Shattering the Ley (48 page)

He needed to be able to move if he was going to get out of this and back to Morrell.

“Stop cursing and help me,” one of the men growled.

A figure knelt down beside him. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could smell him. He reeked of the river, of fish, and the shit and slime of the alleyway.

“I’m bleeding. The board cut me up good when he ripped it away.”

“That’s your own damn fault,” the man kneeling beside him said, then glanced up. Allan caught the profile of a broken nose, a cheek scarred and pocked, with ragged stubble. “Are you holding him, Tery?”

Something pressed down on Allan’s chest and arms, as if a heavy blanket had been thrown over him, although none of the shadowy figures Allan could see had moved.

“Well?” the leader spat.

The figure at the edge of Allan’s vision shifted. “I’ve got him. I think.”

“You think?”

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him! Just get on with it.”

The leader grunted and motioned the third man forward. “Let’s see what this bastard has for us, shall we?”

As the third man settled down on Allan’s other side, shaking one hand and still wincing in pain, the leader began sorting through Allan’s clothes.

Allan tensed, clenched his jaw as the leader reached into an inner pocket—

And then he heaved up, throwing off the heavy blanket, a fist shooting out, catching the leader with the broken nose hard in the face. Bone cracked and blood splattered as the leader roared in surprise and fell backward, but Allan didn’t wait for him to land. His other hand had gone for the short sword at his side. He drew it and swung as he rolled into a crouch, cutting the third man, the one who’d nailed him with the board, across the stomach even as the man cried out and lurched away. Allan felt the blade bite deep, then turned his attention to the leader and the other man who’d hung back near the edge of the alley.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

The leader held one hand over his face, blood gushing from between his fingers, his breath coming in harsh, fluid heaves. He glared at Allan, his hatred tight across the skin beneath his eyes. “I thought,” he said, his voice low, like a growl, “you had him held down.”

“I did,” Tery said from behind him.

“Obviously not!”

“I did! He slipped out of it somehow. The ties I used to bind him just slid free. They rolled right off of him!”

To one side, the third man had fallen onto his back and now lay still, emitting short, ragged gasps as he whimpered and mumbled to himself. Allan risked a quick glance in his direction, saw him clutching at the wound in his stomach, his face strikingly pale in the gloom, beaded with sweat and rain, his clothes stained black. The sharp scent of blood and stomach acid lay beneath the drizzle, tainted with an underlying reek of shit. A dark pool began to spread from underneath his body.

“Oh, gods, Lars, it hurts! He cut me good! Lars? Lars, it hurts bad, it—”

He drew in a sudden deep breath, as if surprised, and let it out in a long slow sigh. One hand slipped from his stomach and fell to the alleyway with a thick slap.

Allan turned back to Lars. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

Behind, Tery grew still and gasped, “Baron’s balls, Lars, he’s a Dog.”

Lars’ eyes flew wide, true fear crossing his face, settling in the corners of his eyes, but then those eyes narrowed, took in Allan’s clothes, his sword, his stance. “No, not a Dog. Why would the Baron send his Dogs to East Forks? There’s nothing here the Baron’s interested in.”

“But they’ve been seen all over the city lately, even in Tallow. What if they’ve sent someone in to sniff things out? What if—”

“Enough!” Lars spat. “He isn’t a Dog!” But the fear in his eyes hadn’t abated. He smiled uncertainly. “But he was a Dog once, wasn’t he?”

Allan’s hand clenched on the handle of his sword. He brought his other hand across his bruised stomach with a wince, then swallowed, tasting a sourness in his mouth. “Leave,” he said, and heard the tremor in his voice.

Lars heard it as well. His smile widened and he pulled the hand covering his nose away from his face, glanced down at his own blood and snot coating his fingers, then back at Allan. New anger sparked beneath the fear and he wiped his hand on his breeches. “I don’t think so. You’ve killed my friend here, and I think you need to pay for that.”

He drew his own sword, the blade narrower than Allan’s, with a slightly longer reach, but older and not as well taken care of judging by its dullness and the nicks in its edge. The style of the hilt suggested it was from the Demesnes, which made Allan wonder how Lars had gotten his hands on it.

Perhaps the same way he’d managed to get Allan cornered in this alley.

Allan rose from his crouch, hand falling away from his stomach. Fresh pain flared, but he could already feel himself sinking into a calmed state, his breath slowing, aches and bruises receding into the background, his body already slipping into the default stance of the sword. Lars slid into a similar stance—

Then he moved, unexpectedly, sword striking in a classic Temerite style, fluid and swift. Allan reacted without thought. Training kicked in even as he registered a moment of surprise and a thin frisson of fear—Lars was trained—then he seized the man’s movement and used it to his advantage, parrying the sword with a clash of metal on metal and carrying the force off to the side, slipping beneath Lars’ defenses and slashing hard across Lars’ other arm. Lars hissed as Allan’s blade bit into his bicep, deep enough to draw instant blood, but he stepped forward, raised his free hand and shoved Allan hard, bringing his sword around and cutting low along Allan’s thigh as he stumbled back.

Allan came up hard against a stone wall with a grunt, then pushed away, raising his sword to block another strike as he lurched toward the center of the alley, seeking space to maneuver, room to fight back. He felt a twinge in his side as he spun and caught Lars’ sword again, metal scraping as he drove the strike down and away. Even as he moved, feet slipping in the mud of the rain-slicked alley, his fist drove forward for another punch to Lars’ bloodied face.

He missed Lars’ nose, struck his cheekbone instead, but it staggered him. He stumbled back with a howl, Allan seizing the moment to take control of the center of the alley. Tery had moved to the far end, near the entrance, his back up against the wall, his face open with blatant fear. He didn’t look like much in the greater light near the street—tall, thin, dressed in clothes as worn and ragged as Lars’. He didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons larger than a knife.

Allan brushed him from his mind, focused on Lars again. The thug had regained his balance and now glared at Allan from his own position, seething, rage replacing everything else in his expression, all of the fear and hesitation gone. He was pissed, and not because Allan had killed the other thug. He was pissed because Allan had bested him. And he’d done it in front of Tery.

They glared at each other, both breathing heavily, Lars’ more phlegmy and less controlled, but Allan’s strained. His bruised abdomen had begun to take a toll.

“Leave,” he said again, the word harsh, filled with command.

Lars sneered, then attacked. Not a charge—his training wouldn’t permit that—but Allan countered, grunting with the effort, his strength ebbing. Swords clashed, strike and feint and parry, and at every opportunity Allan drove his fist into whatever opening presented itself: a thigh, lower back, chest, upper arm. Lars cried out, managed to slice Allan again across the chest, the wound barely drawing blood, and Tery watched it all from the entrance to the alley.

“Help me!” Lars barked at one point. “Help me, you bastard!”

But Tery only shook his head and muttered, “I can’t. It just slips off of him. I can’t hold him. I can’t even touch him.” His voice shook with effort, sweat and drizzle rolling down his face.

Then Lars slipped in the mud of the alley and Allan seized the opening, driving his sword down into the thug’s side, an inch beneath his ribs.

Lars gasped. His free hand rose halfway toward the blade embedded in his side, his eyes catching Allan’s one last time, still burning with hatred.

Then he collapsed, Allan’s blade slipping free. He tried to roll away, body arching. His sword dropped from his weakened hand and Allan kicked it away, but the action was unnecessary. Lars was already dead.

Allan turned slowly toward Tery. The thin man watched him warily from the alley’s entrance, still breathing hard. Allan felt a pressure against his arms, his chest, his neck, but at each fumbling push the pressure slipped away, like folds of silk brushing across his skin.

“You can’t touch me,” Allan said. “Not with the ley, or whatever it is the Wielders use.”

The pressure stopped. Tery swallowed once, eyes widening even further—

Then he bolted into the street.

Allan let his sword lower, watched the entrance to the alley for a long moment, listening for a shout, for a call to the city watch, but heard nothing except the dripping of the misty rain.

Morrell.

Heart leaping, the urgency from before the attack returning with a spasm in his chest, he wiped the rain and sweat from his face, cleaned his sword and searched the two bodies perfunctorily, taking a few coins but nothing else. Then he returned to the street, pausing only at the entrance to the alley to scan for threats.

Then he moved, fast, but not as reckless as he had before, his senses heightened. His stomach ached, the two cuts burned, but he shoved the pain aside, moving out of East Forks, across the bridge over the Tiana into West Forks, passing through streets and narrows. At a corner, he slowed, head bowed, as a group of Dogs passed by, and then he darted down the street behind the building where he’d rented a room. Entering through the courtyard gate in back, he moved through the hall to the front of the building, scanned the street outside but saw no one watching.

He turned to the stair and ascended to the second floor. When he opened the door to their room, Morrell turned from where she was sulking on the bed, her eyes angry and pensive, ready to protest her seclusion, but her indrawn breath caught in her throat as she took in his shirt stained with blood.

Her eyes widened, and she leaped from the bed with a strangled cry of “Da!”

“It’s all right, Poppet, I’m fine,” he said, letting her hug him tight around the waist a moment before pushing her away slightly and moving to the single window, gazing out at the street below.

Morrell followed him, not willing to let go of his hand. “I don’t like it here,” she said in a soft voice. “I want to go home.”

Allan glanced down, saw the tears streaming down her face, the vulnerability there, and his heart twisted in his chest.

He should never have brought her with him.

Kneeling down, he wiped her face dry and kissed her on the forehead, hugging her close to his chest. “Three more days, Poppet. We can leave in three days.”

T
HE HOUND HAD
found Leethe within three hours of disembarking in Tumbor, had been following him for the past week. Most of the Baron’s activities had been uninteresting, duties that took him to various districts throughout Tumbor. The Hound had seen the old wharf, the massive trading grounds to the east, where caravans had once gathered for protection and to conduct business, the trading houses that surrounded the new ley stations, and the hulking granaries where Leethe and the other nobility stored most of their export goods. He’d investigated all of these locations thoroughly and found nothing. He’d searched the palace, the mistress’ residence, even the estates of the lords and ladies Leethe had visited since his arrival. Nothing.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, Leethe had deviated from his normal schedule. Instead of rising and attending to the mundane details of his responsibilities in Tumbor—passing judgment and mediating quarrels—he’d ordered a carriage and departed the palace for an unknown location along with an escort of enforcers and his chief enforcer, Arger. The Hound hadn’t been able to keep up with the carriage, hadn’t even tried. He’d followed Leethe’s scent to the base of the Flyers’ Tower instead, and discovered that the Primes and Wielders who had been sent to Tumbor to oversee the ley network in Leethe’s city had allowed the Baron to enter.

The shock when he realized Leethe’s scent passed through the tower’s doors had set the hairs on the nape of his neck prickling. He’d stood in the tower’s shadow, mouth twisted into a snarl, staring up at the subtle folds of vine and leaf that had been sown to create it. No one but the Primes and Wielders were allowed access to the towers or the Nexi, not even Baron Arent. The argument over access had been harsh and loud, but Prime Augustus had refused to back down and eventually, grudgingly, Baron Arent had agreed. The Nexi and the ley were declared sacrosanct. All Wielders and Primes swore fealty to Augustus, and through him Baron Arent. It was the only way to maintain the integrity of the ley system and to retain control of the ley for Erenthrall and Arent.

For Baron Leethe to have gained access to the Flyers’ Tower, he must have subverted some, if not all, of the Primes within Tumbor. It was the only explanation.

He needed to gain access to the tower. He needed to find out what Leethe and the Primes here in Tumbor were doing.

By the time he reached the base of the Flyers’ Tower, the sun had set, darkness settling over the city streets. Here in the heart of Tumbor, the walks were mostly empty, those who worked in the palace and the nearest trading houses already returned home. Ley globes lit the thoroughfares, the white lights steady, but the Hound kept to the shadows, halting only when the occasional group of pedestrians or Prime Wielders walked past. He didn’t halt for ley-driven carriages or carts, trusting the occupants to be preoccupied.

He contemplated the tall main doors, shaped like a leaf, coming to a point at least thirty feet overhead. He’d never attempted to enter the Primes’ precincts, not even in Erenthrall. He didn’t even know if the doors opened in the traditional manner.

With one last glance up the tower’s side, the entire building glowing with veins of pale white tinged a slight green, he ascended the wide steps, keeping to the rounded half-wall on one side, where the shadows were deepest. When he reached the tower, he paused, scanning the street below in both directions, then slipped to the center of the doors.

The handle was in the shape of a curling vine, even though it had petrified after its sowing. He reached forward, gripped it tight, then pulled.

The doors didn’t move. But he felt a tingling in his hand, one that was familiar.

The Tapestry.

He sent a small surge into the handle of the door, felt the power within hesitate, as if testing him, tasting him, and for a moment he thought what little power he had would not be enough.

But then the door gave, nudged outward by the pressure he’d exerted.

He pulled it open enough to slide through, then closed it behind him.

Inside, he shifted to the edge of the room as he scanned the interior. A single huge ley globe hovered far overhead, near the apex of the arched and vaulted ceiling. The round foyer contained three doors, the stone floor a smooth pattern of twisting vines. The Hound drew in a deep breath, scented the hundreds of people who had passed through the room, along with all the varied incense and other odors that had mingled here. He filtered through them all, found the one that mattered—Baron Leethe—and stepped toward the door on the left.

It led to steps heading down. The Hound paused to listen, heard the murmur of voices from behind, beyond the foyer through one of the other doors, but nothing from below. He descended, his hand loosening one of the knives hidden about his body. He breathed in and out steadily, concentrating on the scents. His blood heightened. He recognized a few of those who had accompanied Leethe: Chief Enforcer Arger the most prominent; a few of the other enforcers that Leethe kept close. He growled low in his throat at this further betrayal by the Primes, but continued, ignoring the corridors that opened up on a few landings. He judged he’d circled to the northern edge of the building before the Baron’s scent broke away from the steps into a central room.

The Hound hesitated, breathing in deeply, but no one had passed through here recently. He stepped into the new room, realized that the architecture had changed. The walls were formed from the reddish-brown rock of the surrounding lands, molded by the ley, not the sown and petrified vines that had been used for the tower. Vertical slivers of ley light illuminated the room at regular intervals. Three more corridors branched off from this room, but the Baron had only traveled through one of them.

The Hound frowned. If his sense of direction hadn’t been thrown, this new room and the corridor beyond led away from the tower.

He glanced back up the stairs, then started toward the new corridor, halting at the edge of the door when he heard voices approaching. He slid to one side, back against the wall, knife now cupped loosely in the palm of his hand, and quieted his breathing and heart. There were no shadows here, no places to hide. He would have to rely on inattention and his skill with the Tapestry.

A heartbeat later, two Primes emerged from the corridor, arguing intently. The Hound tensed. But neither Prime turned, too focused on their argument. They passed through the room and into the tower beyond without turning, their voices fading as they ascended the stairs.

Relaxing, the Hound headed down the corridor, lit in the same manner as the room, moving swiftly. He wouldn’t be able to remain unnoticed if someone came down the corridor now; the hallway wasn’t wide enough. As he moved, he estimated his location in relation to the tower, realized the underground passage led across the thoroughfare to the north of the tower and beneath a park. He hadn’t paid much attention to the park in his attempts to follow the Baron, except to note that the gates to the park had been closed and sealed. Now he wondered why.

He slowed as the hallway came to an end, sensing a massive chamber beyond, lit with a much more intense source of ley than that in the corridor and shivering with an immense power he could feel vibrating in his bones. He shielded his eyes, heightened his sense of hearing and smell, and stepped to the edge of the room.

The corridor ended in a short landing that circled around a massive cavern, the floor dropping down to another, wider ledge of stone encircling a pit. Stairs led down to the lower ledge on the left and right.

But it was the pit that held the Hound’s attention. It was filled with ley light, so intense he couldn’t look at it directly. But he could see sheets of ley undulating back and forth, arching outward and curling back, captured and refracted through prisms of crystal, edged in various colors as it moved and shifted. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, exotic and beautiful and pulsing with so much power he could feel it throbbing in his blood, crawling across his skin. All of the hairs on his arms were standing on end, tingling, and his teeth shuddered, the sensation excruciating. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away from the mesmerizing lights, scanning the ledge below, noticing Primes scattered about, their attention fixed on the display before them. Some had their eyes closed, their brows creased in concentration; others appeared to be meditating. A few were arguing as they motioned toward the pit.

And then it struck the Hound what he was seeing, what this display of ley must be: another Nexus, one to rival that in Erenthrall. Tumbor had its own Nexus, of course, built by Augustus and the other Primes when the ley was first harnessed here in the southern city, but that Nexus lay in a different part of the city, and from what the Hound had seen from the outside, was perhaps only half the size of this one.

His grip tightened on the knife in his hand and he struggled with the urge to descend to the ledge below and begin killing the Primes immediately. He’d taken two steps toward the stairs before he seized control, his plan of attack on the Primes already half formed. But his orders weren’t to kill. Not yet. His orders were to gather information.

His lip curled into a snarl of disdain. Hounds were not meant to be spies, they were meant to destroy. His nose twitched at the remembered scent of blood, at the ecstasy that overwhelmed him when the prey was located and the bloodlust took over. He shuddered as he suppressed that urge yet again, growled as he twisted himself away from the pit and the victims below, retreating back down the corridor toward the tower.

He needed to find a ley station. He needed to touch the ley lines so he could report back to his handler. Baron Arent would want to know what Leethe had done, what he had created.

And then, the Hound thought with a vicious smile, perhaps he would be fully unleashed.

He could smell the Baron’s blood already.

Allan drew the flatbed wagon to a halt before Vanter’s warehouse, scanning the street on all sides as he did so. One of the two horses snorted and stamped its foot, not liking the stench of East Forks. Allan agreed. He also didn’t like the shadows in the alleys created by the heavily overcast day. It wasn’t yet noon, but the cloud cover darkened it to nearly dusk. Rain threatened, but so far the black clouds hadn’t broken.

He shifted in the wagon seat, making certain that the eyes he could feel prickling against his neck knew he carried a sword, then jumped down to the broken cobbles of the street and rapped on the wide loading doors of the warehouse. Movement registered in one of the alleys, and he thought he caught the glint of a blade. A frisson of fear and the stark memory of the attack three days before returned, tightening his shoulder blades and making him shudder, but then the doors rattled partway open and Allan turned to find Vanter peering out.

The broad-shouldered man grunted as he recognized Allan, surprise flickering across his face even though Allan had returned the day before to ask about the medicinal herbs and to verify he would pick up his other purchases today. Vanter had appeared nervous and distracted, but he’d found the herbs and everything was set for the pickup. Now, the black market dealer glanced up and down the street, ignoring the alley where Allan had seen movement, before locking gazes with Allan.

“You’ve got transportation, I see,” he said, but he didn’t move to open the door further.

Allan touched the pommel of his sword and frowned. Something wasn’t right. He thought of Morrell, hidden in the flat in West Forks, of the rest of those in the Hollow who were depending on him to bring back what they needed for the winter. He’d already sunk most of his remaining funds into this deal.

Swallowing his unease, he said, “And the money. Are we going to deal or not?”

Vanter grimaced, but pushed the door open further, motioning him inside. “Bring your wagon inside. We’ll load it up for you.”

Allan nodded and climbed back into the seat. He flapped the reins and tsked the horses into motion, shooting one last glance at the shadowed alley before passing into the warehouse. Two of Vanter’s guards pulled the doors closed behind him, Vanter waiting at the far end, beside his desk. The goods that Allan had purchased were stacked before him. Allan pulled the wagon to a halt again and slid from the seat. As he moved toward Vanter, three of the man’s guards emerged on Allan’s right side, the two who’d closed the doors coming up on his left.

Allan’s eyes narrowed and he fixed a hard look on Vanter. “What’s going on, Vanter?”

Vanter smiled. “A business transaction, nothing more. Just . . . not the transaction you were expecting.”

He stepped to one side, and from the deeper shadows of the warehouse, Hagger appeared.

Allan’s reaction was instantaneous. Even as his stomach lurched with dread and horror tightened his chest, he reached for his sword, drawing it in a smooth, soundless motion while dropping into a defensive crouch. He backed up against the wagon, gaze darting toward Vanter’s men. But none of them made a move, their expressions blank, their gazes fixed on the floor. None of them looked at Allan, or at Hagger.