Читать книгу The Empty Throne - Cayla Kluver - Страница 13
ОглавлениеTHE TRAIL OF THE ANLACE
I gathered my belongings and returned to the streets before the sun had risen, using the exit into the alley to avoid encounters with any of the residents of the Fae-mily Home. The day was wet and gray, and felt somehow colder than if it had been snowing. Rain had a penchant for slithering under clothes and against skin that snow couldn’t rival, and I had been feeling the damp more acutely since the loss of my magic. Water had reverted to treating me like everyone else.
As the sun blinked its dreary way into the sky, shop owners threw drifters out of alleys; coughs and sneers rose in a dissonant chorus; and foul-smelling citizens leaned against lampposts and building-fronts puffing on cigarettes—poor person’s smokes that had none of the richness of traditional tobacco and thus reeked far worse. I hurried along in an effort to avoid unwanted gazes, the cigarette smoke fading as the din of the river mounted.
An enormous marble bridge situated in the center of the city spanned the river to connect the two sides of Tairmor, and I slowed to behold it. It served a practical purpose for transportation, but its origins delved far deeper into human history: it was a memorial to the soldiers who had died during the Faerie-Human War generations ago. In order to put an end to the interracial conflict, my people had created a boundary—known as the Bloody Road—to prevent nonmagical beings from entering our Realm. The use of our elemental connections to earth, fire, water, and air to suit that purpose had been so powerful that it had devastated the enemy’s forces, destroying bodies beyond recognition, and sometimes reclamation, and scattering limbs across a wide swath of the Balsam Forest. The Bloody Road was the barrier that kept me from reaching home.
By this time the rain had stopped, and I stepped foot onto the monument. I ran my hands along one of its railings, fingering the etchings that reminded me of the love carvings surrounding the entrance to the Great Redwood in Chrior. The bridge was inscribed with the names of every soldier who’d been lost in that final battle. How often did it inspire the humans to think of and honor those who had died? Or was it just a stark reminder of our actions? Indeed, the hatred that had lingered between the races had been the impetus for Queen Ubiqua’s marriage to William Ivanova, the Governor’s elder son. But not even the magic of the wedding mage had been powerful enough to see him safely across the Road. He had died trying to cross it, desirous of living with his wife, who was pregnant, in the Realm of the Fae.
Despite this tragedy, Wolfram Ivanova had remained staunchly pro-Fae in the ensuing years, believing if not knowing that a grandchild might have been born to him. But though the Governor’s policies and laws were pro-Fae, not all the people in the Warckum Territory agreed with him, just as not all the Faerie people supported Queen Ubiqua’s goal of peace with the humans. For me, this was no abstract concept, for Illumina had followed in her father’s footsteps and was among the dissenters. My back muscles convulsed with phantom pain at the thought of my younger cousin, and I hurried across the bridge, periodically glancing over my shoulders, my anxiety resurfacing.
At long last, I trekked through a quaint residential area and into an adjacent business district, where a bell in a steeple atop a church spire announced the time to the residents of this part of the city. Up ahead rose the massive stone dam that diverted the course of the Kappa near the West Gate. I could already feel the dampness of the river spray against my skin.
Activity in the city had picked up considerably, both along the road by which I drew near to the West Gate and over the bridge from the south that had been the location of Shea’s and my arrest. Carriages and convoys rattled under the thirty-foot-high passageway, its doors swung wide to provide for two lanes of traffic and then some. Numerous Constabularies were on duty, trying to keep order, but despite their efforts, angry shouts rose with frequency from those eager for admittance but lacking in patience.
Dodging traffic and horse droppings, I scurried to the base of the wall that surrounded the city. The gate’s architecture made a shadowed alcove where the curve of the guard tower met the stone-lay, and I dropped my pack in its protective cover before inching around for a better view of the guards. I was looking for a robust fellow slightly shorter than me with a round face and a swagger to his walk.
The scarlet-clad Constabularies worked in pairs, and I found myself staring at the backs of those closest to me. One member of a duo would check papers and enter information in a logbook, while the other scanned wares and equipment for irregularities. Those folks who passed inspection were pushed into the city like tagged cattle; those under suspicion were taken by other guards for further questioning. I examined the men in front of me, but all were too tall to match the image I had stored in my memory. One in particular was almost twice my height, and as thick as a bull—not someone I’d want to cross.
Needing to get a look at the Constabularies on the other side of the road, I weighed my options. I could fight through the mass of people, horses, carriages, and wagons, or try to gain some height and a viewpoint. I studied the tower next to me from top to bottom. There were battened windows just above my head and crevices in the mortar large enough for my fingertips. I ran a hand over the stone surface to check that it was coarse enough to provide some grip, then swung my cloak off my shoulders and deposited it with my pack.
If there was one side effect of growing up with the ability to fly it was that I had no fear of heights. I fitted the toe of my left boot between two stones, found a handhold above my head, and launched myself upward. Body pressed close to the tower, I lodged my opposite foot on the window ledge and redirected my momentum toward the sconce bolted into the stone over it. After grabbing on to it for support, I pulled myself up to balance on the top of the window frame above the heads of the swarm.
The Constabularies across the thoroughfare stood out from the drably dressed travelers like the dragon’s blood sedum flowers used by nesting snowbirds did against the white landscape of winter. I screwed up my face to make out the guards’ features, but with each one I studied, my disappointment grew. Then I spotted a straggler near the opposite tower. He looked the part by his height, stature, and strut; but it was when his eyes widened and he pointed at me that I was sure of his identity. It was the same expression he’d worn when he’d realized Shea was wanted by the law.
He yelled something incomprehensible, though it was likely the name of one of the guards on my side of the gate. At least the bull-like one whipped around with a massive scowl, his forehead so creased it formed a cross pattern. He started toward me, and in the shock of the moment, I released my handhold, lost my footing, and tipped backward.
I had always loved the sensation of falling, of slipping through insubstantial air toward the solid arms of the earth, but I hadn’t much experience with full-force landing. My arms pinwheeled in an attempt to replace my missing wings, but I hit the cobblestone shoulders first, head snapping to follow, the rest of my body close behind. I coughed and wheezed, certain my lungs had collapsed. Then the pain hit me, and I sucked in air. My head pounded, my back smarted from tailbone to neck, and a burning sensation resonated to my elbows. Worst of all, panic was shooting through me, riling every pore in my body. Run, I commanded my muscles. Get up and run. I moaned and rolled laboriously onto my side, my legs curling into my chest. Either my brain wasn’t sending the right signals or my body was ignoring them. I covered my head with my arms as though that would protect me, and struggled to withhold tears. At least I had not fallen where hooves and wheels would squash me.
“All right?” a man with a deep voice asked, his shadow encasing me where I lay on the ground.
My heart pounded out my fear, loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony around me. Though I wanted to pretend he wasn’t there, I forced myself to turn my head and look at him. The bull-guard was kneeling near me, a mixture of worry and exasperation on his face. When he saw that I was conscious, he rolled his eyes and held out a hand. I stared at him, not quite believing he would help me.
“Come on,” he ordered. When I didn’t move, he grasped the collar of my tunic and stood, hauling me up with him. He brushed off my clothing, then held a hand up a few feet from my face. “How many fingers?”
I concentrated, narrowing my eyes to bring the blurred image into focus, then squeaked out a response.
“Three?”
He laughed, the sound rolling up from his chest as though from a deep well.
“It may not feel like it, but you’ll be fine. Just find a place to sit for a while. And if you want to cause trouble, go to the South Gate.”
He turned me about and gave me a slight shove. Still a little wobbly, I retrieved my pack and cloak and scampered away at the best pace I could manage, thanking Nature that the guard hadn’t been inclined to arrest me. He had, in fact, been rather kind.
Shaking uncontrollably, I trudged a few blocks to a bench in a less crowded area and sat down, unexpectedly inundated with thoughts of my father. I wanted him to be the one to pick me up. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and comfort me. It felt like I’d been alone forever; more than that, I hadn’t felt safe or protected or connected since the hunters had attacked me.
“Still ain’t sure of your smarts.”
I sprang to my feet and whirled around, fighting my resulting dizziness to gaze into an enormous pair of brown eyes in a hollow, dirty face.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped to the young boy I’d met in the alley. “Have you been following me?”
“Not followin’, just noticin’.” He smirked and rested his forearms on the back of the bench I’d just vacated. “Saw when you showed up ’ere. This is my turf, ya know.”
“Your turf?”
“Where I makes me livin’.” He opened his coat and patted an inside pocket, setting it to jingling.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a thief, are you?”
“Wouldn’t say that. I’m more of an entrepreneur.” He pronounced the word carefully, proud to be showing off his vocabulary. “I just lightens the load for a few stuffed shirts. No ’arm in that—they got plenty to spare.”
I was struck by an urge to scold him. “At your age, you should be in school.”
“Plenty of schoolin’ to be had on the streets.”
“Just how old are you, anyway?”
He puffed out his chest. “I’m twelve.”
“No, you’re not.” My thoughts went to Shea’s youngest sister, Marissa. “I’d guess nine at the most.”
“Papers say twelve. And that makes me twelve.”
I laughed. This boy was spunky. “Did you steal those, too?”
“Got ’em nice and legal.”
“If by legal you mean from a forger.”
“Paid the man, di’nt I?” A touch of belligerence had entered his voice; then he took off his hat and scratched his head. “If I was to bet, I’d say you got forged ones, too.”
I gaped at him, too surprised to respond. His manner reminded me of Tom Matlock, for I’d never been able to fool him, either. I decided it was best to change the subject.
“Well, Frat, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. So go ahead and continue with your work. I wouldn’t want to prevent you from earning a living.”
“Nah, you’re not fine. You’re too stupid to be fine. What d’ya think you’re doin’, drawin’ the ’tention of the Scarlets? Thought sure I’d ’ave to save you again with my slingshot.”
I gritted my teeth, temper flaring, for he was now scolding me.
“Look here. I’m not stupid, nor do I need rescuing. I have good reasons for being here, not that they’re any of your concern. So just get on your way.”
“Suit yourself. But take this and find a place to ease yourself a bit.” He grabbed one of my hands and closed my fist around something cold and hard. “I’ve been ’avin’ a good day—not sure you can say the same.”
I stared at the coins he’d pressed into my palm, but before I could say anything, he slapped his hat back on his curly mop of hair and slipped away. I stared after him, shaking my head slightly and marveling at how self-reliant he seemed to be. Then I tucked the money into the pouch at my hip, glad for the gift if not for his opinions.
Though it would have been nice to take Frat’s advice and find a place to “ease myself,” I was more determined than ever to go after the Anlace, especially now that I had spotted the guard for whom I’d been searching. I headed for the West Gate a second time, careful to stay within the throng, wary of being seen by the large guard who had picked me up after my fall. Once more I settled into the shadow of the tower where I’d laid eyes on the man I sought. He had moved closer, but was still working, waving tourists and itinerants every which way, and I crouched down to wait.
The afternoon dragged interminably, and acid ate away at my empty stomach. When at last the sun began to descend, and the traffic in and out of the city slowed considerably, my target emerged from the guard tower. He was burrowed so deep in a fur-lined coat that his face was hardly visible, but at this point, I could have recognized him by the pomposity of his stride. The fur of his coat stuck out oddly, clinging to its neighboring fibers, looking more like it might be seeking the Constabulary’s warmth than vice versa, and yet he clearly enjoyed the power and prestige inherent in his position. I doubted he was a man who would listen to reason when it came to the Anlace—I feared I might need a different approach from a conversation.
Yanking my cloak close around me, I started after him, keeping to the edges of the streets. I followed his barrel-like form through the nearby business district and into narrower, little-trafficked residential neighborhoods. The lack of people was a boon to keeping sight of my target in the fading orange glow of the sun. When the Constabulary turned to cross the street we’d been tracking, I ducked into an alley next to a community bathhouse that obligingly disguised my presence with the steam that seeped through the cracks in its paneled exterior. Peering around the corner, I saw him turn up the walk before a small home with a single peaked roof. Knowing he was about to enter, I stepped out of my hiding place and strolled in his direction.
The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, and I nearly cursed aloud when the door was opened from inside by an elderly woman. Concentrating, I tuned in my ears to catch their voices.
“You keep too many damn keys,” the woman sniped. “Keep so many you end up trapped outside buildings rather than gettin’ in ’em.”
“The keys are for work, Mum,” the guard muttered, a strong note of bitterness in his tone.
He shoved past her into the house, and the door thwumped shut. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to solve this conundrum. I had never considered that the guard wouldn’t live alone. But although he shared the house with his mother, this didn’t change my ultimate plan. I still had to confront him and recover the Queen’s Anlace. The task had just become more complicated.
I darted across the street and into the deep shade of an awning that extended over one of the home’s windows. I hid my face in the fabric of my hood and exhaled, enjoying the brief warmth it created inside the covering, then stilled my body. At some point, I crouched down and then sat, secure in the belief that no one would notice me in the gathering darkness, shrouded in the alcove I had chosen like a wraith. While I waited, I fretted over a plan. Maybe I could get something that would knock them out? Sneak into the house and incapacitate them both while they were sleeping?
At the sound of raised voices coming from inside, I pulled back my hood to improve my hearing, but the words were indecipherable. They were, however, definitely unpleasant, and it came as no surprise when the front door banged open. It was the old woman, wearing a coat and shawl along with an expression so sour she might have swallowed quinine.
“I’m off to me friend the grocer’s,” she squawked over her shoulder. “Since you don’ like the food on the table, I s’pose I’ll have to cook new.”
She slammed the door shut and toddled away, and I held my breath until she’d disappeared down the block. I couldn’t believe my luck—she hadn’t locked the door, and, judging by the silence that now reigned inside, her son had been left alone.
Limbs quivering in anticipation, I rose to my feet and stepped onto the porch. I crept toward a window from which warm light streamed, pressing my back to the wall. When I worked up the courage, I stole a peek at the home’s interior. My quarry was in the kitchen, where a table was laid with dinner, but judging from his actions, he didn’t expect the meal to be resurrected. He gathered silverware and tossed it toward the sink, ignoring the knife and fork that clattered to the floor. After dousing the lamp on the table, he headed down a hall and out of sight.
Scanning the layout of the house, I spotted a tall closet that opened into the hallway, its door ajar. Deciding it would be better to subdue him than to argue with him, I untied the sash from around my tunic, steadied my nerves to the best of my ability, and quietly opened the front door. I skittered across the room, taking in the odor of a burned dinner, and slipped into the closet.
“Back already, Mum?” I heard the sarcastic call from the deepest region of this tiny home. “I figured you’d be out all night proving that real men appreciate you.”
I slowed my breathing, my heart threatening to catapult up my throat. Footsteps announced the guard’s approach when no response was forthcoming.
“Mum?”
He stopped just past the closet where I hid, at the juncture of the hallway and the main room, and I was able to peruse his form up close. He might have been shorter than me, but he was stocky and well muscled—it would take little effort for him to crush me. I swallowed hard. If he saw me before I had the chance to restrain him, I was ruined. Briefly closing my eyes, I gathered my courage. Then I smoothed the sash in my hands, wrapped it once around each palm, and eased the closet door farther open.
The guard still lingered a few steps from me, and I sprang forward, throwing my hands over his head and snapping the sash tightly around his neck. He made a desperate grunting, wheezing sound that might have been a shout had I not pulled the sash tighter. He clawed at the strip of fabric cutting off his breath but never thought to attack me instead. He lurched, knocking over a chair and a plate of spoiled food. I struggled to keep a fast hold, almost climbing onto his back. He spun, then wobbled on his feet, finally dropping to the ground. I released the pressure of the sash, not wanting to kill him, and checked for a pulse. The steady rhythm of his heart confirmed I had only rendered him unconscious.
I picked up the chair he’d toppled, and, panting, hauled him into it. The sash was still about his neck, and I tied it to the spokes of the chair back. My eyes glued to the man, I hastened to the closet for my supplies, and yanked free my rope. He still hadn’t moved, and I wasted no time in better securing his arms and legs.
The guard’s breath was ragged, but his eyelids were flickering—he would come around soon enough. What else should I do before he woke? Spotting the napkins on the table, I picked one up, folded it lengthwise, then tied it tightly over his eyes and around his head. I didn’t want him to be able to describe me tomorrow.
I shifted restlessly from foot to foot, counting the seconds, imagining every one brought his mother closer to home, brought me closer to discovery. This was the most reckless, flagrantly wrong thing I’d ever done. I’d attacked a relatively innocent man in the sanctity of his own home. Had my attack on the guard been politically motivated, there was no question the Anti-Unification League, as the human-haters in Chrior had dubbed their group, would have lauded me a hero. Was retrieving the Anlace worth the risk of becoming like them?
It was a bit late to ask myself that question.
My prisoner coughed and wheezed, and I instinctively moved behind him. His respiration was fast and painful, making me feel all the more guilty. Still, I had no intention of hurting him further—though I wasn’t about to let him in on that secret.
“Who the hell are you?” he rasped, his body stiffening. “What the hell do you want?”
I’d terrified him. As sick and nonplussed as this made me feel, it was a boon to achieving my goal. If I could keep him scared, he was more likely to talk.
The guard turned his head from side to side, trying to sense my presence. The loss of my wings and magic had made me clunky by Fae standards, but I was still stealthy compared with most humans, and he had no idea where I was. I leaned forward and put my lips to his ear.
“You stole something from me,” I muttered, deepening my voice.
He jumped so violently he almost tipped the chair for a second time, and I felt a rush of power unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I smiled, not from enjoyment but from incredulity—I was a slender sixteen-year-old female, and he could have snapped me in half given the chance. Surprise, stealth, and pain had given me a tremendous advantage over him.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he sputtered. “I...I never stole anything, not my whole life.”
He twisted his wrists against the rope that bound him, his wince telling me it was tight enough to burn his skin. Another thing I’d done well.
“Don’t lie,” I snarled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. My sash strained against his Adam’s apple, and he coughed. “You like shiny things, don’t you? You took a liking to a shiny little dagger with a ruby pommel. Probably thought it was worth a small fortune, but you underestimated its value. That knife is worth your life. Tell me where it is or I’ll prove its worth to you.”
“I don’t bloody know where that bloody knife is, bitch!”
I ripped my knife from the scabbard at my hip with a shink of metal, unexpectedly inflamed that he would dare to demean me for my gender. I should leave him a scar to remind him forever and always what bitches can do. But before I could decide whether to put the blade to him as a threat or as an act of violence, he wailed and whimpered, struggling to lean away from the sound he had heard. His bravery was gone.
“I sold it. I sold the damn thing.” His voice cracked at nearly an octave higher than its normal pitch. “I’m sorry for what I done, but I don’t have it no more. No need to hurt me. Oh, God, just let me go. I never meant no harm.”
“Who bought it?”
“Someone, someone...”
“A name!” I shouted, heedless of who might hear outside.
“A collector! A collector on the south side, his name is—is Sandrovich. Kodiak Sandrovich. He’ll still have it. I promise he will. Now let me go. My mother, she needs me. Let me go, for the love of...”
On impulse, I grabbed the money pouch that hung on his belt and pulled it free.
“For my troubles,” I sneered, heading toward the door.
“You can’t leave me like this!”
“Your mother might appreciate it.”
I went out into the night, glancing to my left and right before hurrying in the direction of the marble bridge. After a few blocks, the adrenaline coursing through my veins abated, and my legs began to shake, the enormity of what I had just done crashing down on me. I stumbled against a storefront and sank to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I no longer looked like myself or acted like myself. I was desperate, yes, but did that justify abandoning my principles? Should I have worked harder to come up with an alternate approach to reclaiming the Anlace? Or did the extreme importance of my goal justify my horrific methods? I did not know the answer to any of these questions. I only knew I was developing the ability to shut off my conscience in the name of practicality. And that filled me with a deep-rooted dread.
I raised my head and looked up at the stars, beseeching Nature for the wisdom I sought. But it was the voice in my head that provided an answer and further stoked my fear. What’s practical isn’t necessarily the same as what’s right. Wings have been cut off Fae in the name of practicality; people are executed in the name of practicality; and some even starve in the name of practicality. Pretty poor substitute for a moral compass.
I forced myself to my feet—staying in the vicinity of the guard’s house was hardly wise—and walked onward. I couldn’t help thinking I’d breached a barrier that might lead to all sorts of unconscionable deeds. Worse, having crossed it, I wasn’t sure it would be possible to turn back.
