The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

“You’re willing to go to him for help?”

“I promised to get you to the wall, and if that means asking Ceara for help, I’ll do it.” He reached for Johanna’s hand. “When I make a promise—”

Johanna leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss midsentence. “I know. When you make a promise, you’re honor-bound to keep it.” His lips had been so hot under hers it was amazing they didn’t steam in the rain. She was tempted to kiss him again and taste that heat; instead she pulled back and grinned at the sudden blush that stained his cheeks. “The good news is that I know a place where we might be able to get baths and beds for the night for a
very
reasonable price.”

“Fine, but let’s stay anonymous. It’ll be safer if no one realizes we’re here. You never know who could be watching for us in a town this size.”

I don’t know if a song or two would be your definition of anonymous, but I’ll try not to make a spectacle of myself.
She hopped off the back of the cart and motioned for him to follow.

They paid the peddler, collected their small bundle of possessions, and headed into the city’s lower streets.

Camaçari reminded her of a Performers’ tent city, except the buildings were permanent. Even so, the atmosphere, the
energy
, was the same. For the first time in days Johanna had a bounce in her step despite her wet clothes. Her mind was full of good times, long nights of dancing and even longer laughs.

Rafi followed close behind, occasionally touching her elbow when groups of people pressed too close. His concern for her was as sweet as it was irritating.

All the buildings were jammed together cheek-and-jowl, with only a narrow, sometimes impassable alley between. The bright stucco storefronts changed to larger, more solemn-toned inns. Johanna passed several before turning onto a busy common, her footsteps quickening as she saw the familiar sign in the distance.

The Bean and Barley wasn’t the fanciest inn in Camaçari, but it was the biggest. It had an enormous eating area, far larger than any duke’s hall, and a raised stage—the site of her first public performance.

And my last one. At least for a little while.

Rafi wished Johanna didn’t have to smile at every single person she passed. She was pretty enough to attract attention without her grinning at every cross-eyed beggar and swaggering mercenary.

Yes, they were somewhat safer in Camaçari than on the road, but he hoped to get in and out of the town without lighting a signal fire for their enemies to follow.

A sense of uneasiness thrummed in his fingertips, and he checked behind him, searching for eyes watching them too intently.

The moment he looked away from Johanna, she quickstepped up three short stairs to a questionable-looking inn. Men and women lined the wooden walkway at either side of the door, waiting for entrance, but she ignored them and pushed past the crowd.

A huge man, as tall as Rafi but twice as wide, followed her in. As the door began to swing shut, the man grabbed Jo around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder. She screamed, legs flailing wildly.

“Johanna!” Rafi shouted, hurtling up the stairs and forcing the door open. His mind raced in time with his pulse.

They’ve found us. They’re taking her away.

“Hey there.” A heavy palm slammed Rafi in the chest, knocking him back a step. “Watch where you’re going.”

Rafi shouldered past, ignoring the warning. Johanna’s purple-and-brown-covered rump was in the air but disappearing deeper into the cavernous room.

Something snagged the hood of Rafi’s shirt, pulling him up short.

“My friend said to watch where you’re going.” A man with horrendous breath and rotten teeth stepped in front of Rafi.

He barely heard the words over the wild thumping of his heart. Who had her? Who had found them? Rafi threw an elbow at the man holding his hood and rushed forward, only to be attacked from behind. A fist smashed hard and fast into his kidney, while a boot caught him in the knees. He stumbled into a waitress’s back, catching her around the waist to stay on his feet. She shrieked, dumping her tray of drinks onto the nearest patrons.

Another blow glanced off his shoulder, and then he was fending off an uncoordinated attack on three fronts. Fists, feet, knees, and elbows flew at him. He dodged some, blocked others, and broke both a hand that reached for his throat and the nose of an undefended face.

“Johanna!” He turned, trying to catch sight of her, but left himself open for a ringing blow to his ear. Over the cacophony of grunts and shouts, he heard the high-pitched whistles used by the garrison soldiers.

His forearm connected with a throat, his heel with an instep. The initial attackers were down but had been replaced by other patrons, who were fighting him and one another. He couldn’t see Johanna anywhere.

Glass crunched, a bench overturned. Leaping onto a table, Rafi slid in the remnants of someone’s meal.

“Jo—” Something swept out his feet and he fell hard, pain raging across his ribs.

A punch crossed his jaw and stars burst in his vision. The whistles seemed to fade in and out, replaced by a vibrating buzz.

Don’t stay down. Down is dead.

He rolled off the table, taking an attacker with him. A bone crunched and the man screamed.

“Rafi!” Johanna’s voice cut through the ringing in his head.

He fought harder, moved faster. Striking again and again, he tried to shift in the direction of her shout. There was no finesse in his action. It was blunt and brutal, survival over strategy. The pain in his jaw and head and side were fleabites compared with the fear brought on by Johanna’s scream.

A weight bore him to the ground, pressing his face against the sawdust-covered floor. More piled onto his legs, though he bucked and flailed. One of his arms was yanked behind his back.

“Rafi, stop!”

The words didn’t register until his other arm was pinned. Hands pushed his head down, making it impossible to move. His breath whistled through his nose, and the nutshells that littered the floor dug into his cheeks.

“Please!” A body thumped down beside him. Knees covered in a pattern of five-legged sheep appeared next to his face.

He could hear Johanna talking quickly, pleading.

“You don’t understand,” she said. A hand, small and familiar, touched his neck. It was cool, forcing some of the violence out of his head. The scene around him slowly shifted into focus.

A group of matching boots—garrison-issue, no doubt—surrounded them.

“He thought I was being attacked.”

“Look around! Look at this destruction, Johanna.”

Rafi’s wrists were bound together, none too gently, despite her protest.

“I’m sorry, Bartlett. He’ll pay for the damage.”

A laugh rang out, hearty and deep, but it lacked humor. “Oh, and I suppose he’s a duke in disguise?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “Can we talk about this in your cellar?”

A hand gripped Rafi’s curls and twisted his head away from the floor. He looked into a man’s fat, florid face.

“Monkey balls,” the stranger cursed, then let Rafi’s head drop. “Johanna, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

The cellar of the Bean and Barley hadn’t changed in all the years that Johanna had visited. Casks of Bartlett’s home-brewed ale lined one entire wall, while the other boasted an enormous wine collection. Bottles gleamed faintly in the flickering torchlight, tossing squares of maroon and green on the slate floor.

Bartlett sat behind his desk. A weathered door, worn smooth under years of ale glasses and liquor decanters, made for the desktop. His massive hands gripped a tiny porcelain teapot. It was an odd contrast, sausage-thick fingers deftly pouring tea from the fragile object.

He was nothing if not a man of contrast. Bartlett looked like a blacksmith, sold every sort of alcohol, but preferred to sip the Wisp Islands’ finest brew. A wormlike scar, puckered and pink, stretched from where his left ear should have been and down into his shirt, yet he loved good music. And he was as quick with a kind word as he was with a weapon.

Usually.

Today his face was set in hard lines, a frown tugging down his mouth, as he studied Johanna and Rafi.

“I know you learned from your father how to twist a story onto its head. Arlo was the most potent liar I’ve ever met, but as his friend and as yours, I expect the truth.” Bartlett set the teapot down with an aggressive clink. “You brought trouble to my doorstep. I want to know why and how much more I should expect.”

He had sent away the men from the garrison with a few whispered words, and Johanna was grateful he hadn’t revealed their identities. The soldiers respected either Bartlett or the Bean and Barley’s ale, and they didn’t spare Rafi or Johanna an extra glance.

She’d never had reason to pay attention to military discipline, but she knew that a brawl in any Santiago township should be reported to the authorities. In this case, she was thankful the laws were a little more relaxed in Camaçari.

“We . . . I . . .” She shot a nervous glance at Rafi, but he lounged in the chair beside hers, one arm thrown over the ladder back, not quite around her. He met Bartlett’s eyes, the purpling bruise that stretched from his cheekbone to his chin adding something malevolent to his handsome features.

“Don’t look at him. I want the explanation from
you
.” Bartlett returned Rafi’s stare. “I know a DeSilva when I see one. They like to sugar hard truths so you think you’re getting cake when they’re really serving you stones. And by the Light . . . with the two of you here together . . .” His words faded off as he shook his head.

The story she’d planned to knit dissolved into a heap of unconnected threads.

Bartlett was someone she could trust. Her father always had. There had been some scrape before Johanna was born, and Bartlett had lost his ear coming to Arlo’s rescue. The details of that particular escapade were a little thin—and her father had always been specific unless he had something to hide—but the Von Arlos had stopped at Bartlett’s inn every year and stayed for a few weeks. Longer than anywhere except Performers’ Camp.

He was closer than any of her extended family and deserved better than a glittery falsehood about young lovers and a grand misadventure. Johanna took a deep breath and told the truth. “My family is dead.”

His gray brows jumped and the rosiness faded from his face. “Your mother? Thomas—”

“All but Michael,” she clarified. Rafi’s hand closed around her shoulder for a moment, his fingers warming her through the weave of her dress. It was a small action, but typical of Rafi.

“Oh, Johanna. I’m so sorry.” Bartlett’s eyes gleamed, and he blinked away the sheen of tears. “An accident? The wagons?”

The words were pebbles in her mouth, grinding against her gums with sharp edges. She wanted to spit the story out, to let each nugget plink to the floor, roll away, and disappear forever.

“They were murdered, Master Bartlett,” Rafi said, filling the void in conversation. His voice was unusually low. “They were murdered and Johanna was kidnapped.”

“So the truth is out, then.” Bartlett brought his fist down on the table, rattling the tea set. “How many people know your identity?”

Johanna jumped, her hand fanning over her breastbone. “
You
knew?”

“We all have secrets,” Bartlett said, eyeing Rafi darkly. “Arlo had more than most men, but I was privy to a good number.”

“My mother thinks Arlo was once a spy for King Wilhelm,” Rafi said, his voice gravelly. “That may be—”

“Something Lady DeSilva should have kept to herself.” Every time Bartlett’s gaze landed on Rafi, the scar on the side of his face grew more livid in color. Johanna wasn’t sure what had turned Bartlett against the DeSilvas, but she didn’t like what this anger did to her normally placid friend.

“Bartlett, please listen—”

He continued talking right over Johanna’s plea. “I’ve heard the rumors about you, boy. I should have guessed, with both Arlo and Camilio dead before their time. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Duke Fernando in a while, have you, young DeSilva? Or did you find a way to get rid of him as well?”

“What?” Rafi asked on a gasp. “I had
nothing
to do with my father’s—”

“So you say.” He pointed at Rafi, condemnation in the action. “Simple poisons, dismissible proof. I should have let the garrison drag you to jail on suspicion of murder.”

“What are you talking about?” Johanna stood, knocking over her chair. “Rafi would never—”

“Which one are you working for? Belem? Inimigo?” Bartlett swept the tea set aside, porcelain shattering, hot liquid splashing. “Don’t you see it? Someone is killing all those who stood with Wilhelm. Anyone who could rally others to support his heir.”

“My father died of natural causes,” Rafi said, rising slowly to stand beside Jo. “I would never have done anything to hurt him.”

The door to the cellar flew open. Two of the inn’s bouncers hurried through, taking stock of the situation with a glance.

“Take him to the garrison,” Bartlett commanded, coming around his desk.

“Please, Master Bartlett, this is unnecessary,” Rafi said as the first man through the door grasped his arm. “Johanna and I will find someplace else to stay.”

“
You
will. That’s for certain. Johanna is staying with me.”

She stepped between Rafi and the second bouncer. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You can’t take him. Do you know who he—”

“Johanna.” Rafi’s voice cut over her words, and he gave a minimal shake of his head, then took an unsteady step to the side.

She thought perhaps it was a ploy, a show of weakness that would lure the bouncers closer. Rafi had given better than he’d gotten in the barroom brawl.
He could certainly break free of these two. . . .

Red blotches marred the side of his ugly shirt, and the floor next to his chair featured wine-colored drops that weren’t from anything in Bartlett’s collection.

“You’re hurt. Why didn’t you say anything?” Her fingers brushed Rafi’s ribs, and he flinched away from her touch. Even over the thick material, she could feel heat radiating from his skin. The color on his cheeks, the heat of his lips, the gravel in his voice . . . how had she not realized? The wounds he’d gotten in the swamp were infected. “Bartlett, this is ridiculous. He’s sick.”