“Our Brothers?” he managed to murmur once they were out in Tarkin’s Square, a broad expanse of normally sun-drenched pavement fronting the massive pile of buildings that was the Carnelian Dome, seat of the Tarkins of Imrion.
“Detained.”
Hernyn listened in growing disbelief as Alkoryn told him of what had passed within.
“But-did you know this of Dhulyn Wolfshead?”
Alkoryn shrugged. “It’s rare for the Marked to become Mercenaries, and Seers are the rarest of the Marked…” His whisper died away. “There’s nothing in the Common Rule about such a thing. Nothing to tell us what to do or, or what to think.”
“Is she still…?” It was so unthinkable Hernyn couldn’t bring himself to say it, but fortunately Alkoryn knew exactly what he wanted to ask. And he knew the answer, too.
“Of course she is,” he said. “Brotherhood ends only with death.”
But for all that, there was something troubling the older man, Hernyn could tell that much.
The streets near the Dome were much more crowded than Hernyn would have expected, given that it was late and just beginning to rain. As they turned into the avenue that would eventually lead them to the Great Square and their House, they ran into a group of men blocking almost the whole of the way. Hernyn stepped forward.
“If we may pass?” he said.
Several young men, and one not so young, stepped back out of the way with nods. What I wouldn’t give for a horse, Hernyn thought as Alkoryn returned the nod of a bearded shopkeeper he obviously knew by sight. And what’s a silk merchant doing here? Hernyn wondered, making his own assessment of the man’s clothing. They passed out of the quarter of Noble Houses that crowded as closely as they were allowed to the Carnelian Dome and through the neighborhood of jewelers and metalsmiths. Here there were still shops, but these were the lesser trades: food sellers, weavers, cobblers, bakers, and the like. Though rain was falling more heavily, and the shops were closed and closing, there were still a surprising number of people, both men and women, on the streets at a time when most should be at home preparing for their suppers. Nor did they appear to be on their way home. Small groups formed and re-formed, and some, though talking in friendly enough fashion, kept looking over their shoulders. One tall fellow with a smith’s heavy shoulders and a familiar amulet around his throat, stared hard at Hernyn’s green cloak as they walked by.
Hernyn tossed back his hair to draw attention to his Mercenary badge, bared his teeth in a strained smile, and placed his hand casually on his sword hilt. And knew without looking that Alkoryn had done the same.
“If I were you, my Brother,” Alkoryn said, tugging at Hernyn’s dark green cloak once they’d left the smith behind, “I’d think about getting something in a different color.”
“It was a good price,” Hernyn said.
“And now you know why.”
As streets wide enough for two coaches became narrower and shorter, they passed shops which were now closed for the night, and the small knots of whispering folk grew fewer, and farther between. They were able to make better time here, and Hernyn had picked up the pace when Alkoryn spotted a woman in dark green creeping from doorway to doorway, taking advantage of every shadow the rainy evening offered her. As they drew near, she pressed herself into a doorway, turning her face away from them and waiting to let them pass. Hernyn was just thinking that she’d better hurry-curfew for the Marked was the setting sun, and with the rain it was hard to prove that the sun had not already set-when Alkoryn signaled to him with a quick finger snap and stopped in front of the woman, effectively shielding her from any others who might pass by.
“Korwina Mender,” he said, his soft whisper making it perfectly safe to say her name. “I thought you were gone from Gotterang.”
Seeing who it was, the woman looked up, but didn’t leave the deep shadow of the doorway. “Your advice was good, Charter, but we left it too late. We were turned back from the gate.”
Hernyn winced at a sudden bad taste in his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Korwina, that can’t be good,” Alkoryn said.
“So we thought, and it’s followed by worse. I’m to present myself and my family at the Jaldean High Shrine tomorrow morning.”
Alkoryn shook his head. “Do they know your family? How many…?”
“If they don’t, there’s plenty of my neighbors will tell them.” The woman’s tone had no resentment, no bitterness, Hernyn noticed. They’d got used to this kind of thing in Gotterang. She shrugged. “They’ll have to, to save themselves. Still, I’ve been going round now, to my best customers, to see if there’s any will hide my children. If they’re not there tomorrow, the Jaldeans can’t take them, no matter what tales the neighbors tell. But no one dares.” Again, she sounded as if she didn’t blame them. “They don’t know, you see, what the Jaldeans may do to us once we’ve gone to them. They can’t risk that I might tell…” the Mender drew in a shaky breath. “That I might tell where my babies are hidden.”
“Send them to us,” Alkoryn said.
Hernyn looked up in surprise.
“Come to Mercenary House.” Alkoryn’s voice sounded harsher than usual. When the older man turned to him, Hernyn had had time to school his face.
“You go with her, my Brother, make sure she and the children are safe and none see you. Your Brothers in the House will know what to do with them. Tell your Brothers further what has occurred at the Dome; tell them to bar all doors and gates, and to make the lower chambers ready. Then join me yourself at the Dome.” Alkoryn looked off into the middle distance, as if he were listening to some music only he could hear. “Tell them that if we are not back by sunrise, Fanryn Bloodhand is Senior.”
“But, Alkoryn-”
“I’m a fool, Hernyn, I’ve been too long with my maps. The time for counsel and waiting is passed. Go now, do it quickly.”
His mouth suddenly dry as sand, Hernyn nodded, and stepped round to take the Marked woman gently by the elbow.
“Waste no time,” Alkoryn said. “In Battle.”
Hernyn touched his forehead. “Or in Death.”
“The Caids bless you,” the Mender said in the ancient way, “the Sleeping God hold you in his dreams.”
“Someone’ll have to,” Hernyn muttered, as he followed the Mender woman down a narrow corridor between two buildings. She did that well, he thought, almost like a Mercenary. It was surprising what people could learn when they had to.
Tek-aKet, Tarkin of Imrion, stood a long time at the window of his private room, watching his reflection dance on the rain dripping down the panes of glass, and running his fingers from time to time against the five words scratched there by some unknown ancestor’s jewel. Like Dhulyn Wolfshead, he did not know the language, though he also thought he could draw the letters from memory.
The sound of the door latch drew him around, and made the old dog sleeping in front of the fire raise its eyelids.
Larissa-Lan, junior page for this old tower, and therefore the one who usually brought whatever was required to the Tarkin’s private workroom, entered balancing a tray with practiced ease on her left hand. On the tray, along with cutlery, linen, and a breadbasket, was a heavy ceramic dish whose close-fitting lid barely the contained the familiar odors of a wine sauce.
“Here we go, sir,” said the young woman, smiling. “Still hot, and unsampled, though I had to threaten Kysh with a beating.”
“What is it?” Tek asked, though he thought he knew.
The page looked up in surprise. “Why, your favorite, Lord. Kidneys in jeresh sauce.” She advanced on the worktable, set down the tray, and laid out a heavy place mat for the hot dish. Beside it on the right she placed a crisp napkin folded in the shape of a crane, along with one of the new silver forks, and arranged the small breadbasket to the left.