Honor Bound (11 page)

The adept's head came up sharply,
like a wolf scenting blood.

Metal clattered as the guard's sword
arm dropped to its side. Its metal head turned from the elf to the
adept and back, as if it were uncertain where its loyalties should
lie.

Without thinking, the old man
reached out to Honor.

Starsong filled the room with silent
music. The elf gathered the silver threads and wove them into
strength and magic, life and youth. The old man doubted she would
think to ask what had repaired the severed connection. Starsong
came naturally to her kind, and like a beating heart required
neither thought nor choice to do its work.

Color crept back into the elf
woman's pallid cheeks. Her eyes cleared, hardened. Her gaze flicked
to the clockwork guard, and it raised its sword again.

Rhendish frowned and lifted his
knife. The wonderful, terrible work began anew.

The old man sank down on the window
ledge, stunned beyond thought. His hands trembled, but when he
regarded them by the light of the stars, they seemed less palsied
and frail than they'd been this morn.

For ten long years, he'd tried to
take power and magic from the elf woman. It had never occurred to
him, not once, to
give.

Starsong was a shared thing, flowing
from one elf to another as need arose. The old man had known that
once.

He'd been away from his kind for far
too long.

Rhendish and Volgo stood in
what was left of Muldonny's workshop, gazing through the opening
the explosion had made in the southern wall.

Before the raid a walkway
had connected the main fortress with the cliff-side tower. Most of
the stone, both the walkway and the arch that had supported it, had
shattered and fallen into the sea.

"That won't be easily
replaced," Rhendish murmured.

"No need to bother with
it," the captain said. "It has no tactical value. Shore up the
walls, fill in the shafts and tunnels. That'll keep the masons busy
until winter."

The adept nodded absently
as he moved over to the oubliette shaft. According to Honor, the
thieves had come up through this passage. But the workers who'd
gone down on ropes to clear the rubble and retrieve the bodies of
Muldonny's men had reported finding a smooth and solid floor some
thirty feet down.

Either Honor was lying to
him, or the young dwarf lord who'd befriended Fox possessed
stoneshifting abilities beyond anything Rhendish had thought
possible.

"This wall will go up
easily enough," Volgo said, running a hand along the jagged edge.
"When is Mendor taking possession?"

"First thing tomorrow, I
believe. The sooner, the better, in my opinion."

It had taken all of
Rhendish's influence to have Mendor named to the Council of Adepts.
Of all the alchemists Rhendish had trained, Mendor showed the most
aptitude for the alchemical weapons that had made Muldonny so
effective.

And unlike Muldonny, he had
little interest in exploring elven lore and magic. That was a path
best left untrod.

Rhendish joined his captain
at the broken wall. Below the curve of the cliff, dark water surged
and brooded, tossing white sprays over rocks that rose from the
coastline like jagged teeth. According to witnesses, both Fox and
Honor had fallen when the explosion shattered the walkway. Rhendish
did not see how anyone could have survived the fall. But Honor had,
so perhaps the thief lived. And if the solid stone filling the
oubliette shaft was any indication, the dwarf had also
survived.

Volgo frowned and folded
his arms, his gaze fixed on the old tower.

"What is it?"

"I talked to a dozen people
who saw a fairy shot out of the sky. Most of them claimed the
arrows came from the tower."

Rhendish immediately
grasped his point. The tower door had not been opened since the
raid, which meant that no archers had been stationed there that
night.

"An illusion," he murmured.
"So it would seem the fairy survived, as well. We'll need to bring
her in."

Volgo snorted. "I don't see
how. They say fairies can look like anyone."

The adept did not
appreciate his captain's insolent tone , but there was enough truth
in his words to silence the rebuke that leaped to Rhendish's
lips.

"I figured there was a
fairy about," Volgo said in a tone ripe with disgust. "All these
City Fox stories. Wasn't natural, the way they caught on. Fairy
tales, the lot of them. "

An idea stirred and began
to take shape."We might not know what the fairy looks like, but if
she's behind the City Fox stories, one might reasonably assume
she's been haunting storytelling venues. She may continue to do
so."

Volgo stroked his newly
beardless chin. "There's sense in that. I'll have my men collect
storyspinners. Iron chains have a way of sorting the humans from
the fey folk."

"You can't arrest storyspinners,"
Rhendish snapped. "This is Sevrin. The people wouldn't stand for
it. They need to gather of their own volition. We'll invite them to
a festival in my manor."

"You've never shown any interest in
storyspinners before. They're likely to be suspicious."

"Then tell them I have an honored
guest—a famous bard of some sort—who wishes to hear Sevrin's
stories and songs."

"I don't see them buying that at the
asking price, either," Volgo said. "They're going to know who the
famous bards are and where they're working."

"My point precisely! Find out who
most impresses the storyspinners, get what information you can
about the bard. Create a plausible lie." The adept held up a hand
to forestall Volgo's next argument. "See to it."

Some dark emotion flashed in the
captain's eyes, but it disappeared before Rhendish could put a name
to it.

"As you wish," Volgo
said.

"Begging your pardon,
captain?"

Two of Volgo's men stood in the
hall. The captain motioned them in.

"We found a man who says he pulled
the City Fox out of the water after the raid," one of the men said.
"Dorn, a fisherman."

"That's good news," Volgo
said.

"It gets better. The thief made
contact yesterday. He wants to hire Dorn to take two men and a girl
to the mainland. Offered him a small fortune to do it."

"Tell him to take the money and make
the arrangements. Send three men to pick up the
thieves."

"I doubt we have three willing to
go," the man said. "Beorn and his men were found out behind a
warehouse, deader than pickled herring. People are talking about
the City Fox again. They're saying—"

"I don't want to hear it. If you
don't think three men are enough to do the job, send four. Or five.
Just get it done."

The man responded with a crisp nod
and strode off. His comrade, a young man whose stocky frame tested
the seams of his tunic, shifted uneasily from one foot to
another.

"Well?" said Volgo.

"We got the tower open, like you
said. But the top room was empty."

"Empty?" echoed Rhendish.

The man glanced his way. "Some
wooden cases, my lord, like they have in the curiosity houses, but
nothing in them. There are a few small trees and bushes growing in
big pots. That's all. They're saying—"

Volgo took one menacing step
forward. The man fell silent.

"If I wanted gossip, I'd listen to
my wife. Do you see her here? Short woman, curly blond hair, two
chins?"

The man's throat worked as he
swallowed. "No, captain."

"And what do you surmise from
that?"

"You don't want to hear
gossip."

"Good man. But since you're set on
telling stories, I've got a job for you . . . "

* * *

Nimbolk's palms itched for the feel
of a dagger's hilt, and the need to kill sang through his blood
like a wolf pack's hunting howl.

The wooden scaffolding in the hall
beyond the work room provided an ideal place to watch and listen.
He'd spent the night clearing out the tower and the better part of
the morning in the fortress, moving quietly along the timber
rafters as he waited for Rhendish and Volgo to arrive. In Nimbolk's
experience, humans seldom looked up.

The man who'd led the attack on the
Starsingers grove was within Nimbolk's reach, and he had no choice
but to walk away. If he was to find this Dorn before Volgo's men
did, he couldn't linger. The Thorn, not revenge, had to be his
priority.

Volgo would die by his own
aurak-hilt sword, but not today.

* * *

Stories could be very useful things.
The tiny island known as Faunmere might be a popular spot for
summer trysts and berry picking, but the first sign of sunset color
sent visitors scurrying for their boats. According to the
storyspinners, no place in all of Severn was as haunted, and no
ghosts as vengeful.

Thinking of the stories lifted the
hair on the back of Fox's neck, even though he knew that Vishni has
"improved" most of the tales almost beyond recognition.

He kept glancing at the foam that
gathered at water's edge, half expecting it to rise and take the
shape of a drowned man. The soft clatter of branches shifting in
the wind brought to mind restless bones.

Fox shifted his perch on the tree
and scrubbed one hand over the back of his neck, resisting the urge
to glance over his shoulder.

Dorn would be here soon, if he came
at all. Fox didn't think the fisherman would sell him to the
adepts, but if he did, Fox would see the betrayal coming. From his
perch he had a clear view of the water between Stormwall and
Faunmere, and the sheltered cove where the fisherman would drag his
dory ashore.

The moon rose over the silhouette of
Muldonny's fortress. Fox supposed it should be called Mendor's
fortress now, but he doubted the new adept's name would stick any
time soon.

A strong hand clamped onto the
collar of his tunic and pulled. Fox tumbled backward, arms
flailing.

He crashed from one branch to
another. Once he managed to grab a handhold, but the slender branch
broke without slowing him down much. He landed hard and lay where
he fell, too winded to do more than wheeze.

The tip of a dagger pressed against
his throat. "Where is the Thorn?"

Fox slid his gaze toward the
assailant. Judging from his tree-climbing ability and his slender
build, he was a young man. The hood of his cloak cast deep shadows
over his face, but Fox felt fairly certain he'd never seen him
before. Even so, there was something familiar about the way he
formed his words.

He thought about denying knowledge,
but suspected this would merely waste time. "I don't have
it."

The knife twitched. "You lie.
There's elf magic about you now."

"How can you—" Fox's eyes widened
with delight. "You're an elf! That's wonderful!"

A moment of silence passed. "Why?
Apart from the obvious reasons, of course."

"Well, to start with, the island is
haunted. I could have been tossed out the tree by a giant skeletal
rat."

The elf eyed him for a long moment.
"Your reaction was genuine. Your explanation is foolishness. There
is a reason why you were pleased to encounter one of my kind, but
you are not ready to share it. So be it." He sheathed the dagger
and rose to his feet. "You might as well stand."

Fox wasn't sure he could, but he
managed to drag himself upright. When the world stopped spinning,
he saw the elf loosening the strings on the bag that had hung from
the back of Fox's belt. The bag that held his amulet.

Fox lunged for it—

He never saw the blow coming. The
next thing he knew, he was sitting on the ground blinking away
stars.

The elf held Fox's amulet, tipping
it toward the sky to catch the faint moonlight. For some reason,
Fox felt none of the compulsion that forced him to fight Delgar for
the amulet.

"How did you do that?"

He glanced down at Fox. "The magic
is elfin. The runes are not. What is their
significance?"

"It's the mark of Eldreath, the
sorcerer who ruled Sevrin."

"I have heard of this man. I had not
heard that he had knowledge of elfin magic. When did he come to
power?"

Fox had to think that over. "Seventy
years ago? Maybe more."

The elf nodded as if he had expected
to hear this. "Where is this Eldreath now?"

"Dead. The adepts killed him nearly
twenty years ago. But there's another sorcerer in Sevrin, which is
why we need to get the Thorn far away."

"By 'we,' do you mean you and some
comrades, or you and me?"

Fox shrugged. "Whatever works. I
promised to return the dagger to the elves. If you're here to take
it, you've saved me a trip."