Mar looked up sharply, but his eyes were firmly on hers, his gaze direct and open. This was no ploy to get her to change her mind; Gundaron was really worried about her, was really offering her a chance to think about it. It had all seemed so clear when she was explaining it to him around the corner from the Scholars’ Library. She couldn’t believe she was in any danger, but now she couldn’t help remembering what the Lionsmane had told her on the way to Gotterang. Anyone might kill you.
She dragged in enough air to fill her lungs. They’d saved her life. Dhulyn Wolfshead had killed someone for her. The Caids only knew what had been done to them in return. She owed them an explanation and an apology. Nothing changed that.
“Keep my pack for me,” she said, slipping the book bag off her shoulder and stepping out around the corner.
Gun watched her walk away, head high, step sure. Everything he’d said to her was true. It was better, and safer for both of them for Mar to go. But he felt like a coward just the same. Was there anything he could do to help her? Could he Find danger? He closed his eyes.
The Library. Something trying to reach him… he recoils. The green fog. The shelves and tables laden with scrolls and books form walls around it, keeping it away, keeping him safe. Gundaron looks at the book nearest him and sees a name. Mar-eMar. He puts his hand on it. Stay here. Stay with me. It’s safe here.
The rain was a bit heavier away from the shelter of the wall, and Mar hunched her shoulders against it, holding her cloak closed in front of her. Makes it less likely anyone’s around to see me, she told herself, hoping that it was true. She followed the wall down to its end and turned right. The street jogged to the left-something Gundaron hadn’t mentioned-and Mar’s heart thumped loudly as at first she saw neither the Mercenary House, nor the laneway that she was supposed to dodge into before she got there. But as she followed the street along, she recognized the arched entrance to the Great Plaza and breathed more easily. A man came sauntering out of the archway, and her heart skipped a beat until she saw that, though he wore a sword under his cape, he was far too well-dressed to be on any guard’s payroll. He was bareheaded, his hair cropped short, and his face was clean-shaven, revealing a tattoo of thin black lines over the left side. He acknowledged her with a shallow bow before he turned and walked toward the Mercenary House.
Cloudman, she thought, Racha man, too. Mar remembered seeing the same tattoo on Yaro of Trevel. She continued down the road until she’d passed the archway and crossed as she drew abreast of the lane leading away on the left, just where Gun had said it was.
And there was the small gated archway of Mercenary House, and the Racha man just going in the postern door. Mar had taken a half step toward the House, forgetting Gundaron’s plan, when a guardsman wearing a black cloak with a familiar crest on the left shoulder and a broad teal stripe along the bottom approached the Mercenary’s gate from the far side, and called out to the still open door. Mar ducked into the lane before the man could turn to look in her direction. Only after several minutes had passed did her heart slow down and her breathing return to something like normal.
Mar could hear voices as the guard in Tenebro colors exchanged words with the Brother answering the gate at Mercenary House, but their voices were low, and the rain was noisy enough that she couldn’t overhear what was said. Now is the time to move, Mar thought. While the attention of the guard from Tenebro House was taken up by the Brother. Mar took three slow, deep breaths and stepped out of the lane, turning immediately back in the direction she’d come from. Remembering something Dhulyn Wolfshead had told her in the mountains, Mar dragged her left foot a little with each step, changing entirely the way she walked, and forced herself to go slowly, as if she hadn’t a care in the world besides getting home for her supper.
By the time she got back to the semi-dry corner where Gundaron waited, the pain in her left foot was real, and her stomach was tight as a fist. She pushed back her hood, welcoming the cool touch of the rain, as she told Gundaron what she’d seen.
He licked his lips, looking from her to the corner of the wall and back again.
“Most likely it’s the Mercenary Brothers they’re looking for, but I’d be very surprised if that guard hasn’t orders to watch the place, at least for tonight.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“It’s late, and later still for us to find a room somewhere even if we could afford it.” He frowned. “If we can make our way into the Old Market, we should be able to find somewhere to lay up until morning. Give us a chance to figure out what to do next.”
Mar swallowed, picked up her pack. If he was anything like as exhausted as she was, he’d be glad of any place out of the rain where they could sit down.
“I’m not promising much,” he said, and he started to retrace their steps.
“I was almost a moon on the road with Mercenaries,” she said. “I don’t expect much.”
Hernyn Greystone was making himself small and unnoticed behind a pillar in the Carnelian Dome’s outer courtyard when his Senior Brother came out of the building alone. With his damaged voice, Alkoryn Pantherclaw rarely went about the city unattended, and Hernyn had begged for the privilege of accompanying him on his errand. The chance to be of service to Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane was only part of it, he assured himself. Only people with necessary business were let inside the Dome, however, which left him cooling his heels out here. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Hernyn made his way across the cobblestones and around a carriage being pulled out of a nearby stable entrance to Alkoryn’s side.
“Tenebro’s Deputy Steward of Walls came in half an hour ago,” he reported to the older man.
“With news I’ll tell you as we go,” Alkoryn said, walking briskly to the Dome’s open gates. “Did the Deputy see you?”
“No.” Hernyn hesitated, but as Alkoryn Pantherclaw was already on his way across the courtyard, he could do nothing but follow.
“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.