Hunting (20 page)

ooOoo

"It's there. It's her."

Ash shut the door of the storage room,
closing any eavesdroppers from the kitchen away. "Tell me."

"I took Sho along as well as Bitty and
Melar – this 'no-one in the Shambles alone' thing makes for
complications." Larkin shrugged. "We figured on either the Wet Yard
or The Pile being the best place for a skarl to hide out, and split
into pairs to sit watching the easiest roads in and out. Wasn't
much past sundown when we saw her, coming out of The Pile. Skinny
black thing, a little smaller than the last skarl, but that same
weird effect of almost seeming to bring shadows along. Damn hard to
see. Me and Sho waited till she was long gone, then whistled for
Melar and Bitty. Melar nixed the idea of backtracking into The
Pile, and instead took all the food we had along, tied in a
kerchief with a couple of coins and a comb Bitty had with her. He
bounced along the street like he was running from something, fell
flat on his face – still not sure if he did that deliberately – and
left the kerchief behind, rolled into a tangle of old boards. He
and Bitty headed home, and Sho and I sat it out till midnight."

"I suppose 'just confirm there's a
skarl' was too much to ask from you lot."

"Like you'd do any different, Ash Cat.
I suppose any dog, skarl or not, would have smelled that kerchief.
Nice bit of bacon and cheese, which Melar pointed out was silly for
me to bring along in the first place. And he'd dropped it in a good
spot, not just laying out in the open. Instead of trying to nudge
the boards away, or stick her head into them, the skarl looks
around and then..." Larkin pulled a face, waving his hands as if
trying to outline something intangible. "Sho kept calling it
'vomiting' and I guess that'll do. Except all over. It was quick,
thank Luin, and then there was this woman. Gaunt, pale, with
close-cropped hair. She even had clothes on, though it looked as if
she'd put a hole in a sheet, and then sewn pockets on it. She grabs
the kerchief, quick and easy, tucks it in a pocket, and two breaths
later there's just the skarl again, trotting off into The Pile
through a hole she'd have to crawl to get through in human form.
So, do you have a plan?"

Ash made a face. "Tell the Huntsmen to
be ready for something tonight. I'll get word to you before the sun
sets, after I've found out more about shapeshifters. She mightn't
be as difficult to kill as a real skarl."

"She might be harder. And wasn't the
point to
not
kill her?"

"That's the hurdle."

Ash took advantage of the Rhoi's reward
for the first time, and ventured into the largest collection of
books she'd ever seen. The librarian was happy to point her toward
works that dealt with skarl and shifters, but Ash didn't learn much
of use, other than there was no reason to presume that the
shapeshifter wouldn't be as difficult to deal with as a real skarl.
The skarl of Naggol, 'cursed' like most of that large island's
fauna with strange mutations and powers, could not be damaged – or
even touched – by ordinary weapons. They were part shadow,
insubstantial at will.

Accepting that the books were not going
to provide an easy solution, Ash decided she might as well take the
opportunity to start her original library project. First, she
unrolled a detailed map of Aremal. It was a huge Rhoimarch, more
than four times Montmoth's size, and she almost decided that
Pembury didn't exist, but eventually located a tiny notation
southwest of the capital.

She tapped the map thoughtfully, and
then turned to genealogies and histories. Thornaster's mother was a
cousin of Aremal's Rhoi, or so he'd claimed. That was probably
true, since he had the abilities of Luin and Astenar's
bloodline.

The Estarrels were of such importance
that even Montmoth kept a detailed family tree. The current Aremish
Rhoi, Vorlan Estarrel, and his wife Kintairy, were listed at the
bottom of the enormous sheet of heavy paper, their three children –
Romar, Cenaria and Morrion – mere notations below. Above, hundreds
upon hundreds of names in minute script. The Rhoi had two first
cousins, both male, three second cousins and a number of more
distant connections, then a host who could claim extremely tenuous
relations. None of the women were named Thornaster, or had married
a man named Thornaster. Ash skimmed through the entire genealogy
and could not find the name Thornaster anywhere.

Had he lied? He had sounded sincere
when he'd assured her that he was the Visel of Pembury. Staring at
the closely written sheet, Ash suddenly laughed, spotting an
obvious subterfuge. But surely someone had worked this out before
her? The rolled sheet had been suspiciously clean of dust.

The discovery made her decision more
difficult. He had lied to her, told her he was Rion Thornaster,
Visel of Pembury, and she had not been able to spot the lie. Dare
she trust him? More to the point, did he trust her? Playing an
impish teen had its disadvantages, and the response to the plan
she'd spent the last day considering was too likely to be "the
Guard will take over." Ash could not gamble this chance to capture
Genevieve's killer on Thornaster's opinion of her.

He had allowed her to ride Arth.

This was probably not a solid basis for
an important decision, but it settled Ash's mind, at least enough
to postpone the question and engage properly in the afternoon's
session at the Mern. After a discussion on why Luinsels should not
excessively purify water, she even found positive aspects to
swordplay.

"Lauren didn't come at me immediately,
just because I was holding a sword," she told Thornaster as they
walked back to his apartment. "It would give me time to put a knife
in him."

"You could just use the sword,
stripling. Though a knife in reserve is not a bad idea. So you've
decided that I'm not totally wasting your time with my lessons,
have you?"

"I never thought they were a
total
waste of time."

"You have some talent for the sword,
you know."

She looked at him with patent
disbelief, and he laughed.

"I have never met anyone so inclined to
doubt my word, Ash. With a little, no, to be honest, several years
of instruction, you would be a competent enough swordsman. You have
the reflexes and the coordination for it. If, perhaps, not the
eager attitude I am used to."

"Would you like me to fawn a
little?"

"You mean you know how?"

"I expect I could pick it up after a
demonstration or two." She grinned at the thought, but, as he
opened the door to his rooms, added: "I need to talk to you
seriously."

A quick glance, then he led her into
his new study and sat down. "Very well."

"The mage is in the Shambles. There's
been word of a skarl in there, so I had it checked out last night.
It's her all right. They saw her change."

Thornaster straightened, but she
couldn't follow the expressions that flickered across his face.
"Can you lead us to where she was sighted?"

"No."

Black eyes narrowed, studying her. "Why
not?"

"The Guard doesn't know the Shambles.
It's a maze, too ruined for them to risk. We only get by because we
use the roofs. There's no way the Guard could catch her. But we
could. We've done it before."

"'We' being your street gang?" There
was a silky edge to Thornaster's voice that she hadn't encountered
before, and didn't particularly like.

"The Shambles is one of our...haunts.
We hunted out a skarl a couple of years ago. Killed it. Rowan is
their bane, and we had staves of it made up specially. But it was a
difficult kill. Most weapons can't touch one at all."

"You've been deciding whether or not to
tell me this, haven't you?" A cross between disbelief and
chagrin.

Ash nodded.

"What did you imagine you would do with
a group of untrained boys against this killer?" He was not quite
angry: more outraged.

"That's what I've been working over. If
it was just a skarl – well, we've done that. It's dangerous, but
possible. But a skarl which is really a mage-assassin? Maybe if I
was just out to kill her, yes. But capturing...that's something
else altogether." An admission of defeat. Ash didn't like not being
able to do things.

"It is indeed. This is far enough, Ash.
If you think Verel or I will place a group of children at risk, you
are sadly mistaken. You will tell me the location of this skarl,
now." All the haughty arrogance of which his face was capable came
to the fore. It was a very stern, commanding man who gave her that
order.

"I thought you had more sense," she
said, caught between anger and sorrow.

She had misjudged him. Or was just
impossibly trapped by her own disguise, the badinage and impish
mien hardly the thing to inspire confidence in her leadership. This
was the price she paid for running away from herself.

"There's no way the Guard can capture
the skarl when it's in the Shambles. If you go in there on foot,
she will escape. Easily. And I'll wager you anything you please
Investigator Verel couldn't raise a force who not only knows the
Shambles of old, but has driven a skarl through it."

They stared at each other. Ash, pulse
pounding, hated herself for the misstep, and struggled to set her
mind to finding a solution that did not include Thornaster.

But then Thornaster flicked back the
shining dark wings of his hair, and the moment passed. "Stripling,
you are an implacable force. And I would do well to remember how
close this is to your heart. We will see what Verel says to your
plans – if you can convince her, I have no grounds for
objection."

She let out a relieved breath, and a
wry smile touched his lips.

"Though in future, Ash Lenthard, I
would appreciate it if you'd tell me what you learn as you learn
it. Not after you've decided whether I would be useful."

"I'll think about it," she promised,
and he shook his head.

"I shall be interested to see if and
how you convince Investigator Verel."

But the Investigator was surprisingly
reasonable, especially after Ash had laid out the method they had
used previously to corner and kill a skarl, and what she thought
necessary to capture this one.

And so Ash went to call her Huntsmen to
the chase.

Chapter Twenty

Three rooms, once an attic. A portion
of the long roof had collapsed, blocking the stairs to the building
below, but the remainder was intact and seemed solid, for all it
was only accessible from the roofs. That made it an ideal meeting
spot for the Huntsmen, a dry and completely private place to
gather.

Ash, having finished laying out the
plan, stressed the dangers involved, and watched her friends'
excited, determined faces. She always gave them an opportunity to
refuse, though she knew none would this time. Too many people owed
Genevieve. She could have asked them to brave all the Beasts of
Naggol for Genevieve. And for Ash.

The loyalty, trust and friendship that
surrounded her here was a complete contrast to the wary tolerance
she'd now achieved at the Mern. But then, Larkin's group of friends
had been anything but accepting of "that little pest" when she'd
first arrived in their neighbourhood. She had proved herself to
them, as she still might do to the Kinsel. And she knew the
Huntsmen would not follow her half so readily if they knew who she
really was – she had faced and settled that question years ago,
when they were arguing over whether Bitty and Kate would be allowed
to join. She led them thanks to a limit on her trust.

But tonight she didn't care. These were
her Huntsmen, her sky-runners. This would be their last hunt
together.

"It's time," Melar said, as the valley
passed from the long halflight when the Sun was blocked by the
mountains into true night.

Ash nodded and gave them one last
survey. It was obvious that Sim and Carl were barely restraining
exuberance, that few of them were as daunted as they should be.

"This one isn't a game," she said,
quiet because that would make them listen. "This isn't an animal.
Nor is it one of the idiots we bag and deliver to the nearest Watch
House. This is the woman who killed Genevieve. Stop having fun, and
start thinking of all the years stolen from her, and how you
absolutely can't be the scut who lets her killer get away. The
first one of you who breaks from the plan, I'll stuff down a
chimney."

She nodded at Lark to take his group
out first, then followed with the other half into a night where
both Cuinefaer and slumbering, broken Yurefaer coloured the
shadows. Dressed dark, each holding a distinct, light-coloured
staff of stripped rowan longer than they were tall, the Huntsmen
aimed for speed and quiet. Many of them wore boots purchased
specifically for their thin, supple soles, and claimed they could
feel the buildings breathe beneath them as they ran between sagging
slopes of tiles, following safe routes discovered through years of
testing. Run soft and avoid unshuttered windows, and the
ever-present danger of a loose tile, a weak support, a slippery
patch of wet or grease.

Despite the circumstances, Ash could
not help but enjoy herself. Sky-running – the air cool and crisp,
the high moons, the sheer challenge of moving over a house full of
people who had no notion that their roof had become a highway. She
set her staff and arced across a blackly cavernous street, hearing
only the faintest audible echoes. It was a different world up here,
away from the dark, torturous and frankly smelly lower reaches of
the Shambles. Where a ground traveller would be led astray by
back-winding streets and gates rusted shut, their way obstructed by
abandoned temporary dwellings, and the occasional deliberate
barricade, sky-runners soared unhindered.