Weather Witch (21 page)

Rowen began to sputter, “I am not in—”

But his father gave a look and Gregor raised his hand for silence. “Save your protests for the day you try to explain these actions to some low-born girl you finally marry.”

Rowen’s eyes went wide and his cheeks puffed out.

Still his father talked on. “Love is a strange thing. Often not recognized until it is far too late. And for you, dear boy, it is far too late.”

“I do not love Jordan!”

“Of course not. It is not as if you’ve been lost in your cups each night since she was taken.”

“It is not as if I haven’t been drunk before,” Rowen said.

“Not so frequently, nor so solidly,” his father pointed out. “And smelling of the cheapest smoke that has ever assaulted my nostrils…”

“It was all that’s been offered.”

“Then buy your own if you must. And you have not shaved. You look the villain’s role.”

Rowen rubbed the stubble shadowing his jaw so the move was audible. “I am about to steal two military-grade horses and do my damnedest to kill a man. Certainly not the actions of a hero.”

“I’m afraid you are due to learn that heroism is all a matter of perspective, dear boy. The winner writes the story in the end.” Burchette slapped his hands together and the nearest horse snorted. “Well, have at it, why don’t you? Which two are you intent on stealing?”

Rowen swallowed hard, seeing the look in his father’s narrowed eyes. He straightened his back and strode to the first stall. Giving the horse a quick look, he said, “This one will do.”

The old man snorted. “I daresay you’re wrong. Copper develops a soft left hind frog after a three-mile gallop. He’ll lame up on you if he’s pushed much beyond that. And you need a firm and fast five miles between you and the trouble you’ll be making here today.”

Rowen clenched his jaw and stepped to another stall. He glanced at the horse inside, holding his stormlight high, and then stepped away.

Gregor grunted approval.

The third stall held a tall bronze-backed steed. The horse arched his neck and shook his mane out at Rowen, his nostrils flaring as he stomped a broad black hoof.

Rowen stepped away.

“No,” his father said sharply. “Bold choices require bold companions to back them. Ransom is a bit of a handful, but he’ll be more than sufficient for your needs.”

“Ransom…?” Rowen adjusted the height of his stormlight to better see the nameplate hung on the stall’s door.

The horse snorted in response.

“As in
King’s Ransom
?”

“The same.”

“Do you want me dead, Father? This is Stevenson’s prize stallion.”

“There’s a reason for that. Ransom’s a damn fine beast.” Gregor shrugged. “Why go halfways about something? Commit fully to your actions. Doing a thing halfways only ever gets you halfways to your goal.”

Rowen swallowed. “Jonathan…?”

His father spoke again. The man barely breathed without riding the air out of his mouth with some thought he obviously had to share. “No. Saddle him yourself. You do this thing and you might as well be riding to war. But you will have no army behind you and little to speak of in the way of family, either. You know how your brothers are. If you are going to do this thing, then take all the steps yourself. Steal him, saddle him, own him as you do the choice you make here and now.”

Rowen stared at him.

The stallion shook his head and whinnied.

“Or will you write the letter?” Burchette asked, his voice soft and low. He took a step toward his youngest son. “Will you undo this thing before it goes too far?”

Rowen’s fingers twitched on the lantern’s handle.

“Will you write the letter, man down, and ask for Catrina’s promise as your mother desires? Will you, by this”—he thrust out his bearded chin toward Ransom’s stall door—“
inaction
prove you are correct about
not
loving Jordan?”

Rowen’s eyes widened. He stretched his head back on his neck and rolled his shoulders. “I. Do. Not. Love. Jordan. But I did set this duel. And you have said many times that a man is only as good as his word.”

“No, I have not.” He snorted. “I most certainly have not said
that
.”

Rowen’s eyebrows lowered and a small crease appeared between them before he blinked and banished it away. “Well. Someone did. Repeatedly. And I must agree with whoever it was and act accordingly.”

With that he strode to the tack wall and tugged down the bridle and reins, slapped them across a saddle, and grabbed a blanket. He picked it all up, looked at his father, nodded curtly, and slid into the stall with Ransom.

There was far less fighting than any of them expected, although Rowen strung some choice words together. In a smart six minutes, Rowen led Ransom from his stall. And only had a few bruises as a result. He looked at Jonathan. “Can you…?”

“Choose and saddle my own horse?”

Rowen’s nod was a slow move.

“Of course. Unless,” Jonathan said, turning to Burchette, “his lordship would like to recommend a suitable steed to me…”

“Of course. You have been a faithful servant and a friend to my youngest son. Take Silver. He’ll serve you well. Here,” he added, heading to the tack wall. “I will gladly assist you.”

Rowen let a groan escape his lips and rolled his eyes. “Thank you ever so much, Father. Do not assist
me
in the slightest in the saddling of the devil you recommend I ride, but
do
help the help…”

Gregor rounded on his son, his eyes sharp, saddle in his arms. “You have been babied far too long. As my youngest everyone has provided you with everything you might ever want for and—I daresay—a bit more. But you have chosen a path of your own. Finally. Now grow into it. Grow up and do things yourself.” He turned with a huff and bustled into the stall ahead of Jonathan.

Jonathan looked at Rowen and shrugged, his eyes wide. “Sir, I must ask…”

“Speak your mind, Jonathan.”

“Where are the regular grooms and attendants today? Usually there are at least two young men here standing guard…”

“Oh. That. Yes. It was quite unfortunate. Some sudden confusion with the schedule occurred. Quite suddenly, in fact. It would seem they all have the belief they have the day off.”

“Ah,” Jonathan said, giving Rowen a glance just before he stepped inside the stall himself. “Yes. How unfortunate.”

With both Ransom and Silver saddled, they made their way from the barn and out into the widening light of day. “At a trot?” Rowen asked over his shoulder to Jonathan.

“I do believe we must at least go at a trot, young sir. Unless you intend us to only be taken in for horse theft and not for the additional charge of attempted murder…”

“I think it is time to indulge in Father’s advice. What was it he said?” Rowen asked, tipping his head up. Sunlight streaked across his rough cheek and made the stubble glow like molten gold. “Why go halfways about something?” He grinned at Jonathan.

“He also has been known to say that a day spent reading indoors is the finest way to pass one’s time. Are you certain you wouldn’t yet choose that over the other?”

Rowen winked and pushed his heels into Ransom’s sides, sending him shooting forward with a snort.

Chapter Twelve

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around.

—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Philadelphia

The boy waved the newspaper like someone swatting flies. “Frost Giant strikes again!” he shouted. “House Vanmoer’s roses die just outside their estate gates! When will the madness end? Read more in today’s
Gazette
!”

The dark-haired man shuffled over to the boy and looked down his nose at him. “Here,” he said, pulling out some coins. “I’ll take a copy.”

The boy snatched his money and thrust a folded paper into his chest, shouting his sales pitch all the while.

“Do they know what this Frost Giant fellow looks like?” Marion asked, unfolding the paper and giving it a shake to straighten it out better.

The kid shrugged. “No idea. I think he’s a myth, meself,” he confided. “The government trying to stir things up and distract us from the real issues—it being an election year and all. Get your copy here! Know the news before your friends! Be the one with all the answers!”

“Ah. I had forgotten. An election year…”

The kid scrunched up his face. “Yeah … what rock have you been living under?”

“No rock. Why would the government do that? Make trouble that makes news?”

“So they can pin it on some poor Ninth Classer, clear the books of yet another crime, and better prove the incumbents deserve reelection.”

Marion nodded sagely. “An intriguing idea.”

“It’s not just an idea—it happens all the time. Just open your eyes.”

Marion grumbled assent. “Pity about the roses.”

“Really?” The boy blinked at him. “Lady Vanmoer’s one hard-nosed bitch, you ask me. Never tips for delivery, never has a polite word for anyone. I wish they’d gotten her prize roses, too. The ones inside the gate.”

Marion straightened a little.

“The Festival of Flowers is coming up shortly. It would be a bitter pill to swallow if the repeat grand champion can’t even enter…”

“Ironic, yes,” Marion agreed, refolding his paper to tuck beneath his arm. “Here,” he said, withdrawing another coin to give to the boy. “A tip from someone completely unlike Lady Vanmoer.”

The boy grinned and pocketed the tip gladly. “See, you’re the type who should be leading this country of ours—you’re a right good chap, you are!”

Marion just ducked his head and, lengthening his stride, sought out the quiet of a public seat in the park to be alone with his newspaper. And his thoughts.

A leader of the country? He very nearly laughed at the idea.

Very nearly.

Holgate

There was a thickness to the atmosphere—a particular way the air clung to a body in Holgate. Moisture rested like dew, sparkling on the worn and rounded stones of the compound’s outer wall and dripping in wandering streaks into moss and spongy grasses growing along the wall’s base.

A black slime had begun to film over the stonework of the main bridge and water hissed along the wagon’s wheels as they made their way over the narrowest part of the lake by which Holgate sat.

The Tester sat atop the carriage with the driver, his head moving from side to side as he examined the compound he had ventured out from only a few days before. Even the Wraiths clinging to the carriage’s corners straightened as the horses whisked them underneath the arching entranceway.

Within the walled sanctuary of Holgate they removed their hats and Jordan jumped, seeing the way the light gleamed along their ragged-looking heads and made the remaining wisps of silver hair glimmer. They never bothered to tug their hats back into place. In Holgate there was no flinch, no fear.

The Wraiths were home.

The carriage came to a stop in a courtyard of sorts, modest storefronts and houses running parallel to the wall’s interior and then hopping narrow streets and alleyways to form blocks of businesses and residences. It was far smaller a space than Philadelphia’s Hill, Jordan noted, and cramped, but it was also an area someone could easily get lost in.

Ahead of them the Wraiths leaped from their perches on the carriage’s corners and pulled wide the carriage doors for the Councilman. A step slid out from the carriage’s belly and the Councilman, Lord Stevenson, descended onto the cobblestone street. He tugged out a handkerchief and held it to his nose as the Tester climbed down from beside the driver.

“Do you smell it?” he asked the taller man.

The Tester nodded. “Someone is Drawing Down without repercussions and making the walls weep.”

“I can very nearly wring water from my handkerchief just by exposing it to the air,” Stevenson complained. “And the lake. The lake is low.”

The Tester nodded slowly, turning to look at the imposing building in the compound’s center with its broad walls and sweeping height.

Jordan counted a miraculous sixteen stories, including a tower that threatened to punch a hole in the sky pulling up high above even those.

“I’d rather the lake be low,” the Tester said with a wary look back the way they had come, “than overflow and mingle with a high storm surge. We would be at their mercy…” He signaled to the gatekeeper and he signaled to another man who released a large handle on a spinning mechanism. There was an awful grating of metal skimming stone as a portcullis was lowered to lock them all inside Holgate.

Stevenson smiled. “The Merrow would never make it this far up. And the other Wildkin are so disorganized as to pose no threat,” he said with a laugh. “We are as safe as we can be—”

“—locked in a compound with nearly a hundred angry prisoners we’ve allowed to be tortured,” the Tester added.

Stevenson blanched. “Not tortured. Made. We have the Wraiths. Wardens. And the town watch. And the Maker.”

“The Maker would only buy us time if we tossed him to the magickers he’s Made. They’d rip him apart.”

“At least we know he serves multiple purposes…” Stevenson glanced about and shouted to one of the watchmen. “You there! Escort those to be Made to Processing.”

A large man shuffled forward, propped his rifle against the nearest wall, and removed the sword from his belt. “Now, none of you’s gonna try ’en give me any trouble, right? Y’hear?”

The occupants of the wagon nodded dully, grunting as they watched the Tester hand the key to the watchman. Only a few minutes within Holgate’s walls and already they were damp and dreary, more ragged than their time on the roads had made them.

They faced the main building as the key turned in the lock. Over his shoulder he said, “Tether them. I want no trouble.” Two other watchmen stepped up and nearly stepped back when the Wraiths came forward to assist. “I’ll root out this new trouble,” the Tester muttered. “I’ll have no bread of mine soggy, no toast points limp with damp…”

Stevenson nodded. “An odd set of priorities you have, but understandable. Do you think it’s one freshly Made?”