When True Night Falls (25 page)

Toshida was waiting by the boarding ladder, just as Damien had said he would be. Whatever guards or aides-de-camp he might have brought with him were still down in the boat, out of sight and hearing. That was good. Men who had to save face in front of their inferiors were a lot more dangerous.

Rozca made sure that none of his own people were nearby, then greeted the Lord Regent. “Your Eminence. This is an honor. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for two people. I believe they may be on board.”

“Two of my passengers? Or crew?”

“A priest named Damien Vryce. And a Sanctified woman who accompanies him. Have you seen them?”

Then again,
Rozca thought,
sometimes it’s nice to have a god help out. Just to smooth things over a bit.

“No,” he said at last. Committing himself. Knowing what the result would be. “No, I haven’t.”

“But you sent for their things. Verda?”

He shrugged. “His Reverence asked me to. Said they might want to travel. I didn’t ask for details.”

“So you’re expecting them.”

He shrugged again.

He could feel the anger rising from the man, like heat off a sun-baked sidewalk. “Yes or no, Captain Rozca.”

“Lord Regent. With all due respect, Father Vryce and his friends are free to come and go as they please. Without reporting to you, me, or anyone else. Isn’t that the case?”

“Yes or no, Captain Rozca.”

He met the man’s gaze head-on, coarse bravado versus polished stubbornness. A lifetime at sea and in coastal barrooms had taught him how to stare a man into the dirt, and he applied that skill now with relish.

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “Can’t help you.”

“You’re making a serious mistake,” Toshida warned.

“Maybe,” Rozca agreed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “But it’s my right to make it.”

“I could search the ship, verda? I’d get my answer then.”

Rozca spat on the deck; not because he felt the need to, but because it seemed an appropriate gesture. “Yeah. You go ahead and do that. But before you start, make sure I get a copy of your Writ of Search and Seizure—that is the right document, isn’t it?—because now that we have visas proper we’re subject to all your laws, aren’t we? Including protection of privacy. At least that’s how I understand it.” He paused. “And if I remember your constitution aright, not even the Lord Regent of the Five Cities is above the law of the land. Verda?”

The narrowed eyes fixed on him, dark with fury. It might have driven back a lesser man, but Rozca stood his ground. Praying, as he did so, that Damien had guessed right about their legal system. If not ... well, then they were all in really deep shit now. Starting with him.

At last the Regent snapped, “I’ll be back.” And without further word he lowered himself down over the side, and onto the boarding ladder.

Rozca felt himself breathe a sigh of relief as he watched the man descend to his waiting boat. Not that it was over yet, but at least the worst part was done with. The part he had dreaded the most.

When the small boat was safely in the distance, he turned to look for his pilot and first mate, only to discover that they were already beside him. Waiting.

He turned to Tor first. “Crew on board?”

The first mate nodded.

“Supplies?”

“Believe so. Enough for a month at least, what with no passengers on board. I’ll check.”

“Do that.” He turned to Rasya. “You find out the range?”

“Mercia claims ten miles,” she responded. “After that it’s free water.”

“Then I want us eleven miles out, as fast as we can get there. Faster than that man can dig up a writ and get back to us. You understand?” She nodded. “You know what’s riding on it.” Again she nodded.

“All right, then. We’ll sail the kind of route we would if we had two people on board who needed to go south, very quickly and very quietly. Understood?” Rasya nodded. The first mate muttered, “Aye, sir.”

He gestured a dismissal and the two went off to work. The thought of setting out to sea again was not unwelcome to any of them; he only wished the decision had been made under better circumstances.

With a sigh he turned back toward the shore and leaned against the ship’s rail. “All right, Vryce,” he muttered. “There it is. What you wanted.” He sighed again, deeply. “I just hope you know what the vulk you’re doing.”

Mels Lester wasn’t a particularly brave man. If asked to describe himself, he probably would have come up with a list of adjectives that included
nervous, hesitant,
and even
downright cowardly.
But when a friend asked you to do something and said that it was a matter of life or death—and when your sister said she’d lock up the liquor cabinet and smash any bottle you brought into the house if you didn’t help him out—well, then, you just did it. And tried really hard not to think about the consequences.

Thus it was that he found himself at the city gate along with Tyria and eight horses, showing his papers to the guard there and praying that no one would look too closely at what they were carrying or how they were carrying it. Not that a local would know the difference. Mercia’s pack animals were too small for riding, so how would they know that the heavy leather saddles strapped to one of the horses didn’t have to be resting on four woolen blankets? And maybe they wouldn’t notice that the windbreaker Mels was wearing was over a considerably heavier jacket, and that over a thick woolen sweater. (All assuming the sweat rolling down his face didn’t give him away). As for Tyria, she had a pack slung across her back that was big enough to be carrying not only the gear they needed, but a month’s worth of camping supplies as well. Add to that a staff here, a hunting knife there, and it was nothing short of a miracle that the guards didn’t stop them. But Father Vryce had said they wouldn’t, and after all he was a priest ... so maybe it was a miracle after all.

“You see?” Tyria whispered as they led the horses through the gate. “That was all right.”

So far,
he thought unhappily. At least the Regent hadn’t come. He had sent Toshida a note to come join them, inviting him to see the horses put through their paces. He had been sure the Regent would be here, despite Damien’s assurance that the man would have “other things to do.” And while Damien could possibly have kept up a pretense in the face of such a man, Mels would surely have folded. So thank God the Regent had been busy.

They set up a temporary camp just out of sight of the city gate, far enough from the main road that few travelers would notice them. There he was able to disrobe at last, piling his excess garments alongside Tyria’s collection of smuggled bits and their own equestrian equipment. They took turns then, one of them walking several horses while the other stood guard over the supplies. The animals were still stiff from their travels, and it took a long while for the natural grace of their gait to return to them; Mels judged it would be some time before they were ready for a more demanding workout. Still, it was good to see them out here, and he took comfort in the healthy sheen of their coats, their obvious pleasure in being outdoors at last. Soon enough their strength would come back to them, and the thought of what a man like the Regent would pay once he saw the animals galloping full out was enough to make his head spin.

He had taken his second turn out in the fields when Tyria said to him, “Come on. It’s time.” And she nodded toward the west, where the sun was rapidly setting.

They bundled the clothing and extra provisions on three of the horses: a sleek black creature with crescent-shaped hooves whom Mels coveted desperately (but Gerald Tarrant had refused to sell), a dun-colored mare whose mane extended down exotically about her shoulders, and a powerful dappled gelding with massive triple hooves and a thick, coarse coat.

Between the city and the terraced farms there was a narrow road, and they followed this southward until they came to a place where trees obscured their view of the city. There they rested, and permitted the horses to take water from the narrow stream paralleling their path.

“Maybe they won’t come,” Mels worried.

“Shhh.”

The light surrounding them began to fade, shadows lengthening about the trees. Soon the creatures of the night would come out. Soon the gates of the city would be locked. Hell, where were they?

And then there was a rustling behind them and Hesseth stepped out. Not Hesseth as they had seen her in Mercia, all hidden behind long robes and mock-human mannerisms, but Hesseth as she had traveled in the west: tightly clad in layers that fit her like a second skin, colored like the earth that surrounded her. Her eyes were black, wide open to the coming night; her ears, tip-tufted, pricked forward as she saw the horses.

“I’ll take them,” she said, and she gathered up the reins of the three laden mounts.

“We brought what we could,” Tyria told her. “Damien said not to go near your own stuff, or ask anyone else about supplies, so we had to guess a lot....”

“You brought the horses, which was the most important thing. We couldn’t have gotten near them without being seen.”

“Why’d you have to sneak out?” Mels demanded. “What happened?”

The rakh-woman looked at him, then shook her head. “The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

“Damien said that,” Tyria agreed.

“Where is he?” Mels asked.

“Checking out the currents,” she said smoothly. “He’ll be here soon.” A merciful lie. She didn’t want to tell them how badly shaken Damien was by the events of that day. Oh, he had held himself together long enough to Locate Hesseth, and had mastered enough fae to keep the two of them Obscured while they climbed the city’s circumference wall. But afterward? It was like a dark cloud had descended on him. Mourning for the corruption of his faith, perhaps. Or guilt over having waited so long to prepare for flight. Maybe both at once, she thought; humans were like that.

She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the distant city gate. “They’ll have changed the guard by now. No one should notice that you’re coming back with fewer horses than you left with, or minus some supplies.” She paused. “We can’t thank you enough.”

“We stand to make a fortune here,” Tyria said frankly. “That’s Damien’s doing. Tell him thanks from us.”

“And good luck,” Mels added. “Wherever you’re going.”

If that was a hint for more information, it went unnoticed. “Thanks,” Hesseth said simply. Offering nothing more. It was safer for all of them that way.

As Mels and Tyria led their horses back toward the city gate, Hesseth went over the situation in her own mind. The city’s research facilities were lost to them now. Any day the Matria might see through their little deceit and launch a pursuit in earnest, which could involve other cities and even the southern Protectorates. They had some supplies—thanks to Mels and Tyria—but most of the bits and pieces that Damien had packed for traveling were somewhere between the Manor and the
Golden Glory.
The priest was in a dour mood. Tarrant was clearly on edge about something. And it was a good bet that their enemy knew they were here.

“Good luck?” she whispered, with a bitter laugh. “Assst! We’re going to need it.”

Jenseny ran. South at first, because she figured they wouldn’t be as quick to search for her there. North were the farms, the flat-lands, all gentle terrain and shallow rivers, a far more welcoming land than that which she had chosen. She imagined they would be searching for her there, expecting that a child, like water, would naturally flow toward the point of least resistance. South were the mountains, harshly forested, a tangle of cliffs and trees covered over in places with matted vines that clung to the canopy and blanketed the landscape in half-lit gloom. But there were few faeborn creatures in the great woods—most preferred to hang about the northern cities in the hopes of catching unwary travelers, or of breaching the warded walls through sheer force of numbers—and she was more than a little afraid of the sunlight anyway, so the southern woods were good enough for her. Good enough for now.

There were other Protectorates to the south, she knew, strung out like beacon lamps at intervals along the rocky shore. At first she thought she might find sanctuary in one of them, but the concept of dealing with strangers—any strangers—chilled her to the core. In her newborn terror it seemed that such men were not individuals, but mere fragments of a greater whole which had cast her out, condemned her, and now sentenced her father to die a gruesome death for having dared to shelter her. They were Other, and she was....

Alone.

So alone.

She dreamt of her father. Some nights the dreams were good, bits of their life together replayed in all its loving intensity. But waking up from those dreams was a little bit like dying, because it meant rediscovering that he wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to be there, not now and not ever again. More often the dreams themselves were bad. Some were nightmares proper, gruesome replays of her confrontation, distorted imaginings of what his death must have been like. Then there were others, even more frightening—dreams in which her father was his normal self but she was not, dreams in which she screamed at him, screamed at him for leaving her and for not being there for her and for daring to die when she needed him so badly, oh so very badly.... Those were the dreams that upset her the most, and she lay afterward on the damp loam shivering with guilt and shame, feeling like she had somehow betrayed his love without quite knowing how.