Northlight (38 page)

Finally I sat back on my heels, holding on to the latrine and thinking longingly of fresh water. I found it in the basin by my right shoulder. I got slowly to my feet and turned the single tap on full. There was no way to plug the basin, but I shoved my head under the faucet and let the water gush over my neck until my muscles cramped and my hair was soaked. I cupped my hands and washed my mouth out again and again. Water spurted up my nose, cool and soothing. I collapsed on the floor, still within easy reach of the latrine, and considered my current situation.

Other than the antics of my innards and the tendency of my vision to slip sideways, I felt fit enough. No Ranger's vest or knives in my boots or thigh sheath, but they — whoever they were — had left me my belt. The more fools they.

I remembered a drug dart, which explained the whirly stomach, and someone hovering over me, wearing a black uniform.

City Guards. Let's see what their idea of a prison cell looks like.

Four walls, all smooth and gray. Latrine and washbasin, no towels. On the opposite wall, built-in bookcases, empty, and cot. A few scratches on the wall, the usual
Orelia sucks crot.
No imagination. No blankets, either. The other two walls stopped being solid a foot from the ceiling, where they were broken by slits, each about six inches wide. One side opened to the night air. The other proved to be a door that slid open with a faint grating noise.

I stared at it, thinking I should get up and be ready, but my body wouldn't move. All I could do was stay as I was, sprawled on the floor by the latrine and wishing my stomach would hold still.

First in was a City Guard, a bit soft in the paunch but grim-faced, clutching his riot stick. Keys dangled from a clip on his belt. He gave an imitation of a meaningful glare and slapped the stick in his open palm. The noise reverberated through my skull. On his heels came a bald-headed gaea-priest. I blinked and struggled to sit up straighter.

“Oh yes, I see what you mean,” the priest said. “You were quite correct in summoning me.” He knelt beside me in a rustling of rainbow-colored silk. The amulets around his neck clinked together. He smelled of fish. My stomach heaved.

“There, there, poor child.” He stroked my forehead with one hand. His flesh felt baby-soft and moist. “Don't be alarmed. You're reacting to the drug on the restraint dart. It's only natural, given a slight overdosage.”

I opened my mouth to curse him, but found my nose pincered closed, my head jerked back and something tasting of bitter citrus poured down my throat. I swallowed, sputtered, lashed out at him with fists and feet, only to meet empty air. I caught a glimpse of an empty glass vial before he hid it in the folds of his robe. My eyes watered.

He stood above me, well beyond my reach, gazing down with a beatific expression. I guessed he'd done this before. I swore at him in earnest.

“The antidote will take effect in a few moments. You'll be quite well, I assure you.”

I started to clamber to my feet, although my belly advised against it. I'd paid it all the attention I was going to.

“Don't even try it!” the guard snarled. “You can answer his questions right where you are!”

I decided not to tell the guard what I thought of his ancestry, eating habits, and choice of bed partners, which shows that my brains were getting unscrambled. That antidote worked fast.

“Are you now or have you ever been,” the priest began, rocking back and forth to the singsong phrases, “in possession of knowledge regarding or contact with any unapproved, secret, or illicit technology, no matter how harmless it might seem? Think carefully before you answer, my child, for it is your precious ecosoul, the hologram of your being, at stake here.”

“Unh!” I buried my face in my hands, hoping to appear sicker than I felt.
Contact with secret technology?
In my mind, I saw the cold, piercing brilliance at the heart of the Northlight, the arching metallic ribs of the dome, the stones underfoot worked with such marvelous skill. I ran laughing on the pebbled beach with Terris. I trembled with the beauty of the steppe. I stood in the poisoned swamp, trying to understand its lesson.

I lifted my eyes to the priest and saw now the glossy shaven skull, the opaque eyes, the frozen smile, the little pointed teeth.

“I am a Ranger,” I said. “I stopped the northers at Brassaford with my own blood. I risked my life for you, time and again, on Kratera Ridge. I have done nothing but serve Laurea,” I went on, “so the likes of
you
can sleep safe in your beds at night.”

I struggled to my feet and this time the guard made no move to stop me. “How
dare
you treat me like a common criminal! I ought to slit your guts open for even thinking such a thing!”

The priest's mouth opened and shut, like that of a fish stranded on land, but no sound came out.

“I think she means no,” said the guard. He'd turned a shade paler.

“Yes, very well, I don't think there will be any further questions. Not at this time, anyway.” The priest moved toward the cell door.

“What about my friends?” I said.

The guard fumbled with the lock and jerked it open. “They're safe enough. You'll see them at the hearing,” the priest said as he pushed past the guard.

“What hearing?” I stumbled after them. The door clanged shut in my face.

“The hearing for your trial,” came wafting down the corridor.

White fire sizzled along my nerves. The words I'd thrown at the priest echoed through me. I hadn't realized how true they were.

I might have broken my oath to Pateros, but not before I'd tried my damnedest to keep it. All those years — at Brassaford, on the Ridge — I'd kept it in blood and sweat and nightmares. But loyalty must be paid for, and Montborne had broken his own promises a dozen times over. I no longer belonged to him...or to Laurea.

“Kardith!” Etch's voice called from my right along the hall. “You all right?”

“Better than my stomach is,” I said dryly. “You?”

“I came out of it maybe an hour ago. It's worn off now. When you didn't wake up...” His voice sounded shaky.

I leaned my forehead against the wall. It was smooth and cool and steady. What had Etch said before we split up —
”Don't ask me to leave her now”
? I didn't have time for that, even if I could figure out how I felt about it.

Back to business.
“Terris?” I asked.

“He's not here. Montborne's men came in a little after I woke up and dragged him out. Not the kids' brigade like last night, either. These were real military.”

Military?
My stomach lurched.

I chewed on the inside of one lip and thought hard. “We've got to get out of here.” I slipped off my belt and freed the short-bladed buckle knife.

A short time later, by dint of both of us screaming at the top of our lungs that I was barfing blood all over the floor, we attracted a little official attention. It came in the form of two black-coats. The man from earlier stood by the opened door. The other, a woman, bent over me where I lay on the cot, squirming realistically.

“I don't see any — ” she began, and the next moment she shut up, because the point of the buckle knife was pricking blood right over the big vein in her neck and my other hand was clamped around one wrist in a leverage that forced her off-balance. For good measure, I hooked one leg around the back of her knees, breaking her stance. It was possible to get out of this hold, but for myself, I'd rather wait for an easier opening.

She would too. She'd had enough unarmed fighting experience to know there weren't a lot of other options. She didn't lack courage, I thought, but she'd never come up against anything tougher than a bunch of drunken ramblers.

I dug the knife point in deeper. She flinched enough for me to jerk her further down as I rolled up to sitting. Quickly I reversed the leverage and flipped her over on her belly with her hand up behind her shoulder blades and the blade of the knife across her throat.

The male guard's eyes popped with surprise. He raised his riot stick, the other hand reaching for his knife.

“Do it and she's dead!” I snapped.

He dropped the stick and raised both hands. “You won't get away with this.”

Is there some academy of wishcrap slogans somewhere? “You're going to do exactly what I tell you,” I said. “Very, very carefully. You wouldn't want my knife to slip.”

He moved carefully. A cooperative man, or maybe he cared what happened to his partner. He took out the keys, threw them in the corner and then lay face down and spread-eagled on the floor.

It was a tricky situation, managing both of them. Aram had taught me some pressure points that put them out for a while, long enough to relieve them of their standard-issue knives — the kind that could be used either right- or left-handed and that never fit anybody really well — then I gagged and tied them with strips of their own pants.

I looked down at them, trussed like a pair of barnfowl. I could have killed them both, and once I would have. What possible difference did it make whether they were found alive or dead?

By the bloody balls of chance, I'm getting soft.

I checked the knots one more time, put on the woman's black jacket, and picked up the keys. The door to my cell slid shut with a hissing noise. It took only a moment to open Etch's and close it behind him. He slapped my arm and grinned when I handed him the man's jacket. It was a little tight across the shoulders and wouldn't fool anyone in decent light, but with his dark pants and in the shadows, it was worth a try.

As we passed the row of cells, a slurred voice called out, “Harth's own sweet luck to you, friends!”

The guard's keys let us through the barred gate at the end of the corridor. We found a chair and table, cup of tisane half-full and still warm, and two locked doors of solid wood. I couldn't tell where the other guard had come from or how long before the absence would be remarked. We didn't have much time, that was sure.

I leaned against one wall, trying to think straight. If we could find a back entrance, maybe the one the guards themselves used...but which? My head throbbed in answer.

Etch took the keys from me with a wry grin that told me he'd been here before, more than once. He took us through one locked door and then the next, down a passageway, across an intersection. The place was fairly quiet but not deserted. Once we ducked into the women's toilet as we heard voices approach. We waited dry-mouthed until they disappeared. Finally we saw, at the end of a corridor, a small lobby and the outside door. I spotted two guards, the younger one leaning against the paper-covered desk, arms crossed over his chest. The other stretched back in his chair, nodded and drank his tisane.

I pulled Etch back around the corner and prayed for inspiration. The light was too damned good to think we could just march out. Any moment now, the alarm would sound. I didn't want to fight off half the city guards.

The younger guard broke off his conversation with a sleepy-sounding, “That's it for me tonight.”

“Go ahead,” said the other, still slurping his tisane. “Leave all the tough jobs to me.”

“Ha!
I
wasn't the one who doubled the night shifts. What's the old lady so nervous about, anyway? A few wild-eyed kids, a handful of drunks and ramblers sleeping it off down the hall? We handle that every day.”

“You been sleeping these past weeks?” rumbled the older man. “I tell you, the Funeral Riot was only the beginning — ”

“Tell that to the kiddie brigade! Esmelda says — Sheest, I'm too tired to stand here and argue all night. I'll see you tomorrow.”

I slowly let out my breath when I heard the outer door close. Etch rolled his eyes expressively. A few moments later the older guard's chair springs squeaked and we heard him shuffling away in the direction of the men's toilet.

I grasped the hilt of the standard-issue knife and sauntered across the lobby as if I belonged there, Etch half a pace behind me. The door latch creaked as I lifted it. We slipped through and I felt it click shut behind us. The shadows of the nearest alley closed silently around us.

If the demon god of chance laughed at me, bloody balls and all, then I was laughing back now. At worst, we were even.

Etch and I kept away from the center of the streets and to the cover of the trees and flowering bushes. We paused to plan our next move under the shadow of an ancient peach tree. The gnarled branches had been trained over an arched wooden trellis, so that setting fruit dangled inches from our heads.

I shrugged off the black jacket and let it drop. Maybe that was a stupid move, since I might need it again later, but if I no longer wore the Ranger's vest, I'd rather take my chances than wear this. More instinct than sense.

“The front entrance is sure to be crawling with military goons,” Etch said in a hushed voice. “There might be a way through the gardens around in back. It won't be easy.”

“What? You mean getting us into Montborne's residence?”

“Where else?”

My head still felt muzzy, as if the dart drug had kicked up the older concussion. Montborne wouldn't take Terris to his office, not at this hour, not if he wanted any kind of secrecy. I didn't think he was ready to accuse Terris publicly on some faked-up charge, at least not until he'd questioned him. I went over everything I knew about Montborne, and I still couldn't read him clear — whether he'd bother to keep his options open for later dealings with Esmelda — alliance or extortion — or just eliminate any witnesses when he had the chance.

But this direction didn't
feel
right. I still couldn't think straight. But I'd pressed the demon god hard now, even laughed in the bastard's face. I couldn't count on any second chances. I had to choose right the first time.