Cethe (12 page)

Stefn had never been beyond the borders of Shia. He’d fil ed his empty hours with books, pouring over travelogues, histories,

novels, biographies, scriptures — anything to paint images of the world beyond the meadows and high, rough hil s of home. No

amount of reading, however, had prepared him for the sheer distances involved in getting from one place to another. The confusing

tangle of streets was much different from their orderly lines on a map. It had seemed to take no more than a blink of an eye to ride

through Fornsby in the coach, yet after an hour’s trudging, he had not yet reached the Cathedral.

Being late, most of Fornsby was deserted, shops closed, their shutters drawn against the perils of the dark. As he continued

to wander about, the streets narrowed and became dirtier. He came upon taverns stil open, their doors spil ing out noise and

drunken laughter. Men and women stumbled up and down the walkways, arm in arm, and once Stefn gave wide berth to a fight.

He could see the Cathedral’s towers silhouetted against the sky, but no matter how often he turned toward them, the streets

he chose meandered off in other directions, forcing him to backtrack again and again. Final y, out of sheer frustration, his foot

throbbing unbearably, he chose one of the quieter taverns and slipped inside. Uncertainly, he stood just inside the door, trying to

make out details in the thick, boozy haze.

“And what can I get for you, my pretty lad?”

Starting, Stefn looked up. A barmaid appeared before him, smiling broadly. Her gaze, as it traveled up and down the length of

him, made him blush.

“I… if you please, ma’am… I’m trying to get to the Cathedral. Could you give me the direction?” He spoke as quietly as he

could, but even so, the men seated at the tables nearby fel silent.

“Cathedral? Why, sure, honey.” Seizing his arm, the woman swept out of the tavern, dragging him with her. He tried to keep

his eyes averted from her breasts, plump and round and doing their best to spil out of her shabby, low-cut gown. “Take that street

there al the way to the end, love, then turn right. Another quarter mile and you’l be there. They lock up the gate, though, at

midnight. Why not stay here until morning? Let Emilia show you a good time.”

Somehow, Stefn managed to extricate himself. “Thank you,” he managed. “I… I must go.” He hurried away, aware she

remained on the tavern stoop, hands on her hips, watching him. Not until the road curved out of sight did he breathe a deep sigh of

relief and slow down.

The Cathedral locked their gates at midnight? He hadn’t reckoned on that. Would they open them for him? And, if they did,

what would they do when they realized who Stefn was? Would they even give a sin-catcher an audience?

Away from the tavern district, the town was quiet and dark again. Moonlight laid a silver path down the middle of the street, but

the edges stayed deep in shadow. Here and there, a second- or third-story window showed the gleam of lamplight, but most of

Fornsby’s good citizens had long since sought their beds. His footsteps echoed, abnormal y loud, against the wal s.

A new sound, coming from behind, stopped him in his tracks, spinning him around. It seemed the shadows moved, but he

couldn’t be sure. After a moment, when nothing stirred, he told himself it was a trick of the moonlight and walked on. He reached the

end of the street and, as the barmaid had instructed, turned right. Behind him came the rattle and clank of a bottle rol ing across the

paving stones. This time, when he turned around, he saw a handful of slouching figures step out into the open. Moonlight flashed on

steel.

Stefn’s heart leapt into his throat. He started walking again, going as fast as he could without running outright. Teeth clenched

against the bolts of pain shooting up through his leg, he prayed the Cathedral was just ahead…just around this next corner.

He heard his stalkers break formation and knew he had no more time. Wildly, he looked for defensive ground, but there was

none, only al eys that could be dead-ends and doorways where a man could be pinned.

“Hey-ho, my lord! Fine night, eh?” One of the men, a nicked short-sword in hand, approached. “We was wonderin’, m’lord, if

you had a few golds or silvers to spare. Me and my friends here are feelin’ a bit peckish.”

“I have no money.”

This brought snickers from Short-Sword and his cohorts. “We ain’t stupid, yer lordship. Hand over yer gold and yer sparklies.”

They were looking straight at his neck. Involuntarily, he reached up and found his neckcloth had slipped, revealing a glimpse

of the jeweled col ar beneath.

There were five of the vil ains, moving forward, trying to surround him. Running was out of the question; his foot wouldn’t

stand it.

One of Short-Sword’s companions, a long-bladed dagger in each fist, prepared to strike. He lunged, but Stefn lifted the cane

to meet the attack, whirling it from hand to hand in front of him. The ruffian shrieked as the heavy, knobbed wood shattered both his

wrists, his daggers flying from suddenly nerveless fingers.

“Get him!”

Stefn braced to meet their rush. He deflected Short-Sword’s enraged jab, dropping to a crouch, intending to come up under

the man’s guard. Alas! His foot buckled under him and he fel heavily, vision greying in the waves of agony. Some sixth sense made

him rol desperately to one side, avoiding the vicious, downward cut of the sword. He got his other hand on the cane, lifting it to

block another blow. Sweat ran into his eyes. The next blow would finish him.

But the next blow didn’t come. Instead, he heard one of the robbers swear. “Holy mother of whores. It’s a fuckin’ demon!”

Stefn’s heart lurched. Wiping his eyes with his arm, he saw the truth of it. Shadow and moonlight come alive as Michael

Arranz approached. Unhurried, he strol ed down the center of the deserted street, making no effort to hide the bright, damning

banner of his hair. In one hand, he held a sword, in the other, a whip.

“That ain’t no demon,” roared the ruffians’ leader. “What’s wrong with you fools? He’s just some bloody taint! Take ‘im down!”

Arranz became a blur of motion, deadly, graceful and appal ingly efficient. Superstitious awe and terror held Stefn motionless,

staring as Short-Sword’s head was parted from his shoulders, flying across the street to rol up against the front of a shop. Without

breaking stride, Arranz impaled the next robber and severed the spine of the third. The man whose wrists Stefn had broken tried to

run, moaning and babbling prayers, but Arranz’s whip cracked through the street, wrapping around his neck and snapping it. Another

crack and the fifth ruffian met an identical fate. Abruptly, the night was quiet.

Along the street, lights appeared in the windows. Shutters were thrust open. Arranz put up his hood. As the cal s and shouts

started, he crossed the bloody pavement to Stefn. Belatedly, Stefn found his wits and swung the cane wildly at the half-breed’s

shins. “Idiot puppy!” he heard, then the world was violently upended. Pain crashed down on Stefn like the hammer of Loth and he

didn’t remember a thing after that.

Eldering was stil unconscious when Michael got him back to the inn. Marin carried the youth up to his room with surprising

gentleness. With a glance at the window, stil open, Michael ordered his aide to strip the earl naked and tie his hands behind him.

“I’m in no mood to chase him down again,” he said flatly.

“Bind him, my lord?” Marin looked down at the unconscious sin-catcher. “Is it real y necessary?”

“If Eldering had reached the priests with his tale, the consequences would have been disastrous.” Ignoring Marin’s reproachful

looks, Michael returned to his own room and promptly col apsed.

It had been easy to find Stefn. Michael had been shocked at how easy. Deep inside him, in a place that he’d not known

existed before the Binding, a smal flame now burned, flaring brighter when his thoughts touched on his cethe. Dispassionately,

Michael considered the phenomenon. He’d simply fol owed its pul through the sleeping town until he’d found the runaway.

And the runaway could fight! That was most unexpected. He was stil pondering that when sleep final y took him.

It seemed he’d hardly slept a wink before a knock on his door announced it was morning. With Marin hovering at his elbow, he

crossed the hal and unlocked Eldering’s door.

The earl was awake, as wel . Marin had left him a blanket, but he’d clearly been struggling, for it had fal en to the floor and the

earl himself was dangerously close to tumbling off the bed after it. Nothing in his flushed face suggested he was in any way

chastened. Michael changed his mind about untying him.

“Wrap him up in the blanket,” he told Marin. “If he makes any noise, gag him.”

Turning his back on Eldering’s outrage, Michael left the inn, stepping out into the predawn gloom where their coach waited. It

was nearly a quarter hour later before Marin arrived with his squirming cocoon of blankets and angry earl. Eldering was dumped

unceremoniously on the seat opposite Michael. Marin departed, chuckling, and the coach door slammed.

“Untie me!” demanded Stefn, rigid in his confining blankets.

“I don’t think so, my lord.”

“Do you think I’m going anywhere with my foot like this?” Stefn demanded furiously. “At least give me my clothes!”

“No. And if you aren’t quiet, I’l take the blanket.”

That threat was enough to make Stefn close his mouth with a snap. Defeated, he lay on his side and contented himself with

directing evil looks at Michael. Michael ignored him, leaning back in his seat and pretending interest in the slowly brightening

morning outside.

“My lord?”

He looked around. Stefn looked back at him, mouth tight. “When we get to Blackmarsh, what then?”

“I have some business to attend while I’m there.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“My grandfather wil want to have a look at you. Don’t worry. You’l be kept wel out of the way. I have no intention of insulting

my family by forcing the company of an Eldering on them.”

Green eyes flashed, then fel . Stefn looked like he might have said something, then thought better of it. He lapsed back into

sul en silence.

The day passed, miles rol ing away under their carriage wheels. Sunset arrived, a blaze over the western hil s. As soon as it

was ful y dark, they would stop. Michael looked forward to Eldering’s reaction when he was carried into the inn, wrapped up like a

sausage in his blanket again.

Fortunately, the inn had a back stairwel , because the earl was not amused. He struggled and swore, even managing to kick

Marin in the jaw until Michael threatened to bewitch him into docility.

In the smal bedroom, Michael dismissed Marin, then regarded the wriggling bundle at his feet thoughtful y. Stooping, he

grasped the edge of the blanket and unrol ed it with a single, mighty yank. His captive ended up face down on the dusty floor,

treating Michael to an excel ent view of tight, round buttocks.

And the scars. So many of them. Michael felt an involuntary tug of pity.

Taint.

Finding himself reaching down to help the other man to his feet, he stopped, closing his open hand into a fist. This pup was

raised on generations of hatred for the h’nara, the spawn of a family who had terrorized al those unfortunate enough to be born with

mixed blood.

Michael untied the rope and ordered Eldering to his feet. The youth tried to grab the blanket, but Michael kicked it away.

Furious, mortified, Eldering jumped up and promptly lost what little color he had, swaying perilously. Michael pushed him back onto

the bed.

It wasn’t difficult to tie him again, this time fastening his wrists to the iron bars of the headboard. At once, Stefn tried to curl into

a bal , but Michael grabbed a leg and pul ed it straight. Deliberately, he twisted Stefn’s foot to show the heavy ridge of scar running

along the outside.