Demonbane (Book 4) (16 page)

Kendril ignored Olan’s comment. He collapsed into one of the seats by the table. “So what do we do now?”

“You saw the letter. Our enemies are moving soon. Tonight, probably.” Madris passed a hand over her pale face. She looked suddenly much older and more feeble. “They will undoubtedly attempt to utilize the Soulbinder. Our only chance is to find the pendant first and prevent any ritual from occurring.”

“We can’t search the whole city,” Olan said bitterly.

“Honestly,” said Madris with a cautionary glance at the door, “if we had succeeded in covertly capturing Dutraad I would have had Tomas interrogate him more…
thoroughly
. As it is that option is no longer available to us.” She gave Kendril a weak smile. “Another disadvantage to using the writ. It ties our hands.”

“Speaking of the writ,” Kendril said as he leaned forward in the chair, “will the King in Varnost uphold its authority after he receives the mayor’s appeal?”

There was a uncomfortable silence.

Madris gave a heavy sigh. “In truth, I do not know. The writ is a last resort. The King signed it years ago. I doubt he even remembers doing it. But there is little doubt that we are stretching the limits of what he might be willing to sanction.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising,” Olan said in a grating voice.

“By the time the King will be able to respond, the situation here in Vorten will have tipped one way or the other. Either we will have found the Soulbinder and killed this witch of Kendril’s, or…”

“Or,” Kendril finished, “we will be in the middle of another Despair.”

Madris gave a grim nod. “In the meantime, we need to continue to work with Captain Potemkin and his gendarmes. They have the manpower we need, especially if we are dealing with a large underground cult and a widespread conspiracy in the city.”

“What we
need
,” growled Olan, “are the city’s militia regiments.”

“I hate to say it,” said Kendril with a scowl, “but I agree with Olan. The Lord Mayor needs to call up the Trained Bands. We can’t take any chances.”

Madris gave a curt shake of her head. “You heard him. He won’t do it. And there’s no way we can force him. We’ll have to make do with Potemkin and his gendarmes for now.”

“Until they turn on us,” Kendril added gloomily.

“We’ll deal with that when and if it happens.” Madris looked up at the two Ghostwalkers. “No sense worrying about it now. We have bigger problems before us. Finding this Bronwyn and retrieving the Soulbinder is still our first priority. Now we have the help of Potemkin and his gendarmes, however lackluster it may be. He at least seems to understand that there is a real threat.”

“Unlike the honorable Lord Mayor,” Olan interjected.

“The Lord Mayor doesn’t
believe
.” Madris glanced out again at the gently falling snow. “And if we handle things correctly, he won’t have to change his attitude. Once we have the Soulbinder again we can blend back into the shadows from where we came, and the Lord Mayor can continue to doubt everything to his heart’s content.”

“Mark my words,” Kendril said, “we’ll all be wishing we had those regiments before this is over.”

Madris frowned. “Forgive my optimism, Kendril, but I still hope that sentiment is premature.” She glanced over at Olan. “Coordinate with Potemkin, as much as you are able. If you can, convince him to shake down the local taverns and inns with his gendarmes. Any evidence of cults or cult members, and I want you or Wanara to investigate it personally. It may lead us to the witch.”

Olan nodded his agreement. “Sounds good. What about the gendarme they caught over in the eastern part of the city? The one with the note?”

Madris lowered herself slowly into a chair. “If Potemkin will let you, send Tomas to get any information you can out of him.”

Kendril gave a biting half-smile. “You don’t sound too optimistic.”

Madris gave a weary sigh. “I’m not. This witch of yours seems too cunning to be caught that easily. Still, we have to try. She might have made a mistake, or if not her then Lady Dutraad.” She signaled to Olan. “Eru guide you, Olan.”

The Ghostwalker gave the old woman a salute, then turned from the room.

Kendril started to go as well.

“A moment,” Madris said.

Kendril paused.

“Your friends,” Madris continued, “your…
team
. Do they know what they have gotten themselves into?”

Kendril faced the elder Ghostwalker. “I’ve explained to them what the Soulbinder is, what it is capable of. They know about the Wars of Despair. I think it’s fair to say they know what is at stake.”

“But they’re not Ghostwalkers.”

Kendril looked away. “No.”

Madris leaned her cane against the table. Her eyes were kind but sad. “You knew what you were signing up for when you became a Ghostwalker, Kendril.”

“You mean the women, wine, and song?” Kendril grinned. “Can’t say I’ve been disappointed.”

Madris did not return his smile. “Joseph, Maklavir, Kara. None of them are Ghostwalkers. They have not committed to the same vows, the same penance that you have.”

Kendril’s quick grin disappeared. “I trust each of them with my life, Madris.”

“I have no doubt.” Madris twisted the handle of her cane. “It is not
their
loyalty to you I question. It is
your
loyalty to us.”

Kendril was silent for a long moment. “I think you had better elaborate, Madris.”

“I know you would be willing to sacrifice yourself if the need arose.” Madris let go of her cane and fixed Kendril with a penetrating glance. “But what if you had to sacrifice one of
them
to stop the Despair?” She gripped the end of the cane where it rested against the table. “Could you?”

Kendril bit his lip. He didn’t meet the woman’s gaze. “You mean Kara.”

“Yes,” Madris responded in a kindly tone. “
And
Joseph. And Maklavir. I can see that they are your friends, Kendril. You have no doubt come through much with them, suffered and fought together, formed bonds of friendship with one another.” She sighed. “This Despair will test us all, Kendril, and it might well test you more than everyone. Stopping the witch, recovering the Soulbinder, preventing the Despair…these things are more important than any one of
us
.”

Kendril crossed his arms. He still did not make eye contact with Madris. “You sound like you’ve been talking to Olan.”

“Despite what you may think,” Madris said, “Olan is a loyal and committed Ghostwalker. He knows the value of his own life, and he is committed to seeing things through here regardless of the cost.”

“No one knows the value of their own life until they’re required to give it,” Kendril responded bluntly.

“That is true,” Madris agreed. “I am trying to warn you, Kendril. Your friends may have to pay the ultimate price to defeat Despair, and you may have to be the one to make that call. If they are not as committed as we are, then they should leave now. Things will only get worse from here. I feel it in my bones.”

“They
are
committed.” Kendril could hear the doubt lingering in his own voice. He thought of Maklavir, of Joseph and his commitment to Kara.

Madris was right. They
weren’t
Ghostwalkers.

“There is a reason why our order operates in teams,” Madris said, as if sensing Kendril’s thoughts. “We all have a common purpose, we all have made common vows with a similar understanding of the dangers we face. But
you
…you chose to go your own way.”

Kendril made a face. “Guess I’m not much of a team player.”

Madris chuckled softly. “That would be an understatement.” She leaned forward in her chair, rubbing her bad leg with one gnarled hand. “Still, you have gathered a team of sorts around you. This crisis will test just how far you and they are willing to go.”

“I’m willing to go all the way,” Kendril protested. “And so are they.”

Madris nodded slowly. “Hopefully we will not have to test the truth of those words.”

“Despair will
not
come to Zanthora.” Kendril’s eyes simmered with dark fire. “Not today. Not on
my
watch.”

The older Ghostwalker smiled. “The way you say it, Kendril, I actually find myself believing you.”

 Without another word, Kendril turned and strode out of the room.

A loud
pop
echoed through the abandoned dining hall. Maklavir took a step back as champagne bubbled out of the bottle he held, fizzing out onto the floor.

He sighed heavily. “Lukewarm. What a waste.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” said Kendril. He walked up to the table, yanked out a chair, then sat down. He kicked his booted feet up. “Find any good tidbits?”

Maklavir held up a biscuit. “Better warm and covered with butter, but as you can see,” he gestured broadly to the scattered mess across the length of the large table that had only been half-cleared, “the servants seem to have lost their motivation to clean up.”

Kendril shrugged nonchalantly, then leaned forward and sifted through a stack of cold meat cuts on a nearby plate. “Most of the staff is gone. I’m beginning to think the whole household was in this cult.”

Maklavir poured the champagne into a pewter mug. “Except for Dutraad?”

Kendril nodded. “Apparently.” He pulled out a cut of beef and slapped in on roll. “Cheers.”

“I’m surprised you’re not drinking,” Maklavir said. “It’s almost mid-afternoon. Shouldn’t you be on your sixth mug of beer for the day?”

“Been busy.” Kendril took a tearing bite of his sandwich.

Maklavir held out the bottle.

Kendril put up his hand. “Sparkling wine isn’t my style.”

“You mean sophisticated and elegant?” Maklavir set the bottle down. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

Kendril swallowed his bite. “I need grenades.”

Maklavir looked over the rim of his pewter mug. “Excuse me?”

“Grenades. I know you have them. I saw you making them in the forest outside Stefgarten. I want a few.”

“Yes, if I remember correctly,” Maklavir said as he took another sip of his champagne, “the last time you used a grenade you brought down an entire underground temple on our heads.”

Kendril smirked. “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

Maklavir sighed. “If you call
this
living.” He stared down glumly at the pewter cup in his hand. “Champagne out of a mug. Surely that’s forbidden in the Blessed Scriptures somewhere.”

“You could ask Joseph. He’d know.” Kendril tossed down his makeshift meal onto an empty plate. “
Grenades
, Maklavir.”

The diplomat stared contemplatively into the mug of bubbling wine. “I don’t have any.”

“Don’t give me that. You blew up half the stable last night.”

Maklavir slapped the mug back onto the table. Champagne sloshed out of the rim. “And you blew up a
thousand-year old temple
. Explosives aren’t just another toy to be tossed around willy-nilly, Kendril. They require care, attention to detail, proper handling—”

“Talin’s Ashes, Maklavir, they’re
weapons
, not works of art.”

The diplomat crossed his arms sulkily. “Then let’s see
you
make some.”

Kendril kicked his feet off the table. “Do you have any idea how bad things are going to get here? Give me a couple grenades. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Maklavir raised his mug again. He took a slow, pensive sip.

Kendril narrowed his eyes. “
Maklavir
?”

“I’m thinking.”

The Ghostwalker grabbed the half-eaten sandwich again. “I think I’m needing that beer more and more.”

Joseph appeared in the doorway to the dining hall. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, his face etched with exhaustion. He came up to the table, but didn’t sit down.

Maklavir put down his mug. “Any luck, old chap?”

Joseph rubbed a hand across his face. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

Kendril straightened in his chair. “You’ve got a lead?”

“Kind of.” Joseph reached into his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. “I have a ticket.”

The carriage had barely stopped before Kendril had already thrown open the door and leapt down to the snow-covered cobblestones.

He was followed a moment later by Olan, who dutifully turned to help Madris out of the vehicle.

Kendril turned. He pulled up his cloak against the whipping wind that was scattering loose snow across the steps of the town hall.

The winding street opened here into a small plaza, and was thick with sleds, horses, and carriages. Less than a block to the north the looming shape of the Great Library rose above the surrounding buildings.

Kendril swept the street with a suspicious glance, searching instinctively for threats.

Joseph got out of the carriage right after Madris. He shuddered in the bitter cold.

“Remember,” Madris warned, “we use deference and diplomacy. No insults, no threats.”

“Whatever,” Kendril mumbled. He motioned to Joseph. “Come on, let’s move.”

The grizzled scout nodded, then followed Kendril closely up the icy stone steps.

The city hall was large, but was crammed ingloriously tight between the surrounding townhouses and stores that dotted the street and plaza. Unlike the magnificent Rajathan-style of the Great Library, this had a more utilitarian feel to it. Red brick and white plaster trim and cold steel bars over the ground-floor windows bespoke the authority of the modern bureaucracy of Valmingaard.

Two gendarmes met Kendril and Joseph at the top of the stairs. One of them held up a hand.

“I can’t allow you inside armed like that,” he said with a concerned glance at the many weapons hanging from Kendril’s belt. “Give up your pistols and swo—”

“You want them?” Kendril growled. He fingered the handle of one of his guns. “Feel free to take them off me.”

The gendarme stopped, blinking in surprise.

Kendril pushed right past him and headed into the city hall.

Joseph scurried after him.

“Wait!” called the gendarme. “You
can’t
—”