty-day journey to Aurivallis. Unfortunately, his education didn’t cover medicines. He hoped a few nights out of the elements would be enough. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Freeson died while in his charge.

  Mrs. Holton tugged a wool shawl tighter over her thin shoulders. Then she handed Tobias a blanket from the mending basket at her feet. “Get in front of the fire, you two, before you catch your death.” Her kind, strong voice carried no hint of age.

  Shivering, Freeson stumbled into the house with a nod of thanks. Blackthorne used a branch to obliterate their tracks in the dooryard, tossing the tree limb aside when he reached the steps. Then he perched on the stoop and removed his muddy boots. The smith’s prints on the porch planks might pass for Mrs. Holton’s, but his certainly wouldn’t.

  “Home Guard is in Aurivallis this week. Arrived day before yesterday,” she said. “Your timing isn’t the best.”

  Blackthorne froze. “Have they searched your farm yet?”

  “Of course they have. Wouldn’t have put out the laundry in this if they hadn’t,” she said, waving him inside. “You think I’m a fool?”

  The scent of grilled onions and rosemary filled the cabin, making Blackthorne’s mouth water. Tobias had collapsed into one of the chairs in front of the fire. He sneezed and wiped his nose on a damp sleeve. Blackthorne closed the door and then pulled off his soggy stockings on the rug so as not to track water on the clean floor. Already at the hearth, Mrs. Holton was spooning food into a bowl. She handed it off to Tobias.

  “Sergeant Brown is rather fond of my apple tansey.” Mrs. Holton turned her attention to a loaf of fresh bread, cutting thick slices. “No leavings this time, I’m sorry to say. But the better fed he is, the less likely he’ll give the place a thorough look. So, I don’t complain.” She balanced a bread slice on the edge of Freeson’s bowl. “Says no one with my hand at cooking could possibly harbor runners. They’d never leave.”

  Freeson shoved the food into his mouth with a contented moan.

  “Do come to the fire, Joshua. You’ve come a long way in the muck, and I’m not expecting any other visitors.”

  Blackthorne carried his muddy boots and stockings to the blue-tiled hearth and settled onto a stool half-facing the door. She gave him a bowl the moment his hands were free and set a mug of hot tea on the floor next to his bare foot. He breathed in the rising steam from the bowl, savoring the warmth.

  In the firelight, Freeson’s face appeared flushed. His voice had a nasal quality as he whispered, “Joshua?”

  When Blackthorne had first met Mrs. Holton, she’d insisted on giving him a name if he wasn’t going to offer one. Joshua Archer was as good as any other. She had introduced him to the townsfolk as her nephew. His skin was light enough that it hardly mattered. He assumed the real Joshua Archer was dead—if such a person had ever existed in the first place—and was unable to object. Ignoring Freeson’s raised eyebrow, Blackthorne took a bite of savory potato tureen. He couldn’t argue against Mrs. Holton’s culinary reputation. It was one of the reasons he relished this leg of the journey. After cold travel rations, anything hot would’ve been marvelous. As matters stood, it required strict control not to bolt his food. He reached for the warm mug.

  Mrs. Holton said, “That coat of yours looks like it’s ready for the rag men.”

  “It only needs repair and a wash,” Blackthorne said. He burned his mouth on hot tea and winced. “I’d be grateful for the loan of a needle and thread.”

  “They’re yours, as much good as it will do,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Blackthorne said.

  Freeson had another of his long coughing fits.

  “And I’ll brew some coltsfoot tea,” Mrs. Holton said. “I’m no healer, but it should soothe that cough.” She went to the door and pulled her shawl over her head. “But I’d best bring the laundry in first.”

  THREE

  The hidden room behind the fireplace was all of six feet by ten and windowless. It also smelled faintly of soured barley. The only furniture was a cornhusk-stuffed bed tossed onto the dirt floor. Regardless, the space was dry and, above all, safe. Blackthorne stationed himself next to the narrow door and then began to repair the rent in his filthy greatcoat by the light of a candle. He found sewing frustrating. The mechanics of it seemed simple enough, but it eluded him. He considered it but one of the many necessary skills in which he hadn’t been trained. However, the future for which he’d been prepared was different from the one in which he found himself. He was free. He told himself that this was the most important thing to remember. The more he tried to focus on the immediate as his training dictated, the more difficult it became to remain calm.

  The fireplace bricks were warm and scratchy against his back while he struggled with his frustration. Still, tension knots in his muscles brought on by weeks of extended vigilance began to loosen. With the immediate danger gone, he found it hard to keep his eyes open. He let them slide closed. Just for a moment. Do I have to fix the coat now? But he knew the answer to that question. Although he’d travelled with Freeson for weeks, he didn’t trust him. In truth, there were few people that Blackthorne trusted, including himself.

  “How long will we stay here?” Freeson asked.

  Blackthorne started awake, blinking.

  Freeson stood wrapped in three blankets and was holding a clay mug with both hands. His nose was red, and his eyes had narrowed to exhausted slits.

  “Two days,” Blackthorne said. “Perhaps three. It depends upon how long the Home Guard will remain in the area.” He continued sewing until he finished the last stitch, knotted the seam, and bit off the thread. Spitting, he tried to get rid of the taste of filthy wool. “They should move on to the next town soon enough.”

  Freeson looked relieved. “Oh. Good.”

  Blackthorne paused to examine his handiwork. The thread was brown, not black, and the stitches sketched an uneven, drunken line, but given the coat’s overall state, he didn’t think anyone would notice. Joshua wasn’t supposed to be prosperous. Therefore, all Blackthorne cared about was that the coat covered his back.

  Freeson let out a series of deep, chest-rattling coughs.

  “Take the bed,” Blackthorne said without looking up. “And try to keep quiet. I don’t know how much sound carries outside these walls. It will be good practice. There’s no guarantee the guard won’t return for an extra inspection. It’s happened before.”

  Downing the last of the coltsfoot, Tobias made a face. Then he stretched in pained movements. This brought on yet another coughing fit, which he covered with a hand. Blackthorne hoped Freeson’s illness wouldn’t become debilitating. The journey up the slopes of Grandmother Mountain was going to be difficult enough without carrying a delirious sixteen-year-old smith on his back the entire way.

  “Blackthorne? What’s it like in the Haunted Lands?”

  Blackthorne considered his answer. The truth of the matter was that he’d not seen much of Eledore—not since the war. The colony established in Jalokivi had been abandoned by the Regnum—or had vanished, depending upon which story one believed—not long after it’d been conquered. More than likely, like himself, Tobias would never venture much beyond what was considered the borderlands. “It’s cold.”

  “All the time?”

  Dredging up memories of the war, Blackthorne just as quickly tamped them down. “In spring and summer, it’s warm enough. The winters are hard.” The Regnum’s retreat had left a trail of broken-down equipment and frozen dead. That much of Eledore’s vengeanc
e, he’d witnessed himself.

  Tobias shifted, and the cornhusks crackled. “Aurelia said the Acrasian colonies disappeared overnight. No one knows what happened. Is Eledore really haunted?”

  “Quite a few el—Eledoreans live rough in the north. The plague didn’t kill them all.” Although it’d come damned close, from what Blackthorne had seen. In his opinion, Acrasia had disease to thank more than destiny for winning her war with Eledore. Of course, that hadn’t stopped the emperor from declaring otherwise. “Spirits weren’t to blame. Nor was it a curse. It was probably an attack. The rest is exaggeration.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen what was left behind.”

  “Oh,” Freeson said. “But the priests say the settlement was found abandoned, not burned. And there was no sign of battle.”

  “There could be any number of reasons for that. Eledorean domination magic, for one. Why fight when you can simply order your enemy out into a blizzard?”

  Freeson looked uneasy. “I thought that was just stories.”

  He knows he has magic. He’s hiding it. But what sort of power does he have? “Domination magic isn’t as commonplace among Eledoreans as the Regnum claims. It’s rare.” At least, that had been Blackthorne’s experience. So far.

  He’d never understood the priests’ conflicting logic. Either the Eledoreans were as powerful and evil as they claimed—the defence that the Regnum had used to justify genocide—or the elphs were the weak, less intelligent race deserving of slavery. He didn’t believe elphs could be both. Such reasoning stank of self-serving, slippery lies, and Blackthorne had no patience for lies.