Chapter 10

I should never have come back, Cathan thought. I should never have left the cave.

It had been safe there. His life had been quiet and free of confusion. Now everything he thought he knew was wrong. If only the damned scholar hadn’t come… if only he hadn’t listened to Fistandantilus… if only he’d insisted on remaining behind. If only he’d been content, long ago, to follow the Kingpriest’s orders and never question him, like most of the empire did.

But he had listened, he had left, he had questioned, and it had led him here, to this dark, close tunnel far beneath a place where men bought and sold other men, and did so in the name of the gods. Here, to where the sister he’d always adored was plotting against the man who once had been his best friend, his lord in body and spirit. Here, to where nothing made any sense any more.

Wentha’s brow was furrowed, her eyes intense. Tancred and Rath looked at the floor, but she met Cathan’s gaze easily, a hint of challenge there. Idar and Gabbro and the other rebels barely existed for him.

Cathan—” she began, but he cut her off.

“When were you planning to tell me about this?”

There was more anger in his voice than he’d expected, a lash he didn’t know was there. She flinched beneath his words, and Rath looked up, wary and protective. Tancred looked like he would have been happiest if the floor split open and swallowed him.

“When we got to the Lordcity,” Wentha replied. She reached out to touch his arm, stopped when he pulled back. “We only came out here to meet with Idar, for a few moments. We would have been back in the palace now, if you hadn’t followed us.”

“I’m taking an awful risk here, Twice-Born,” said Idar. “I’m trusting you not to tell His Holiness about us, about this place, because your sister insists you’re a good man.”

“You’re also hoping I’ll help you,” Cathan snarled.

The ruffian nodded. “Yes.”

“We mean to abduct him,” said Wentha. “To show him the pain he’s caused, without his sycophants and advisors there to pour poison in his ear and call it honey. We want to make him reconsider and repent, not to harm him.”

Cathan glanced at the others, saw the way they looked at one another, and knew they didn’t all share that sentiment. Many of Idar’s men would be more than happy to see Beldinas dead—on their own swords, if possible. Gabbro’s eyes burned at the prospect.

“And if he doesn’t repent?” he asked. “What then?”

Wentha shook her head. “We’ll… we’ll deal with that if it happens.”

“This is a war, Twice-Born,” Idar cut in. “There might not be any armies on the field, but that doesn’t change things. The Lightbringer is the enemy.”

Cathan shook his head stubbornly. “None of you will ever get close enough to take him,” he said. “He won’t get close enough to any of you, to—oh, Palado Calib.” He stopped, staring at them, understanding dawning in his mind.

“No,” said Idar, a wicked smile curling his lips. “We won’t.”

Wentha turned away, the pain on his face too much for her to bear. He wanted to grab her and shake her, to shove her aside and leave them all behind and go somewhere far away. But he knew Idar’s men wouldn’t let him. He’d get three paces, and they’d riddle him with crossbow bolts. They might do it anyway, if he showed reluctance to go along with their plans.

Cathan couldn’t remember feeling so weary. He’d spent half his life trying to stop fanatical men like this.

“I won’t answer you now,” he said. “I need time.”

The ruffians grumbled, looking at one another.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Idar said. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, resting there easily. “I can’t let you go back to the Lightbringer if there’s a chance you won’t help us.”

Cathan shrugged. “There is a chance I won’t help you. Would you rather I lied and told you otherwise?”

Gabbro growled, his ugly face twisting. Idar rested his free hand on the dwarfs shoulder, a grin curling his lips, “Well put, Twice-Born,” he said. “Right, then… you’ll have your time to think it over. But know this—if you give us away, and the Hammer comes after us, they’ll take some of us alive, for questioning. And they’ll find out about your beloved Blossom, here. She’ll go down with the rest of us, and get sold in a market like the one up there.”

Rath’s face darkened, and he growled low, his saber sliding two inches out of its sheath before Tancred caught his arm, shaking his head. He shoved back, and the two brothers struggled with each other until Wentha glared at them.

“Stop it, both of you.” She looked back at Cathan, then at Idar. “You needn’t make threats like that. I knew the danger when I first started working with your fellows in Lattakay. I tell you, my brother won’t betray you.”

“He must do better than that,” Gabbro grumbled. “If he doesn’t help us—”

The sound of running feet cut him off. The ruffians turned toward the source of the noise, echoing down the hall. Crossbows came up, blades came out. Idar drew his own sword and waited; so did Rath. Cathan grabbed his sister and pushed her behind him, jerking his head to tell Tancred to follow her.

The footsteps grew steadily louder, making a frantic cadence, now joined by the sound of labored breathing. All at once a young lad—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen summers old, and pale enough that he mightn’t have seen the sun in all that time—came pelting around the corner, then slid to a stop with a cry at the sight of so much steel pointed at him. He made a strangled noise.

“Branchala’s balls, Larl!” Idar swore. “You just about got about a half-dozen new holes in you!”

The boy, Larl, was panting hard, and couldn’t answer at first. He stared at Cathan, the familiar look of shock and recognition on his face. The boy had grown up on tales of the Twice-Born, a figure who had vanished from the world well before he was born. When Cathan turned his unmistakable eyes on him, though, he was forced to quickly look away.

“What is it, damn you?” Idar insisted.

Larl shrank back. “It’s them,” he said. “The Hammer. They’re out in the streets, looking… and they got something with ‘em.”

Idar’s mouth became a tense line. “What kind of something?”

“Hound of some sort,” said the boy, who had to be a lookout. “But no kind of dog I ever seen before. It’s big and silver, and looks like someone made it out of… water, or something.”

Idar let out a scoffing laugh. “Let them use as many dogs as they want,” he said. “We’re safe down here. The Hammer haven’t found these holes yet, and they’re not going to now.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Tancred. His face was white.

Cathan had to agree. “That creature with them is probably something of Beldinas’s. Who’s to say what it can’t do?”

Gabbro spat something in Dwarvish. It was, evidently, a fine language for cursing. Idar thought quickly, signaling to his men to disperse. “Alert the others,” he said. “Those knights come down here, we’ll give ‘em an Abyssal fight.”

“It’s us they’re looking for,” Wentha said, as the ruffians hurried to obey. “We’ve been missed. Get us back to the surface quickly, and they don’t need to find out about you.”

Idar didn’t like it—he gave Cathan a long, uncertain look—but he managed a nod. “You’re right,” he said, sighing.

“We’ll need a story,” Rath said. “They’ll want to know why we’re out in the city at this hour.”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Cathan said. He turned to Idar. “Do you have any wineskins down here?”

The baying of the yethu hurt Tithian’s ears. The sound it made was like no animal he’d ever heard before, though when he shut his eyes he could nearly imagine it as some sort of cross between an eagle and one of the great whales the mad captains of Seldjuk hunted for oil. There was something else about it, too—something that sounded like the lowest string on the world’s largest dulcimer, hammered by someone with an ogre’s strength. Every whooping shriek loosened his bowels and shook the bones within his flesh. He hoped the beast would find the MarSevrins soon, if only to end the racket.

It loped on ahead of him and the other knights, its paws leaving glistening puddle-prints on the cobbles. Its hide—or surface, or whatever one called it—rippled and eddied as it moved fast, stopping to wait for its two-legged companions whenever it got more than a few blocks ahead, and then letting out another one of its ear-shredding cries. Its eyes glowed like lanterns as it turned to stare at the knights, waiting impatiently for them to catch up.

They’d crossed half the city already, the yethu making an ungodly clamor the whole way. The windows of the buildings they passed glowed with light as men and women, roused from sleep, looked out to see what in the Abyss was going on; the curses on their lips evaporated… they withdrew, wide-eyed, when they saw the men of the Hammer running down the street, following the strange hound. Stray dogs fled before them, and feral cats yowled and sprang for shelter. Still there was no sign of Cathan or his kin. If the animal was following their spoor, it was something it alone could sense. After a while Tithian had to admit he was well and thoroughly lost. If the yethu left him too far behind, he would have more than a little trouble finding his way back to Dejal’s palace.

“Where’s this thing leading us?” asked Sir Xenos. He was breathing hard, his jowly face slick with sweat—a man who had spent too much time in the feast-hall and not enough in the sparring yard. “I thought it was supposed to be a good tracker.”

Tithian shot him a glare, but said nothing. He’d been wondering the same thing, only a moment before, but he would never admit it. The Grand Marshal didn’t question the Kingpriest’s wisdom—at least, not in front of his men.

The yethu bounded around a corner, then stopped, another skirl ringing off the surrounding buildings. When Tithian and the others joined the creature, they found it had stopped at a portcullis of snow-wood, inlaid with twining veins of silver. The church’s triangular symbol hung upon it, above a pair of manacles. Tithian skidded to a halt, staring at the gate, the cages visible through its bars.

A grimace creased his face. He had never approved of slavery, though he’d agreed at the time that the Kingpriest’s arguments in its favor made sense. He’d tried to keep away from the markets, wherever possible. He went to the arena at the Lordcity only when protocol demanded it, which was mercifully seldom. He’d forbidden anyone in the knighthood from owning another man. And yet the Divine Hammer still took a part in the sad business: They arrested hundreds of new blasphemers, idolaters, and heretics every month, at the behest of the Araifas. Most of these ended up on the block, to become gladiators or servants or laborers. Some would repent, and join the church, as the law provided, but most remained slaves the rest of their lives.

But what was the yethu doing here, of all places? Tithian stared at the animal, which faced the gates, as intent as any hunting beast he’d ever seen, its opalescent teeth bared.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Come here, you.”

The platinum hound paid him no mind. With a sudden yap, it leapt forward, and passed through the bars… emerging on the other side. It started to run on, then stopped, turning back again to whine at the knights.

“What?” grumbled Xenos, “Does it expect us to do that too?”

There was a chain holding the gates shut, and a lock on it. The captain of Chidell’s city guard would have the key, and probably Lord Dejal, too. But they were both back at the palace, and Tithian’d be damned if—

He stopped, starting. The lock was open.

Warrior’s instincts prickled his scalp. His sword hissed as he drew it out of its scabbard, and his men followed his lead. Biting his lip, he reached out with his free hand and pushed on one of the doors. Creaking, it swung open. The yethu took off again.

He could feel the slaves’ eyes on him as he entered. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. The Hammer had brought them into slavery in the first place, in most cases, and they didn’t forget. More than a few would gladly seize the chance to take revenge. If the cages were unlocked…

The yethu yapped again, halfway down the market. There were other sounds, though—a woman’s cry of alarm, an angry shout, a curse. Tithian halted, signaling to his men, and peered ahead into the moonlight.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Tithian?” called Wentha MarSevrin. “Gods, is that you?”

“Get this thrice-damned thing away from us!” snapped another voice—one of her sons, Rath most likely.

The yethu had them both pinned up against a relief-carved wall, liquid lips peeled back in a snarl Lady Wentha looked terrified, Rath somewhere between that and anger. He had his saber out, and held it before him to keep the hound at bay. Tithian wondered what good the blade would be against the beast, if it came to that.

As he and the other knights drew near, the yethu backed down, looking at him with expectant eyes. He held up a hand, ignoring its answering whine as he turned to Wentha.

“Milady, I apologize if the creature frightened you,” the Marshal said. “It means no harm to friends of the Kingpriest.”

The yethu seemed to think otherwise. It gave Rath a vicious look as he sheathed his saber again, growling deep in its throat.

“I’m glad for that, Lord Tithian,” Wentha said, shaken. “And I’m glad you’ve come. We need your help. It’s—it’s my brother.”

Tithian wanted to ask her why she was here, why the gate to the market had been unlocked—but no. Answers could wait until he found Cathan.

“Where is he?” he asked.

She led them to him, the yethu padding along beside. Soon more shadows came into view, huddled against the wall. With a ringing screech, the platinum hound leapt toward the shapes, then stopped an arm’s length from them, raised its head and howled, then exploded in a spray of silver droplets.

Tithian stumbled and the others cringed as the bits of the yethu rained down. The creature had been summoned for a purpose, and that was to find the Twice-Born and his family. After fulfilling that purpose; it had vanished.

Tancred crouched at the base of the wall, staring at where the hound had been a moment before. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, his face as white as the vestments he wore. He saw Cathan, sitting with his back against the wall, his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed. For a horrible moment, the Grand Marshal thought he was dead—then the Twice-Born opened his mouth and let out a deafening snore. “He’s drunk!” Tancred said.

Tithian could smell the wine from where he stood. There was an empty skin next to Cathan, and dark red stains on the front of his tunic. A thin dribble ran from the corner of his mouth.

“Gods,” Tithian said, and turned to Wentha. “How did he end up here?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. We saw him leave the feast, and followed him. He was already in a bad state, yelling like a madman, and we couldn’t turn him around. He passed out here. We were going for help when you showed up.”

He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing.

“How did he unlock the gates?” Sir Xenos pressed.

“How should we know?” Rath snapped back. “They were open when we found him.”

“Lord Tithian,” Tancred pressed. “Did he know about the slaves?”

Tithian blinked, then shook his head. No, he supposed, Cathan wouldn’t have known.

“No wonder he got so upset,” Wentha said pointedly. “Come on. You have to help us.”

He looked down. Cathan was about to slump over on his left side. Tithian bent down and steadied him before he could fall. The reek of wine made his eyes water.

“Please,” Wentha pressed, “he doesn’t deserve this humiliation. He’s your friend, Tithian. If someone should spot him in this state—”

Tithian sighed. She was right—Cathan didn’t need the shame of being discovered drunk in the slave quarters. They could fill in the details later.

“All right,” he said, and slid his arm around his former master’s shoulders. Straining, he helped him up. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”