The Shadowed Path (21 page)

Still unsure of what to do, Jonmarc stayed to the shadows and followed the wagon. In the bustling streets, the wagon’s wheels barely rolled a full turn before the vehicle was obliged to stop in order to avoid running down pedestrians. Once outside the town’s gates, however, Jonmarc knew he would be unable to keep up on foot for long, certainly not without being spotted.

If I can’t stop them from taking Linton, maybe I can find out where they’re going so I can get Trent and Corbin to help,
Jonmarc thought.
Trent knows I went after Chessis. At least he won’t think I’ve just run off.

Jonmarc watched the burlap tarpaulin, hoping to see movement that might indicate whether Linton was dead or alive, but between the distance and the crowds, he got barely a glimpse. Nothing to give a clue one way or the other. The alley was barely wide enough for the wagon to drive through the center and have enough room on either side for pedestrians to flatten themselves along the wall to get out of the way. Shouts and curses filled the air as passers-by let the wagon’s drivers know what they thought of the inconvenience.

All the while, Jonmarc tried to come up with ways to keep the wagon from leaving the town, but nothing workable came to mind. After rolling at a walking pace for several blocks, the crowds cleared as the wagon neared the edge of town, and Chessis urged the horse to pick up speed. Jonmarc jogged a distance behind, fearing at every moment that one of the bounty hunters might think to turn around. To his relief, neither man bothered looking round.

Once outside the village gate, the horse began to trot, jostling the wagon behind it on the rutted road. But instead of turning to the left, toward where the caravan made its camp not far outside the town, Chessis headed up the hill, toward Stormgard. A steady stream of foot traffic stymied any attempt to move at full speed. Men and women toting baskets and burlap bags full of goods to sell trudged down the hill toward Kerrton, while buyers laden with their purchases hiked back toward the walled enclave. Brownrobed supplicants made the journey in silent groups of two and three, headed, Jonmarc guessed, for whatever shrine within Stormgard’s walls was the object of their devotion.

Chessis and Vakkis are bounty hunters. They might have a grudge against Linton, but I doubt they go around poisoning and kidnapping people unless they’re being paid for their trouble,
Jonmarc thought as he kept the wagon in sight.
So who are they working for? The thin man in the tavern? And where’s Tarren? Can’t afford for him to sneak up on me.

Some of the towns near where the caravan made its camp had made their displeasure clear at the threat to the income of local merchants, but those incidents had never escalated beyond shouts and vague threats. Murder—or at least, attempted murder—seemed extreme.

Stormgard’s walls seemed even more massive the closer Jonmarc got to the stronghold. Huge stone blocks rose from the bedrock of the hillside, rising to a height taller than a four-story building, and the corner towers scowled down on the land outside the wall like dour sentries. Hidden in the crowd, Jonmarc filed past the uniformed guards, across the drawbridge over the dry moat that surrounded the keep, and through the entrance archway with its heavy iron portcullis.

Without a plan more solid than to keep the wagon in sight, Jonmarc fell into step behind any groups of pedestrians that were headed in the same direction as the bounty hunters. Foot traffic was sparser in Stormgard than in Kerrton, making it difficult to stay out of sight. The wagon rolled across the cobblestones, and with every jolt, Jonmarc willed Linton to rouse beneath the tarp and break free.

A line of silent supplicants, all robed and cowled in brown, filed along the city’s main thoroughfare, toward the center plaza and whichever shrine they chose to make their offerings to the Lady and her eight Aspects. As Jonmarc dodged down another alley, a ragged man dragging a wheeled cart came around the corner. The other pedestrians scrambled to get out of his way, and the stench as the man passed nearly made Jonmarc retch. Stacked in the crude cart like logs wrapped in burlap were the bodies of the dead, enroute to Stormgard’s burial ground.

What if Linton is dead? I’m looking for a chance to rescue him. What if he’s beyond rescue? What then?

Jonmarc had heard tales about bounty hunters who earned their pay whether the quarry was dead or alive upon delivery to the buyer. It was already clear that Linton had run afoul of someone angry—and wealthy—enough to put a bounty on his head.

If I can just find out where they’re going, maybe Trent can think of something,
Jonmarc thought miserably.

Inside the walls of the city, Stormgard’s buildings of white stone gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Whoever had overseen the city’s construction had obviously feared the use of fire as a weapon, because Jonmarc saw few wooden houses or little else near the walls that might go up in fire. The fortifications might no longer be needed during the peacetime of King Bricen’s reign, but the stronghold’s military past gave Stormgard a cramped, oppressive feel.

The wagon rattled through the streets, and no one seemed to give it or the two men driving it a second glance. Jonmarc took care to provide no reason for anyone to notice him, either, making sure to avoid the gaze of those he passed and to move fast enough to keep the wagon in sight without making anyone wonder about his pace.

Stormgard was smaller than Kerrton, not surprising since the walled city was built to be defendable under siege. Jonmarc fell back as the foot traffic thinned, doing his best to avoid the notice of the two bounty hunters. The wagon slowed, then pulled into a narrow alley behind a hard-used stable and storehouse. Jonmarc waited in the shadows, watching. He stepped back into an alcove where a rickety wooden gate blocked off a ginnel between two buildings that was so narrow a broad-shouldered man would have to turn sideways to fit down the footpath. The gate looked as if a strong wind would blow it down, and Jonmarc took care not to lean his weight against it.

If both Vakkis and Chessis left the wagon unattended, he resolved to see if he could somehow get to Linton to at least find out if he was still alive. He had no desire to risk a rescue only to bring home a corpse.

Trent will want details,
Jonmarc thought.
What does the storehouse tell me?
Just two floors, the stone building was modest compared to some of the taller and more ornate structures. By the look of the stone, the building was not new, the wooden roof could use some repairs and some pockmarks near the top suggested that it might have withstood a bombardment or two, many years ago.

Vakkis climbed down from the drivers’ bench and walked around the corner, likely to the front of the storehouse. Jonmarc weighed his options.
If we were on the open road, I might be able to take Chessis, if I got him by surprise,
he thought, slipping his long knife from its sheath. Common sense made him reconsider.

Even if I could kill Chessis without alerting Vakkis, I’d never get the wagon and Linton out of the keep before the guards were on me,
Jonmarc thought.

A servant came out of the building and spoke to Chessis, but Jonmarc could not hear what was being said. Chessis got down from his perch and went to the back of the wagon, where he and the footman struggled to lift down a large manshaped bundle. Jonmarc had no doubt that Linton was inside.

“Looking for Linton?” Vakkis asked from behind him. Jonmarc wheeled, knife already in hand.

Vakkis looked even thinner than Jonmarc remembered, but his eyes were just as cold and remorseless as the last time they met. Vakkis noticed Jonmarc’s gaze on the scar that left a jagged valley across one gaunt cheek, and he gave a hideous smile.

“Like it? You’re the one who gave it to me.” The smile twitched into a snarl, and Vakkis advanced.

Jonmarc stepped away from the rickety gate, but that put him squarely between Vakkis and the wagon—and Chessis, when he returned from dumping Linton’s body in the building.

“Why Linton?”

“Because someone wants him,” Vakkis replied. “Once again, you’ve got your nose where it doesn’t belong, and I’m going to cut it off for you. We have a score to settle…”

In a moment, Chessis would be back and the odds of fighting his way past both bounty hunters was slim. Jonmarc rushed at Vakkis, knife upraised and roaring like a lunatic, a suicide move. At the last second, Jonmarc dodged to the side and slammed Vakkis hard, sending him sprawling against the ramshackle gate, which collapsed under his weight.

Jonmarc had no intention of sticking around to fight. He ran, and behind him, Vakkis’s voice echoed in the narrow walled streets.

“Stop that thief!”

Vakkis’s shouts brought two guards running, and they pounded after Jonmarc, their boot steps like thunder in the warren of winding alleys and ginnels. Jonmarc dodged around corners and switched directions, hoping he could throw off his pursuers and still find his way out. His improvised route brought him to Stormgard’s main plaza and a crowd of robed supplicants awaiting the chance to enter an ornate building Jonmarc guessed to be the shrine to the Sacred Lady.

Before the guards and Vakkis could clear the corner, Jonmarc plunged into the crowd, ducking his head, making straight for the entrance to the shrine. The supplicants’ faces may have been shadowed by their cowls, but more than one pilgrim muttered unholy sentiments as Jonmarc shoved toward the front and nearly dove into the darkness of the shrine.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright morning light to the torchlight of the shrine. Whoever had erected this place of worship had obviously been funded by a wealthy patron. The flickering torches reflected off mosaics inlaid with gold. Water, sacred to the Mother, filled a long reflecting pool that ran from just inside the doorway to the statue of the Sacred Lady at the rear of the shrine, her hand lifted in blessing. Beside her was a statue of the preternaturally wise Childe, whose arms were upraised toward the sky.

Doves, the symbol of the Aspect of the Childe, cooed overhead in their cotes. In the mosaics on the floors and on the walls, Jonmarc saw the symbol of the Lady. Along the side walls, statues honored the other six Aspects: Sinha the Crone, Athira the Whore, Chenne the Warrior, Istra the Dark Lady, the voluptuous Lover, and the fearsome and nameless Formless One.

Jonmarc’s mother had been scrupulous in making the family’s offerings to the Lady; and Shanna, his wife, had likewise kept the feastdays with care. But since their deaths, and the silence that had answered his prayers when he had begged the goddess in vain for their lives, he had made no offerings and offered no more prayers.

you weren’t listening the last time I asked for something, and you probably don’t exist, but if you do, now would be a good time to be paying attention,
Jonmarc pleaded silently.

He did not know whether the guards would dare pursue him into the shrine, but Jonmarc was certain Vakkis would not be constrained by propriety. Few of the supplicants had looked up when he entered, and no shouts intruded yet on the quiet of this holy place. He eyed the room, assessing his options. Quite a few of the supplicants knelt at the front, and he figured his odds of slipping among them unnoticed and unreported were poor.

Jonmarc worked his way along the darkened wall to where he saw a slight figure kneeling in reverence by the shrine to Istra. The Dark Lady’s statue was life size, her gaze sorrowful, and her wide cloak billowing around her to reveal the wretches that clutched at her ankles for protection. Istra was the goddess of the lost and damned, of the outcast and misfit, and the patron of the undead
vayash moru
. Jonmarc saw his opportunity and made his move.

He brought the metal pommel of his knife down hard on the back of a supplicant’s head. “Sorry,” he murmured, and in two steps had dragged the man’s body into the deep shadows behind the statue.

Hidden in the darkness behind Istra’s cloak, Jonmarc stripped the supplicant of his robe and bound the man’s wrists with a belt, shoving a wad of cloth into his mouth to muffle any shouts should he regain consciousness too soon. Jonmarc slipped into the robe, flipped the hood up to hide his face, and forced himself to relax into the slightly hunched, deferent posture of the seekers. He had no sooner knelt before the statue of the Dark Lady than he heard the pounding of boot steps and terse directions to the guards.

Jonmarc forced himself to remain still, head bowed, hunching to hide his height, hoping he did not look tense. He heard Vakkis move behind him and expected to feel the bite of a knife against his throat at any moment, but the steps passed by without incident. He waited until his feet began to go numb from kneeling and his shoulders ached from bending forward. Jonmarc raised his face to look at the statue of Istra, and the glow of the firelight gave the smooth marble an almost-living warmth.

“If you had anything to do with that, thank you,” Jonmarc murmured as he cautiously rose to his feet. Alert for a trap, he moved as he had seen the other supplicants do, folding their hands in front of them beneath the loose sleeves of their robes. Jonmarc followed their example, but he palmed his small knife, just in case.

The robed seekers filed silently out of the shrine, heads bowed, murmuring a quiet chant of thanksgiving. Jonmarc jockeyed for position so that he was in the middle of the procession. He wished he dared glance around the square to see if Vakkis and the guards had gone, but knew that would give him away if anyone were watching, so he took a deep breath and kept walking, fighting the urge to run.

Jonmarc remained with the supplicants as they wound their way through the narrow streets, down toward the city gate. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he passed beneath the portcullis and began to make his way down the road toward Kerrton. By now, the sun was overhead, and several candlemarks had passed since he had left Trent in the marketplace.
Trent and Corbin will be worried—or angry. Maybe both.

Once the supplicants had fulfilled their pilgrimage, they dispersed to their individual journeys, and Jonmarc slipped inside the Kerrton stockade, then veered down a shadowed ginnel to pull the robe over his head and roll it up under his arm. Watching for Vakkis, he strode toward the Pheasant and Quail, figuring that if Trent and Corbin had not given up or gone searching for him, they were likely to wait for him there.