The Gate of Bones (24 page)

Downstairs the chime rang again as Renart stood, reaching for his cloak, and settling it about his shoulders, then put out his lanterns. If Fremmler's showing up hadn't been strange enough, now here was another visitor at an extremely late hour. He gathered his scribe case and trotted down the hall to the stairs. He was thinking of ducking out the back way just as the apprentice of the hour came round the corner and then gave a relieved smile.

“Renart! So you
are
still here! You have a guest.”

“Me? The name?”

“Oh. Oh.” Flustered, the apprentice bowed in apology. “Tomaz Crowfeather is waiting to see you.”

Tomaz! Another bold surprise, but convenient. “Good,” answered Renart. He renewed his grip on his scribe's case and made his way to the front door, where Tomaz stood haloed by the light of the sconces and the fading moon.

“Well met!” cried Renart and reached out for the other's hand. “Have you business here or have you come just to see me?”

“You, I think,” answered Tomaz slowly, as if considering his words before saying them.

“Good. I feel the need of a hot meal and a good drink, and I have things to discuss with you. Many things.”

“Hmmmm. Perhaps it is fortunate I stopped, then. Lead the way.” But Tomaz seemed a bit preoccupied, and looked around the shadowed street a moment before catching up with Renart.

He touched Renart's wrist lightly, and whispered in a voice the trader almost did not catch. “Did you know Jonnard was hereabouts, and watching the guild?”

Renart shook his head quickly.

“Then it is indeed fortunate I am here. Find a quiet inn, with private corners, will you?”

And so what Renart had thought to be an early evening now looked as if it would be a long, and startling, night.

R
ENART SCARCELY DARED utter a word till he found a curtained alcove at The Turkey's Wing, and sat down with Tomaz, the heavy drapery certain to muffle whatever they said. Tomaz took a crystal out of a vest pocket and laid it on the scarred wooden table, spoke a word, and a dull orange glow flowed out of it and mingled with the light from the oil sconces on the wall.

“We won't be heard,” the Magicker told him.

Renart nodded, feeling nervous but trying not to show it. “If you saw Jonnard, then surely he saw you.”

“I doubt it. I take precautions when traveling here. Our welcome is still uncertain.” Tomaz gave a smile that was barely more than a faint curve of his mouth, but his eyes warmed. “Why were you not surprised? Alarmed, but not surprised.”

“I was leaving work and knew I would have to contact one of you as soon as I could. Isabella sent a disbarred trader, an outlaw named Fremmler, to the guild early tonight. He came with a deal. She intends to sell back much of what they've stolen, it seems.”

Tomaz let out a low grunt. He traced a knife mark cut into the wood of the table under his hand. “Enter-prising of her.”

“Very. She might even turn it into good propaganda, if people never understand she stole the goods in the first place. Without those stores, there are villages who will suffer terrible deprivations this winter. It will cost them to buy it back, but it is better than facing starvation.” Renart shrugged off his cloak onto the back of his chair, and waited as the serving lad brought a tray in with the food and drinks they'd ordered at the counter. The meat pies smelled good and their gravies poured out through the crust onto the plates, and the bread loaf was warm as if just pulled from the oven. He took a mug of Narian tea and pulled it to him. “Is that why Jonnard was here, do you think? Isabella not quite trusting Fremmler to set up everything to her specifications?”

“That's the most likely explanation.”

“Do you intend to stop it?”

Tomaz shook his head. “If I would stop anything, it would be the raiding. It would be a fool's attempt to stop a trade deal, however. Wheels within wheels and all that.” He traced the knife mark again.

“If you didn't know about Jonnard, why are you here?”

“I'm escorting some of the younger Magickers on a town trip, and I thought I would stop in to see you.” Tomaz leaned forward. “I have need of an old map, a copy. It doesn't have to be the artifact itself, but a reliable copy.”

“What map?”

“One that shows the fortresses along the boundary of the old kingdom.”

Renart's heart relaxed enough to give a normal beat. At least he wasn't being asked for the impossible, dangerous, or unwise. He lifted his spoon and made a vent in the crust of his pie, letting delicious smelling steam gush out. “I can give that to you tonight. I'd have to return to the guild house, though.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. Best not to give Jonnard a reason to wonder at your comings and goings any more than he does. I am certain he remembers your dealings with us.”

Renart shivered at the memory. He nodded. “All right, then. I can procure what you need early . . . but how to get it to you?”

“Where are the closest windows to your workplace?”

“Windows?” Renart had to think on that. He
was
on an outer wall, as well as the corridor. He swept his memory over the area. No, no, nothing so cheerful as a window . . . wait. Yes! A small oval near the ceiling, almost hidden by the overstuffed set of bookcases. It was hardly bigger than his head, however. “Small one,” he answered.

“Show me.”

Renart traced the remembered outline with his hand.

“Good. Open it for a bit of morning sun when you get into your office. Get the chart, roll it up. I'll have my crow there within fifteen marks of your entering the building.”

“Crow?”

Tomaz nodded. “Make sure the chart is protected, their claws can be hard on paper.”

“All right. Give me thirty marks, in case I have to trace a rendering first. The map I feel you want should have copies, but if not, I'll have to make one.”

“Done.” Tomaz took up his own spoon and began to chop the golden-brown crust down into the meat and its gravy, and for a long time neither said anything as they ate, and enjoyed, and thought difficult thoughts. When they both had pushed away their plates, he said, “I have places to go yet.”

“Sleep for me, with much work facing me in the morning.”

Tomaz smiled as he stood, and leaned over, and shook Renart's hand. “You've been a good friend.”

“How could I be otherwise? You are good people.” Renart gave a crooked smile before pulling his coat about him, fading into the evening crowd, and disappearing.

Tomaz scooped up the crystal, frowning then, as its glow had been nearly extinguished. He tossed the small object from one palm to another, pondering it before pocketing it. It should not have dimmed in the time they were there. He would have to stow away that knowledge with other, equally odd, observations.

Crossing town by the back ways, of which there were many, steeply shadowed in what was now the deepest part of the evening, Tomaz felt a prickling across the back of his shoulders. Without seeming to, he angled toward the buildings and looked around when he could, but nothing met his keen glance. Still, his senses told him that it was too quiet about the alleys. The small critters of the dark that always frequented such places, to catch what bits and pieces of food they could, were gone. There was something that startled them besides himself. Tomaz did not like the idea he was being followed.

He knew ways to confound whoever it was, though, and changed his pattern of movement only a little, headed toward the forger and arena where Stefan learned his sword work. The coyote had given him many lessons in stealth and trickery and Tomaz did not worry.

Torchlight flickered at the edge of the arena despite the time of night, and he could see Stef's big, square body, sword in hand, as he went through a series of positions and strike exercises, a slender girl watching him with the keen eyes of a hawk and barking out corrections as Stef took advantage of every moment of his time. Tomaz let himself grin at the sight, an expression which he would smooth away when Stef could actually see him as well. The boy who was not quite a man was sensitive and might misunderstand the humor in seeing someone so large carefully mind the orders of someone so slight. Yet it was true that the most slender of daggers was often also the most deadly.

Looking at the swordsmith's daughter, Tomaz could also easily understand why Stefan wanted his lessons. She was handsome more than beautiful, her expression intent as she watched, her jaw set, a large, heavy sword swinging easily from one hand as if it held little weight at all. Her long hair was pulled back by a beaded headband, and she wore an armored vest cut away from her shoulders to leave her arms free. Her leather breeches showed scuff marks and scarring from the impact of dulled blades.

He swept the shadows behind him one last time, then brushed his fingertips across his crystal, checking for presences he might have missed as he began to step out into the open. She sensed his movement as he did so, raising a hand to her in welcome. Stef swung about with a grunt of effort, as Tomaz let the grin drop from his face and searched for a more appropriate smile.

Something moved behind him even as his crystal flickered in meager warning. He started to swing about . . . too late, as heaviness crashed down on his head, and everything went dark.

 

Stef saw Beryl's intense gaze move away from him, and across the dirt arena to the darkened city behind the pole fencing. He wondered if her father had come to get them, declaring an end to the long night of lessons. Every muscle he had and a few he must have borrowed ached beyond reason and he felt thankful for a short break in her attention. Rich, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, had gone to sleep long ago in the shed at the arena's back which connected to the forge. The forge itself was banked for the night, fires down to a glow, but always present, never cold. He took a deep breath, then swung about to see what had attracted Beryl's attention.

Tomaz moved into the barest of illumination from a still bright moon though the Hunter's Moon was now days ago. Hand raised in greeting to them, he did not see the shadow rising from behind him, cloaked in billowing darkness, nor the sliver of silver that cut through it.

“Hey!” bellowed Stef. He ran toward the arena fencing as Tomaz dropped with a heavy thud into the street.

The cloaked figure stood over the fallen Magicker a moment, then turned toward Stef. He dropped the hood to his shoulders, revealing Jonnard's cruelly smiling face, and gave an ironic salute with his saber.

Stef launched himself over the fence with a roar and went after Jonnard. He could feel the bear cub rippling through his muscles as he yelled. “Rich! Rich, get out here, Tomaz is hurt!” He didn't know if he could be heard as he lowered his head and charged toward Jonnard. Alley dirt felt gritty under his feet.

Jon turned to face him with an ironic laugh. “And what do you think you can do?”

Stef bared his teeth as he brought up his blade, into a move Beryl had drilled into him only hours before, and it felt good. Without answering, he parried, then thrust at the other.

Jon met his blow, and stepped back, gathering himself. “You'll have to do better than that. A lot better!” He turned slightly and began his attack, the swords ringing off each other, even as the sound of people running toward them punctuated it. With a harsh laugh, Jon pivoted around and sprang away down the alley.

Stef followed without a second thought. Hot blood steamed through his tired body, and nothing mattered but catching Jonnard. Catching him and wiping that snotty expression off his face. Behind him, both Rich and Beryl called, and he heard it though his ears rang with the trumpeting of his own pulse and anger. The bear cub struggled inside of him to burst free.

No bear! A bear couldn't hold a sword blade or run the streets after Jon. He fought back, zigzagging after Jon's path. He turned a sharp corner into a smelly, dank mouth of an alley, and Jon sprang at him.

He accidentally parried the blow, and the vibration of it stung his forearm, but he forced Jon back onto his heels with a grunt. Stef righted himself and tried a jab which nearly got through the other's guard. A look flickered over Jonnard's face, quickly replaced by a curl of his lip.

“Think you've learned a bit?” Jon laughed sharply. He swung his blade easily and countered Stef with a series of moves that clashed heavily between them. Stef couldn't touch Jon, but neither could Jon break through Stef's defense. Jon tossed his head. “You are tired and your sweat stinks of bear.”

Stef growled in response. He charged, not quite ready to attack, but his body flung itself forward and he had to go with it, fighting himself as well as the other. His body rumbled with the need to change. His crystal rested on a thick leather choker about his neck, a collar even the bear couldn't burst, and he dropped his chin to touch it better, reaching for aid.

His senses skittered away and then latched onto a Magicker, but not the Rich he expected, the Rich who'd always been there to help him. Rich had his hands full tending Tomaz. He only caught the barest glimpse of his friend. In need, his mind filled with another Magicker, surprising him. Instead, he found Jason. He reached out, pleading silently for help to stay himself in his own skin, to be centered. It was as if they had clasped hands. Without hesitation, Jason poured strength into him, steadying, his own anger fueling him, but with a cool concentration, as if he had . . . well, opened a Gate into Stefan. He let himself be filled with the other's confidence and encouragement.

He snarled as Jon saw him hesitate in that connecting moment and darted out of the blind alley, out of the stink and the fight. Stef went after him. He could feel Jason's pulse drumming inside his. He pounded after the dark billowing cloud of Jonnard's cloak, drawing nearer and nearer.
Go, go, go, get him!
Not built for speed, never built for speed, he lowered his head as he neared, and flung himself after Jon in a diving tackle.