Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (5 page)

‘Teia,’ he said. His tone was flat. Hitching around on the stool, he turned towards the light and continued working, his brown, callused hands deft with the stiff leather.

She waited for something more from him, some acknowledgement that she was still his daughter, but nothing came. Clan law lay between them like a wall of ice, impossible to climb. From now until she wore a wedding tattoo, she did not exist.

Drw had never been so formal. He’d waved the law away, clapped Teir on the shoulder and called for another flask of
uisca
for his old friend. But then Drw had offered for her in the old way, over a cup of water; he and Teir had clasped on a bargain well before it was emptied, all without the Speaker taking a hand. Nothing was the same any more.

So this was how it would be. Sobs thickening in her chest like clouds that grew heavier and darker but never came to rain, she walked past her father into the tent. To her relief, it was empty. Stripped to her skin, she threw the hateful blue wool dress and crumpled shift into the shadows in the far corner, where she wouldn’t have to look at them. She was about to hurl the fancy looking-glass after them but hesitated, fingering the ornamented frame. Drwyn had given it to her, but it hadn’t truly been his to give. It had been Drw’s, and having something of his was . . . comforting. She tugged a clean shift and one of her own familiar dresses from her clothes chest, then hid the glass away at the bottom, under her winter stockings.

She’d just pulled her dress over her head when she heard someone enter the tent behind her and turned to see her mother in the doorway.

‘Teia!’ Ana exclaimed, rosy face bursting into a smile. She held out her arms and, reluctantly, Teia went to her. When her face came into the light from the entrance, her mother’s delighted expression slumped like stale cooking-grease. ‘Macha’s ears, what’s happened to you, child?’

‘Didn’t the Speaker tell you where I was last night?’ Her voice sounded crushed flat, as if she had a great weight on her chest.

‘Of course, but—’

‘He hurt me, Mama.’ Gulping a breath, Teia tugged her unlaced dress down off her shoulder.

Her mother squeaked, hands flying to her mouth, bright black eyes widening. ‘Oh, Teisha,’ she breathed. She hurried to the tent flap and snatched it aside. ‘Teir! Teir, come here!’

Teia’s father limped in, the half-mended bridle dangling from his hand.

‘Look, just look at her!’ Ana seized Teia’s arms and pulled her further into the light. ‘Look what he’s done to her!’

Her father’s face was expressionless. ‘He is the chief, Ana.’

‘That doesn’t give him the right to paw over our daughter like an animal!’

‘And how am I supposed to stop him?’ Teir demanded harshly. ‘Am I supposed to march up there and call him out to battle? He is
the chief
! He’ll have me staked out for the wolves, woman!’

‘Does she mean so little to you?’ Ana persisted. ‘I told you I did not want her going to him – I knew something like this would happen! He is not his father, Teir, not by a full measure!’

‘Mama, please.’ Teia tried to shrug off her mother’s hands and cover herself, to hide from the storm of raised voices.

‘Drw was my friend. I trusted him, and I served him willingly until I couldn’t serve any more.’ A muscle worked in Teir’s jaw and he looked away. ‘I owe it to his memory to serve his son.’

‘Even after this? She is not a saddle blanket to be traded—’

‘Quiet!’ Teir snapped. He flung down the bridle and levelled a finger at Ana. She backed away as if he had pointed a spear at her, drawing Teia with her. ‘I have heard enough, wife. I have given my word to the Speaker that I will abide by the chief’s will in this. Now remember your place.’

Then he turned on his heel and stalked away, making no attempt to hide the stiffness in his gait that he’d carried for as long as Teia could remember, legacy of the Stony River Rebellion. Ana watched him go, then sighed and pulled the tent flap closed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking down at her hands. ‘I tried to tell him last night, but he would not listen. He thinks he is doing his best for you.’ Her shoulders lifted helplessly. ‘Your father’s a proud man. It hurt him more than he would ever admit to give up the captain’s banner and just be a liegeman again. It eats at him.’

‘So I’m supposed to feel sorry for him?’ The words were thick in Teia’s throat. ‘What about me, Mama?’

Ana sighed. ‘A lame man can’t be a war captain, Teisha. Drw never forgot what Teir did to help put down the rebellion, but now Drw’s gone and your father has nothing. If he sees you wedded to the new chief, his name will have high honour in the Crainnh again.’

Teia stared incredulously. ‘But first I have to whore for him?’

‘Teia!’ It was not much of a reproof and still Ana could not look at her. ‘He is a good man trying to do the right thing. A Crainnh without honour has no place in the clan and you know that. He is only trying to secure your future. Our future.’

Teia flung up her hands. ‘And what if the chief doesn’t want me for his wife? Did he think about that? Or will he just auction me off at the Gathering and buy back his honour?’

The clouds broke at last and engulfed her in tears. Jerking her dress straight, she pushed past her mother and out into the weak sunshine, no longer caring who saw her face or pointed at her as she stumbled away. She did not care where she was going either, and blundered straight into the Speaker.

Strong hands caught her, fending her off. ‘Wait – wait, child!’

Teia looked up, recognising the voice.

Frowning, Ytha lifted her chin. ‘What happened to your face? Did Drwyn do this?’

Mutely, Teia nodded, fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks faster than she could swipe them away.

Ytha harrumphed and released her. ‘I thought you would have learned how to please a man by now. You spent long enough with Drw.’ The Speaker’s voice was flat and chilly as stone and her green eyes just as hard.

Horrified, Teia searched Ytha’s face for compassion or even a shred of the brusque kindness of the night before. She found nothing. Her heart sank towards her toes and she could articulate nothing more than a moan.

‘Stop snivelling, child! I told you yesterday: do your duty and all will be well. Now wash your face, put on the dress I gave you and attend the chief. He will be expecting to see you beside him when he wakes.’ With that, Ytha gathered her mantle around her and strode off.

Teia stared after her through a blur of tears. Maybe the wedding fair would have been a better option after all.

4

SAVIN

The house near the tailors’ guildhall in Mesarild to which Savin had tracked Alderan’s colours truly was unremarkable: a foursquare, sturdy thing of dressed Elethrainian granite, stolid and rosy as a country squire, surrounded by a low wall built more to define the small square of neatly scythed lawn behind which the house sat than for any pretensions to security. To all appearances it was a merchant’s residence; someone well-to-do enough to afford a modest garden in the imperial capital, where all the streets sloped steeply away from the Citadel and level ground was at a premium. It was not ostentatious, but possessed of that smug well-keptness that was so dreadfully middle class.

Watching from the shadows of the guildhall’s great arched door, Savin wondered what had motivated Alderan to come here. Visiting a friend would be the obvious answer, but Alderan’s friends tended to be innkeepers and ships’ captains and such – lower sorts who picked up gossip or moved freely around the Empire and could therefore be useful to him. A lace-merchant or mill owner of the type suggested by this house was an unusual choice for the old man.

Another mystery. Another puzzle to be solved.

Light glimmered behind the drapes covering one of the downstairs windows but the upper storey was dark. So the family was at home – at this hour, probably at supper. Good; they’d all be in one place. That would make things easier.

He was about to step out of the shadows and cross the street when the front door opened and a woman appeared, carrying a brass lamp. A housemaid, by her sober gown and white apron. She hung the guest-lamp on a hook by the door to light the way for visitors, then vanished back inside. The door closed behind her with a solid thud.

Savin frowned. How many other servants would there be, for a house that size? A parlour maid and cook, perhaps a housekeeper? Carefully, he reached out with his mind towards the house. Five tight knots of colour clustered in the room with the light behind the drapes, and at the back of the property there was a further dull smear that was most likely the maid, probably in the kitchen or scullery. A scan of the other rooms said they were empty; maybe the householder was not quite as wealthy as he pretended to be.

Something dragged over his senses, as fine and clinging as a cobweb in a darkened room. It was a ward of some kind, one as subtly engineered as any he had ever encountered outside of the Western Isles, and it bound up the entire house – mouse-holes to chimneypots – so delicately that the least touch would tear it.

Impressive.

Savin looked again at the colours he’d found, studying them. Three were children, their nascent gifts as carefree and tangled as a patch of wild flowers, but the other two, now that he looked more closely, were carefully modulated to appear almost nothing at all. The discipline required to conceal a gift so effectively took years of practice.

He almost laughed. Now Alderan’s visit made sense, and the weaving he had detected had most likely been him opening a way through the ward. Which meant – oh, and the realisation filled him with such glee – that this self-satisfied little mansion was probably the Order of the Veil’s safe house in the capital.

So. Kitchen first to deal with the maid, then, once there was no chance he’d be disturbed, he’d see what the others could tell him about the old man.

Under his senses the Veil was a rippling many-coloured fabric, billowing like a goodwife’s laundry line. Holding up his hands, palms out, fingers spread, he stilled it, then slid his will into the spaces between the threads. With a simple gesture, he drew the evening apart and stepped into the Hidden Kingdom, then out into the somnolent warmth of the residence’s kitchen.

The maid had her back to him, busy at the table with a bowl of some fruit and custard concoction that she was serving into fine cut-glass dishes. A twist of air around her neck jerked her upright. The serving spoon clattered onto the table, splashing gobs of scarlet fruit across the maid’s white apron. She clutched at her throat, found nothing there and began to struggle against the compression of her windpipe. Clawing at her neck, raising welts on her own skin. Savin tightened the garrotte. The maid kicked out, once, twice, and hit the table hard enough to set the dishes rattling against each other. Time to finish it; he couldn’t afford any more noise. Another twist and the maid’s dance ended with the brittle snap of the horseshoe bone in her throat.

Quietly, he lowered her to the floor and waited a moment to see if anyone had heard anything. No voices, no footsteps approaching. Good.

On the table were desserts for four, and a fifth bowl containing stewed apple. He scooped a fingerful of the dessert from the serving bowl and tasted it: raspberries, and a dash of brandy in the sauce. Delicious. He picked up one of the dishes and a spoon and let himself out into the passage. The gentle
chink
of cutlery and a murmur of conversation, punctuated by the treble interjections of the child who was clearly too young to be eating brandy-laced trifle, led him to the room at the front of the house where the master and mistress were indeed taking their supper.

All conversation ceased when he opened the door. The woman, mousy-haired and prettyish, paused in wiping the mouth of the smallest child whilst the two older ones stared. At the head of the table, a stocky man in a brocade waistcoat was slicing meat from a fragrant pork roast. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and the knife stilled in his hand.

‘What the—’

‘Good evening,’ Savin said, cutting him off with a bright smile.

The man blinked, momentarily thrown by a display of good manners, then his affront came storming back. The carving fork clattered onto the platter, but he kept a firm grip on the knife.

‘Explain yourself, sir, or I’ll call for the watch.’ He had the rolling brogue of the marches and his voice was pitched low and steady, no doubt to avoid alarming his family.
Splendid
, Savin thought. Now he knew exactly where to apply pressure.

‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ he went on conversationally. He hooked a chair out from beneath the table with his mind and sat down, spooning up some trifle. ‘I have some questions about a visitor you received a few days ago. I’d like to know why he was here.’

The little demonstration of his gift did not even make the man blink, confirming the fellow was well acquainted with the Song.

‘My visitors are none of your business! You can’t—’

Savin sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, bowl of trifle cradled in his lap. ‘Actually,’ he said, taking another spoonful, ‘I think you’ll find I can.’