Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (21 page)

‘Talented.’ That was what the Seer called her, that she could hear her mind-speak. What new strangeness, Tirielle wondered, would they discover on their quest? She could accept that the Seer could see futures, varied and shifting though they might be, but that she could speak directly into someone’s mind, and that she would be able to hear their thoughts, too? It was fey beyond words. Her powers were more than remarkable – she was in more danger now than ever. Should the Protectorate find the girl, they would not be so kind to grant her swift execution. Tirielle had no doubt that they would dissect her with their dark magics, make her do tricks for them to study, like a new animal, or rediscovered history.

Danger assailed them from all sides. She would not forget. The Seer had told them as much, that they would be split before the month was through, that they might or might not reach their goal – much they could have guessed themselves – but Tirielle had grown so accustomed to each and every one of her companions that she could not imagine them apart. What change could force them to divide? They could only become weaker if they were no longer together. Would they meet again? Tirielle had asked, but the Seer had only shook her head sadly with a weight that belied her years and said, ‘that, I cannot tell.’

The door creaked open and a librarian peered out into the darkness, myopic eyes straining to see further than an arms length. Librarians feared no violence in their halls – what thief would steal words? If only they understood the value of the words contained in these halls, the librarians would need a score of guards and the sturdiest of locks.

“Good evening, Reader. We come seeking knowledge.”

“At this hour?”

“Who among us could say that we have learned enough to sleep?”

“I suppose you have the fee?”

Tirielle withdrew a gold coin from her belt pouch and passed it to the librarian, who weighed it with his hand, and examine the coin.

“From Lianthre? You have come a long way on your quest for knowledge.”

“Distance is no bar, nor expense,” said Tirielle. She was aware of j’ark poised beside her. If she could talk her way in, there would be no need for violence, but they had already agreed that their need was great enough that a few cracked heads would not hurt. The Sard had argued vehemently against the use of such force against innocents, but Tirielle had sweetly pointed out that they were skilled enough to get by with a minimum of damage to the unfortunate recipient of their blows.

“You are welcome, of course, Lady,” said the Reader, squinting squarely into her face, seemingly unaware of j’ark beside her. He stepped aside and let them in, jumping somewhat as j’ark followed her inside.

“Oh, forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”

“No matter,” said j’ark, “thank you for allowing us entry at this late hour. I take it the fee is adequate for a few nights grace among the shelves?”

“Of course, Sir, you are more than welcome, at any hour.”

It was strange, some would think, that the libraries charged a fee of visitors, but the expense of hunting new volumes, and the competition among the many libraries for the greatest finds, was fierce. The gold in the librarian’s hand would mean more books, and it was that fact that he was calculating, not his sudden increase in wealth.

“We can find our own way about, if you don’t mind,” said Tirielle sweetly, touching the readers hand. He gulped, as if unused to a lady’s touch.

“Of course. You can find us in the main hall if you need assistance. The lists are on the first shelves, in chronological order above, in alphabetical order below, should you know what you are looking for…” at this he raised an enquired eyebrow, but Tirielle ignored it.

“Perhaps we will call on you before the night is through, should we require anything. Anything at all, my good man,” Tirielle added this last with a cheeky grin, and the squinting reader scuttled off, his back a little straighter.

“You seem to have brightened his evening, at least,” said j’ark.

“And what of yours?”

“My evening is already complete, my lady.”

Blasted men, she thought. But there was little time to waste trying to get j’ark to open to her touch tonight. If only he were as simple to please as the reader.

“We should stay together, I think, don’t you?” she tried.

“We could cover more apart…”

“What if I am attacked?” It was cruel, but she knew it would work. J’ark was only undecided for seconds.

“Very well, we will search together. Where should we begin?”

“We have no idea who we are looking for, the name of the work or author…perhaps, if the wizard is old enough…mmh…chronological lists? If we just find the oldest works, and work forward from there?”

“Sound, I think,” he said with an easy smile that warmed her heart.

She took down one of the tomes, heaving it to a nearby table, and scanned the entries.

“How is your history, j’ark?”

“I know only what I need. I know each and every battle fought by the Sard through the ages, but the wizard was lost before Sybremreyen’s records even began, before our order was born. I do not even know what his age would be called, less when it was.”

“Well, the records begin in the Shard epoch, which was over 700 years ago. It is the best we can do, although I doubt there will be any mention of the old ones, or the wizard, but the Seer says we will find it here, and we have n
othing left but to believe her.”

Hefting the book high on her chest, she replaced it, and they walked down the aisle to the Shard wing, and the start of a long night.

But at least, thought Tirielle walking on with a private smile, it will not be lonely.

*

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Roth’s night proved to be more interesting. It prowled the streets, staying in the shadows like it was the most natural thing. Where it was forced to cross a patch of lantern light, it moved swiftly and surely, without so much as a sound.

It stuck to darkened alleyways where it could, and was only seen once. That was because it wanted to be noticed. It was the perfect opportunity, and just what it had been looking for.

Unmindful of the dangers, which admittedly were scarce in any city where the Protectorate roamed (aside from the obvious peril from the Protectorate themselves) a solitary drunk left his cups and tavern and started out wavering on tipsy feet along an alleyway. As Roth watched from a darkened doorway, two men followed unobtrusively behind, but Roth could tell from the way they held themselves that they were armed. One carried a cudgel within his sleeve, his hand turned inward to prevent the weapon from slipping out, the other, from his gait, was wary of a dagger in his loose fitting breeches.

Roth followed the unlikely trio at a safe distance, remaining quiet without seeming to expend any effort doing so.

It did not have long to wait.

The two men quickened their pace, coming up from behind the drunk as he reached the door o
f his house. Roth
reached them as the cudgel was in hand, but before the blow. With a snarl it knocked the thief’s arm aside, breaking the arm with the force of the blow, and smashed the man bearing the dagger to the ground. The drunkard screeched and quickly darted into his house, bolting the door and calling for his wife. He would sober quickly, and in some respects Roth was glad he would live to do so, but that was not what he came for.

One thief was trying to gain his feet when Roth kicked him back to the floor. The other was cradling his broken arm. Roth knelt before them, pulling back the cowl of the robe it wore, and roared. The men scuttled backward, and Roth turned and walked away. As it left, it could hear them fleeing in the night.

Roth was just as careful returning to the Great Tree.

When it reached Quintal’s room, it knocked politely, and was bade enter.

“It is done,” it said.

“That should put the cat amongst the pigeons,” said the leader of the Sard with a wry grin. “Let’s hope Sia is right. Tomorrow night will be harder. Are you sure you can get away unseen?”

Roth barred its teeth in a grin, and nodded. “It is good to be doing something again. I will be ready.”

“Then until tomorrow. From here on, we will all be creatures of the night.”

As Roth left, Quintal smiled and turned back to the
window, staring at the moon’s
gentle light over Beheth.

Creatures of the night. The Protectorate would rise to the bait. They had to. The night would not be solely their domain any longer.

*

Chapter Forty

Two thieves sat before the high magistrate, both held fast in iron chains. The man on the left, with a broken forearm, sweated profusely, his face white with pain…and fear.

Flanked by two gaunt-
faced guards, and chained as they were, there was no chance of escape. They held no illusions as to their charges. Their guards might be stick-thin, their bodies seemingly emaciated under their long
robes, but they were Protocrat
s, the arm of the magistrate. Neither guard sweated in the growing heat of the morning.

They were motionless, a blade poised to fall.

Gerrard,  the thief with a sore head, began to shake. The magistrate still did not look up from his report. Gerrard thought of his wife, and his young son, a mere two years of age. He prayed to Renalon, the god of paupers and thieves – he knew there were no gods to watch over the cutthroats of the world, but he was neither skilled enough to be an accomplished thief, nor had he the patience to be a beggar.

Perhaps Renaleve would hear his plea and spare them.

He held onto the image of his son’s face, the tuft of dark hair that sprouted from the back of his soft head, his gently brown eyes and his endearing giggle, a giggle which from time to time was followed by a high-pitched squeal of delight whenever they played peek and boo, or when tiggled under his chin.

For him, he would die quietly. When they had been found, fleeing along the streets, the Tenthers had asked him where he lived. Even under their blows, he had said nothing. Fortunately, his partner did not know, either. They had only met a week previously, and he had been sensible enough to keep his home a secret from the man. He wouldn’t have blamed Wex for telling them. When they had twisted his shattered arm the man had screamed to wake the night. No, he would not have blamed him.

He noticed the magistrate looking deep into his eyes. He raised his head. There was no point in trying to be submissive any longer. He would die this day. The least he could say when he passed the gates was that he had died bravely, without a whimper. No sense in begging, either. Perhaps he would soil himself, but who didn’t, faced with death at the end of a steel blade?

“It says here your names are Gerrard and Wex? Is that correct?”

“Ye…Yes,” said Wex, softly through chattering teeth. He was in so much pain he could not even force a simple affirmative from his mouth.

“We are so called,” said Gerrard, more bravely.

“And you were accosted by a
rahken
, you say? Here in the city?”

“Yes, high magistrate, as big as a horse, it were. Broke my friend here’s arm, clean in two. We weren’t doing nothing to it, mind, just out for a stroll.”

“With a cudgel and a dagger?”

“Self-protection, High Magistrate,” said Gerrard hopefully.

“I think not. Another man reported two men of your description attacking him outside his home. We must uphold the peace, you understand? Good, I’m glad there will not be the need for unpleasantness.”

By unpleasantness Gerrard was sure the Protocrat meant wheedling and mewling, not their deaths. That wouldn’t bother him at all.

“Tell me more of this
rahken
.”

“It were tall, and fast. All brown fur and teeth and claws. Only ever seen one once, when me and my old man were out at the lakes, fishing, but never forget it. Quick as you like it broke my friend’s arm, like a snake…a big furry snake, with arms and legs…” Gerrard realised in his fear he was rambling and broke off.