Heartmate (35 page)

“We'll decide that later. Find the boy.”

“Grrrr.” Zanth lashed his tail, and disappeared, propelled Downwind by T'Ash.

“HouseHeart, all systems to be keyed to Danith Mallow, all systems to be operated by Danith Mallow at her command.”

The Residence breathed a sigh of acceptance.

“Scry Danith.” He limited the holo to his head and shoulders. No need to display his weapons.

Her line buzzed but with no reply.

“Mallow holo cache,” T'Ash ordered.

“Mallow cache,” Danith's scrybowl echoed.

“Danith. This is T'Ash. I'll see you this evening. Merry meet.”

One last call. “Scry Woodlands Florist.”

“Woodlands Florist here,” a fussy voice answered.

“Charge T'Ash's account for a dozen blush roses to be sent to D'Mallow.”

“As you wish, GreatLord.”

“Later.”

He 'ported down to the kitchen, listened to the chef's complaints about Zanth, downed two meatrolls and put five more in his beltpouch, then walked out to his greeniron gate. He took one last look at his estate, again visualized the alley where he'd seen Tinne, and teleported himself there.

He tensed. Heavy smoke shrouded the tops of the buildings. It closed about him like an ominous, smothering fog. He tested it. Not magical, but awesome evidence of a fire gone amok. He made himself ignore the smoke and hoped he wouldn't have to deal with the fire.

“Zanth!” he called.

A faint response came, a denial that Zanth had found anything.

T'Ash unholstered his blaser and set his back into the corner of the alley. He shut his eyes.
Holm!
he called mentally.

Here.
Holm's mental voice echoed over a kilometer or two.

Where?
T'Ash asked.

T'Ash sighed. Holm wouldn't find his brother in the nearly respectable taverns of Downwind. T'Ash remembered the sleazy places he and Holm had frequented during their Passage. Most of those bars had vanished, only to be replaced by equally repellent saloons.

Meet at the Putrid 'Roon,
T'Ash said. The inn's sign said “The Pewter Celtaroon,” but it wasn't called that.

Holly gagged but agreed.

Zanth hunts, too.
T'Ash said, taking off at a hustle for the inn. He murmured a deverminizing spell as he went.

Before he'd gone a hundred meters, he was propositioned by two wenches; before he'd gone five hundred, he'd been in three scuffles, using blaser and broadsword, winning. It focused his concentration, and when he moved again, it was with the step and predatory grace of a Downwind tough, a man to fear.

Then word must have gotten out that T'Ash prowled the streets, looking for trouble, because when people saw him in the distance, they melted away. Even when he turned onto a busy street, an aisle was formed for his anticipated path. T'Ash kept smiling and the corridor widened.

T'Ash arrived at The Putrid 'Roon first. Stepping inside, he glanced around the dimly lit room and found no sign of Tinne. T'Ash formed an image of the main gauche, recalled the smoky quartz in the pommel, how it felt, its facets, and its resonance. With a short spell, he sent a high-pitched tone zinging through the building. A woman screeched, but no response came from the stone he had shaped and set in Tinne's weapon.

Zanth squawked, too.
Not a nice sound.

“Sound of the smoky quartz in the main gauche.”

Holm arrived. “Is that what it is?” His usual cheerful grin lopsided. Worry looked as if it lived under his skin.

T'Ash glared down at his Fam. “Haven't you had enough to eat this morning?”

T'Ash unbuckled his pouch and tossed a meatroll to Zanth before turning to Holm.

T'Ash gazed at his friend. “Did T'Holly tell you? I sensed Tinne. He's exhausted but unharmed.”

Relief relaxed the lines around Holm's mouth. “Thank you.” He reached out and gripped T'Ash's arm, hand to elbow. T'Ash returned the clasp.

“What?”

Slurping down the last shreds of furra meat, Zanth repeated,
Warehouse fire. FogLeaf burned. Boy close. Found hole. Two others dead. Boy overdose FogLeaf.

T'Ash related the information to Holm. They both squatted down in front of the cat. Zanth licked his whiskers.

“Where is he?”

T'Ash parroted the words to Holly.

“Damn,” Holm said.

“How long do you think he'll sleep?” asked T'Ash.

“Zanth says you need to consult a Healer on this.”

“Zanth says he'll guard Tinne, for a fee.”

Sparks of anger lit Holm's eyes. He stared at the cat.

Zanth lifted a forepaw and licked it.

“You show me where he is and I'll set my own wards.”

Holm continued to grumble when T'Ash told him what Zanth had said. Both men wanted to see Tinne's hole, and a slinking Zanth led them. The men kept their weapons loose.

“By the Lady and Lord, what a stench!” Holm exclaimed.

T'Ash shrugged. Holm hadn't been spending much time near Zanth lately. The FogLeaf smelled potent and musky, but nothing like the dreadful stench of sewer rat or celtaroon.

They came to a deserted, ruined building that might once have been a warehouse. At the base was a small darkness indicating a hole.

“There's no way you can fit in that hole to look, T'Ash,” Holm said, handing his weapons to T'Ash and trying to squirm under the collapsed beam only to get stuck around his shoulders.

T'Ash kept a wary eye out for Downwinders, but the area remained deserted. “Can you see him?”

Holm grunted. “Barely. He appears to be pale, with a minor wound or two, but healthy. His breathing is that of true sleep. Zanth is right, it's not restless Passage dreams. Damn. I don't like to think of his Passage stretching over another night or two.”

“Can we bring him out of there?”

“I don't see how. I'm not sure enough of his health or the exact coordinates to 'port him out, and the building seems shaky—”

T'Ash studied it with an outreach of Flair. “I can shore the thing up, but if I do, the wreckage will be welded into solid lattice, and the only way Tinne will be able to get out is by himself.”

Holm hesitated only an instant. “Do it.” He took his weapons back.

Trusting Holm to defend them, T'Ash shut his eyes and studied the angles of stone, timber, foamsteel, concrete until he knew the thing as a whole. With a short spell he molded all the pieces into a single structural unit. “Done.” He opened his eyes. “By the way, T'Holly said Tinne's HouseRing couldn't be sensed.”

Holm grunted again, brushing white plaster dust from his elegant clothing. Finally he looked up at T'Ash. “The stone is shattered and the metal broken. Only the Two know what happened. Tinne might have taken a blow on the ring, a blaser hilt could have done the damage.”

Holm grinned at T'Ash. “We have a rule in our Family. Whoever ruins his ring must pay for a replacement, both for the crafting and the spell. I wager my brother will be coming to you in a few days for a new HouseRing, spending the last of his allowance.”

“Allowance? He doesn't have an annual NobleGilt yet? He hasn't been confirmed as a noble? His Flair hasn't revealed itself?”

“Three potentials—fighting, of course.”

“Of course.”

“The second is cleansing and banishment of evil vibrations.”

“Interesting.”

“And animal training. He could be apprenticing with the Sallows at the same time as your Danith.”

“Then I am glad he is still a boy and not a suave Holly.”

Holm chuckled, then pinned his gaze on the small black entrance to Tinne's sanctuary. “I'd like to place a protection spell on this. You'd know how to camouflage it so it will go unnoticed amongst Downwinders. Will you help?”

“T'Holly pledged himself allies to T'Ash for three generations.”

Holm's eyes widened, then he bowed formally. “As the second generation of the promise, I affirm that I honor it.”

“Thank you. You provide the energy and strength for the spell, I'll weave it into a protection that no one will notice, and add an insinuation that the place should be avoided.”

They clasped arms and each touched the outside edge of the building, completing a circuit of magic. They had used their Flair together before, outside rituals, and knew that their energies didn't mesh well. They layered the spell, first Holm, then T'Ash. With a final Word the hole seemed to disappear.

Zanth sniffed.
Smells bad.

“Zanth says it smells bad.”

Holly nodded. “And there's something about it . . . a touch of dread that the whole thing would collapse if someone got too close.” He clapped T'Ash on the shoulder. “We did very well. I also left a message for Tinne.”

“Zanth hears men coming.”

Holm grimaced. “Far be it for me to contradict Zanth and his excellent hearing. I'd stay and fight, but I don't want to call attention to this area and Tinne's refuge. Shall I 'port us out of here?”

Zanth stepped away from them.
Me go. Me have Plans.

“You have plans?” T'Ash asked.

“Plans?” echoed Holm.

Zanth lifted his nose in the air, twitched his tail insolently, then darted down the alley and out of sight.

The slurring words of loud, drunken men rose from a street away.

“Where to?” asked Holm.

T'Ash wanted to go to Danith's, but he didn't want Holly near her. He glanced at Bel. The sun brightened the early afternoon sky. He'd told her that he wouldn't return until the evening, and Danith needed to learn he would keep his promises, especially when it came to her and giving her a little time to understand her new circumstances.

“I feel like a swim,” T'Ash said. “My pool or yours?”

Holly grimaced. “Yours is blue and beautiful, attached to your spacious conservatory at the back of your Residence. Mine is gray and dank in the T'Holly dungeon. What do you think? Yours. By the way, before we swim, we should make a report of Downwind conditions to the guardsmen and the NobleCouncil.” With that, he whisked them away.

 
Danith stretched luxuriously, waking to Pansy's—
Princess's—softly rumbling purr. She glanced at the clock. Mid-morning. She grinned. Last night she'd sent her resignation to the Cinque and Poppy collection box.

Welcome contentment filled her for the first time in days. She never had to work again! At least, not as an accounting clerk. She knew her Flair avocation could be just as demanding, more so in pulling strength and energy from her body and mind, but it would also be so rewarding. An Animal Healer.

The Animal Healer, she smugly thought. The only Animal Healer. Oh, yes. She was going to enjoy this.

She looked at the calendar. It was TwinMoonsday, tomorrow she would report to her apprentice appointments. Except for tidying her house and checking on the now-fat status of her bank account, she had nothing to do. She stretched, rolled to her stomach, repeated the motion and rolled back.

Well, she did need to have her collection box chime fixed. Something tasteful and with a discreetly pleasant tone.

She walked into the mainspace and pulled the box from the wall. A stack of papyrus at least fifteen centimeters thick sat there. She pulled them out in bundles, and found them to be forms: “Biography for the NobleCouncil,” “Verification of Life Papyrus,” “Application for Noble Name, Coat-of-Arms, Motto, Heraldry.” Finally there was a red-bound book,
Responsibilities of a Head of a GrandHouse, Laws, Rules, and Regulations Pertaining to the Nobility (Examination Upon Completion).
Ugh.

The collection box whined again, and Danith hastily closed it. A moment later the potent smell of roses spread throughout the room. She opened the box and retrieved the beautiful flowers. The gilt card simply stated “T'Ash,” as always.

She smiled, then went humming to shower and change into a soft maroon tunic trous casual suit.

Two hours later her head began to ache as she tried to fill out the documents in detail. She wasn't sure of her ancestors for the last five generations. Her mother and father had both been only children of dead parents, one of the reasons Danith had ended up at Saille House of Orphans. Children, except those Downwind, were prized. She should have been adopted. Adoptions weren't as socially acceptable as having blood children, but fully as legal.

Danith shrugged and tested herself for any residual disappointment at not being adopted, and sighed in relief. With the validation of her Flair, that disappointment had finally vanished.

Fifteen minutes before the end of the workday, Danith's scrybowl chimed.

“Here,” she said, looking up from the dining room table covered with papyrus. Soon she would have a place with an office, perhaps a little house of her own. . . .