The White Mists of Power (8 page)

As twilight grew, Adric seemed no closer to the spires. He was tired and hungry, but he wouldn’t let his fear surface. He knew that Lord Ewehl had to find him. The lord couldn’t go back to the palace without Adric.

Someone tugged on his sleeve. Adric whirled, expecting to see one of the footmen. Instead a girl about his own age smiled at him. Her long brown hair straggled around her face. Her skin was thick with dust, and most of her teeth were missing. “You look lost,” she said.

He could barely hear her over the noise. When the words did reach him, they sent a shudder though him, and for a minute his eyes burned with the threat of tears. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Where’s you going?”

“To the center of town, the place where the king’s carriage usually waits.” His voice hitched as he spoke. He felt as if he had been alone for weeks instead of hours.

She nodded and took his arm. “I know where that is.”

Adric trembled. Finally a little bit of hope. The girl led him through the press of bodies to the side of the road. There a small side street angled off into the dimness. It looked like the road he had been attacked on: strangely hung signs, the wooden platform, and haphazardly placed buildings. Only this street had no gutter running down the middle.

“This is a quicker way,” she said. Now that they were away from the noise, Adric could hear a lisp in her speech caused by the lack of teeth. She looked him up and down, taking the lace edge of his sleeve and rubbing it between her fingers. “Your clothes are nice.”

Adric stared at her palm for a moment, not understanding her. When he finally realized that she wanted him to pay her, he shook his head. “I don’t have any money,” he said.

Adric opened his mouth to tell her the story when he was tackled from behind. As he landed on the hard-packed dirt, the air whooshed out of his body. Dozens of small hands reached in his clothes, ripping, tearing, searching. His body was cramped and he could barely move. Finally he gasped, filling his lungs. He tried to roll over, but his shoulders were pressed tightly to the ground. A knee dug into the small of his back as the hands moved down to his trousers, cupping and grabbing even his private parts. He screamed and flailed, but he couldn’t strike anything. Then the hands disappeared except for the two on his shoulders. The knee pushed harder into this back, sending a dull, throbbing ache around to his belly.

Adric pushed against the ground and managed to roll away from the hands and knee. He looked up to see a dozen dirty children looking down on him. “Look,” he said. “If we’re all in the same position, maybe–”

“You don’t know anything,” the tallest boy said. He was the one who had spoken before. His body was stick-thin, and scabs covered his arms and legs. “Look at you.” He pushed Adric’s hip with his foot. “You’re fat and well-dressed, and your hands are soft. You don’t know anything.”

He kicked Adric’s side. Pain shot up through his chest. Adric tried to get up, but the other children leaped on him, kicking and biting and scratching. He managed to raise his hands to his face as he crumpled back to the ground. Thinks popped and snapped in his body. His chest burned and he could barely draw breath. A sharp blow landed on his head, and he must have passed out, for when he opened his eyes, it was fully dark and he was alone.

He looked up, his eyelids sticky with tears and blood. The stars shone above him, the same stars as the ones he saw at home. He missed home. He wondered what Lord Ewehl was doing, if the carriage still sat in its appointed spot in the center of town. He had to see.

Adric eased his arms down, feeling sharp stitches of pain in his shoulders and sides. He still couldn’t catch his breath, and he could no longer feel his chest. It was as if his chest weren’t there at all. His legs throbbed, and he knew he had a long gash near one of his ankles.

He tried to roll over and found that his chest still didn’t exist. The pain was exquisite, so fine-tuned it seemed that if he experienced it long enough, it would send him somewhere else, somewhere better. He toyed with testing the theory, then realized that his mother would worry about him. His mother needed him at home.

Adric managed to sit up, but the movement seemed to take hours. Ahead, he saw a single light burning through open doors, revealing hay, horses, a stable. A boy who was almost a man, whose shoulders were broad but whose body was still child-slim, carried two buckets toward the open door. Water splashed along the sides. Adric licked his lips. He was thirsty and he was tired and he hurt everywhere. If he got a little water, he would be able to make it to the center of town, he knew it.

He tried to stand up, shook, and collapsed on his knees. He didn’t care. He crawled, feeling the dirt dig into his palms, his legs. His clothing hung in tatters around him, and in more than one place he thought he felt the stickiness of blood.

As Adric neared the stable, he could smell the richness of hay mingled with horse sweat and manure. Familiar scents, scents of home. Inside, the boy whistled, stopping occasionally to talk to one of the horses. Adric almost crawled in, then hesitated. Everyone else he had met abused him. He didn’t dare trust this boy. Adric couldn’t take another beating. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling against the dryness, and forced himself to think.

He had to get the boy out of the stable without closing the doors. Adric’s hand closed around a hard clump of dirt. He tossed it, using all his strength, his arm cracking and tiny shudders of pain jabbing him. The dirt smacked against the far wall of the building beside the stable. Adric leaned forward, his chest burning so badly that he had to concentrate on each breath.

The whistling stopped. The boy appeared at the stable doors, his face half shrouded in shadow. His hair was blond, with pieces of straw sticking out of it, his clothing too small but clean.

The inside of the stable was warm. The smell of hay, horses, and manure seemed stronger here. Adric found the nearest pile of hay and burrowed into it. The stiff pieces scratched his already wounded body and the hay dust tickled his nose, but he was warm and he was safe, at least for the moment.

“False scare,” he heard someone say, probably the boy speaking to the horses. The whistling started again, and Adric closed his eyes. His pain throbbed in rhythm with his heart. When the boy left and the light went out, Adric would get himself water, and then he would leave. Until then he would rest.

He sighed once and shivered as hay rubbed against his wounds. The whistling continued and Adric concentrated on it, following the rise and fall of the song until he fell asleep.

Chapter 5

i

Seymour followed Byron’s gaze. Through the crowd Seymour caught a glimpse of a familiar brown and tan uniform, and then saw another. He swallowed and pressed his hands together. He hadn’t seen that uniform since the day Dakin had led him to the hounds. Seymour had thought the next time he saw it, he would die. That feeling was very still very strong. “What do we do?”

Byron shrugged. “Risk passing him, I guess. Why don’t you wait here? If something happens to me, there’s enough money in that valise to take care of you.”

Seymour didn’t want to be by himself, especially with stolen merchandise on his arm. “I can’t let you go alone–”

“We have to go separately. Together we’ll be too conspicuous. I’ll divert his attention and then you run past. We’ll meet at that side street down there.” Byron pointed to a street that veered off behind the retainer.

Seymour shook his head, about to protest again, when the cries of “Carriage! Carriage!” rose. People scurried aside. A woman pushed against Seymour in her haste, knocking him against Byron. She nodded at Byron, her face flushed, “Sorry, milord,” she said as she passed.

Byron took Seymour’s arm and led him to the side of the road just as the white carriage rumbled past. Seymour felt the wind from its wheels, smelled the rich leather of its frame. A young boy stood in the carriage’s path, but it didn’t slow. A merchant grabbed the child away just in time.

The carriage stopped near Lord Dakin’s retainers. The crowd remained near the side of the road, moving forward again but giving the carriage and the retainers a wide berth. The carriage rocked for a moment, and then the door opened and a woman stepped out.

She wore a long white day gown that accented her dark hair and skin. She was tiny, perhaps half Seymour’s size. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in ringlets. She carried a small white fan which she swung like a knife.

Byron stared at her. The tension seemed to have returned to his body. “The Lady Almathea Jelwra. She is one of the richest and most powerful nobles in the kingdom. Her mother used to be on the council.”

“Those damned dogs again,” she said. “How barbaric.” She slapped her fan against her palm. “Tell your master that if he hasn’t shown up by this time tomorrow, I shall leave. If I do not see him, I will consider our business concluded and I will so notify the palace.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The mention of the hounds sent shivers through Seymour. He touched Byron’s arm. “Let’s go now, before they notice us.”

Byron’s eyes were hooded. Seymour could read no expression on his face. When he spoke, his tone seemed reluctant. “I suppose we should hurry.”

This time Seymour grabbed Byron’s arm, and pulled him past the beggars, minstrels, and merchants lining the streets. Seymour crouched as he moved, hoping to stay hidden in the masses of people. The crowd noise lessened, but he lost track of the conversation behind him. Gentry everywhere, and Lord Dakin coming to the city. They had to get out as quickly as they could.

Once Byron’s attention had been diverted from the lady, he moved rapidly. Seymour glanced over his shoulder. The retainers had their backs to Byron and Seymour. The lady was gesturing with her fan, then she began to climb the stairs to her carriage, but stopped when a man approached her.

Byron looked at the carriage and swore under his breath. “Lord Kensington.” He tapped Seymour on the arm and then loped toward the side street. Seymour had to run to keep up.

The side street was smaller, the road narrower. The smells were less thick here, and the noise dimmer. The crowd seemed different, a bit rougher, filled with people like the one Seymour had encountered the day before.

He looked back at the main road. The lord still spoke with the lady, and the retainers watched. No one had followed. He and Byron were safe.

ii

Afeno huddled in a doorway, watching the street. His stomach ached. He hadn’t had a decent meal since Magic left two weeks before. He sighed, wishing he could get enough energy to do some work. But Magic had been his partner. The old man had taught Afeno everything. They worked as a team, Afeno attracting the attention because his young legs could carry him quickly, and Magic taking the money. Only last time Magic had taken the money and had never returned.

A merchant’s cart rumbled by, stacked with food. A long, fat sausage hovered on the edge, then toppled into the road. Afeno sprang forward. He pushed his way into the road and dove on the meat, wrapping his arms around the casing when someone hit him in the jaw. Afeno winced. A ragged boy grabbed the sausage and pulled. Afeno pulled back. He wasn’t going to let anyone take his meal, especially not some young kid. Afeno twisted his foot around the boy’s ankle and yanked. The boy toppled into the dirt, losing his grip on the sausage. Afeno got up, but the boy grabbed his calf. Afeno slipped and fell on his knees. Pain shot through his legs and made his eyes water. Dust got into his mouth and he felt as if he were choking. The boy jumped on top of Afeno and began pounding his back with his small fists. Afeno clung to the sausage. If he survived the attack, he would eat again. Eating was worth this.