Shadowcaster Read online

  “Where is Aubrey now?” Shadow asked.

  Maybe he and Aubrey had been at odds lately, but Breon wasn’t going to give her up. “Like I said, I don’t know. All I can figure is, she saw through you before I did and ran.” He paused. Something had just occurred to him. “Hang on. She wasn’t the one who outed me, was she?”

  “No,” Shadow said. “I figured it out on my own. So this Whacks was the one who gave you the orders? You’re claiming you never met the client?”

  They all three leaned forward.

  “Actually, I did meet the client on the street before the concert.” Breon explained about the meeting with the supposed star-crossed suitor, the instructions he’d been given. “He was the one that gave me the locket and the flowers.”

  “He gave you the flowers?” Shadow looked at Talbot, as if that was a major clue.

  “Aye, he did. I thought it was peculiar at the time, that he didn’t want to give them to her himself. I mean, wouldn’t you want to get the credit?”

  Sasha pulled out the princess’s locket, pried it open, and studied the images inside. “Why would this client give you her locket? There’s no picture of her in here.”

  “Why would she carry a picture of herself, when she could always look in the mirror?” Breon said, then cursed himself for a smart-ass.

  “What Talbot means is, why was the locket important?” Shadow said.

  “It . . . it sometimes helps me to connect if I have something that belongs to them,” Breon said. “It helps me get to know them better.”

  “I knew it,” Talbot said, slapping her thigh, as if he’d just signed a full confession. “Maybe you’re not a regular wizard, but you’re some kind of charmcaster, just the same.”

  The way she said charmcaster, it sounded filthy.

  “I’m a musician,” Breon said stubbornly. “It was supposed to be a street concert. I had no idea what was going down.”

  “You didn’t think that was an odd request?”

  Breon hesitated, then decided to continue on with the truth, since it hadn’t cost him so far. “Aye, I did think it was an odd request, but no odder than some others I’ve heard. As soon as some hear ‘private performance,’ they get all kinds of ideas. But I’m a musician—that’s all. Not a killer.”

  Although the client had asked him to lead the girlie along the riverbank to a secluded place where he’d be waiting. And Breon had questioned it at the time, but went ahead anyway.

  Anybody with a brain in his head would have known something bad was going down, this annoying voice in his head said.

  “What was the money?” Shadow asked.

  When Breon didn’t answer right away, Sasha said, “What did you get paid to deliver a girl into the hands of assassins?”

  “What did I get paid? Nothing. Well, I did get a suit of clothes and a bath, but—”

  “Lives go cheap these days, don’t they?”

  “No!” Breon said. “According to Whacks, the client was offering forty girlies. I was supposed to be paid after the wooing.”

  “The . . . wooing? Is that what you call it?” The princess glared at him.

  Breon’s cheeks burned. “Since the client told me he was a . . . a suitor, I used music to put the—the”—he didn’t want to use target, since he was in enough trouble already—“the audience into a willing mood.”

  “Willing to do . . . what?” Sasha had the kind of look on her face that said she might just come through the table at him.

  Breon groped desperately for something to say that wouldn’t be too incriminating. “Willing to . . . uh . . . listen to what my client had to say. That’s all.”

  Talbot shook her head, her face twisted in disgust.

  Breon sighed inwardly. I’m losing ground again, he thought. She’ll be back to hating me before long.

  “What did he look like?” Princess Alyssa said.

  “I didn’t get a good look at him. He was all wrapped up in a cloak, with a scarf muffling his face.” Breon paused. “He was tall—taller than me. And . . . I’m not sure, but I think he was a mage.”

  Shadow sat forward. “What makes you think so?”

  “He had a mage-ish glow.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sasha said, with mock enthusiasm. “We’ll just question all the tall wizards in the queendom and see if we can turn up any leads.”

  “That helps, though,” the princess said. “Anything that narrows the search. Was there anything else? Even something minor?”

  “Well . . . he clanked.”

  “He clanked?” The princess raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah. It was like something jangled when he moved.”

  “He clanked and he jangled, and he glowed,” Sasha said. “We’ll nail him for sure.”

  “Did the client give you a name?” Shadow asked, not looking especially hopeful.

  Did he? Breon tried to remember. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. And then it came to him, like sunlight breaking through cloud. “It was Darian,” he said. “He said his name was Darian. His rushers called him that, too.”

  “His rushers?” Her highness cocked her head. “You heard them talking? How, exactly, did that happen?”

  It seemed like every question Breon answered only birthed another question. Yet he was finding that if he told the truth, he didn’t have to remember what lies he’d told before.

  “A couple of days after the concert, I went back to the warehouse where I’d been staying. When I got there . . .” His voice faltered. “When I got there, Whacks and Goose were dead. They’d been murdered.”

  “How were they killed?” Sasha asked. Again, Breon had the feeling that she knew the answer, and was testing him.

  “Their throats were cut. While I was there, I heard somebody coming, and it turned out it was Darian’s rushers, come back to make sure there was no clues left. I heard them talking then.”

  “And, once again, you escaped,” Shadow said, raising an eyebrow.

  Breon looked him in the eye. “I escaped.”

  “What else did they say about this ‘Darian’?”

  “From what they said, he sent them back there to make sure there were no clues left behind,” Breon said. “They seemed scared of him.”

  They all looked at each other. “Was there any mention of Arden, or the war, or why they would target me?” Princess Alyssa asked.

  Breon thought about it, then shook his head. “They all seemed afraid to ask questions.”

  “I’m told you got this musical instrument from your father,” Her Highness said. “Was he a musician, too? Was he the one who taught you how to play?”

  “Maybe. I think so. I’m not sure.” When Sasha huffed at him, he said, “Look, you always think I’m lying, but I’m telling the truth here. I don’t remember anything from before I was about ten years old. I remember wandering the streets of Baston Bay, dragging the jafasa behind. So I started busking, even back then—it was one way for a ten-year to make a little coin. Still, I’d probably be dead if Whacks hadn’t taken me in and added me to his traveling show.” Breon looked from face to face. He’d done his best, but they still looked disappointed.

  “I must admit, Breon, that I am running out of patience,” Her Highness said. “You are the single thread that might allow us to track down those responsible for a series of cowardly murders. I need more from you.”

  “I have told the truth, Your Highness,” Breon said. “It’s so bloody rare that I suppose I shouldn’t expect everyone to recognize it when they hear it.”

  The princess leaned forward, hands on her knees. “I need a lead. I need to find out who is feeding information to those who mean to do us harm. I need something we can use.” She gestured toward the others in the room. “Everyone here has suffered losses—grievous losses. What am I supposed to tell them?”

  For once, Breon had nothing to say.

  “Many in my position would feel justified in resorting to torture,” Princess Alyssa said, with harrowing f
rankness.

  Gods and martyrs, Breon thought. Why couldn’t I be the prisoner of a sweet, fairy-tale princess instead of this fierce, warlike one?

  “If you torture me,” Breon said, “I will talk. I will sing like any bird. I will tell you the most marvelous, detailed stories. I will name names at the highest levels. In fact, one of my accomplices may be right here in this room.” He paused, letting that sink in. “And it will all be a lie. Because I already told you the truth, and that wasn’t good enough.”

  His eyes met the princess’s. He was all in, knowing that his play could either: one, prompt them to pull out the torture tools right away, or two, convince them that torture was a waste of time. Naturally, he was hoping for two.

  Princess Alyssa sighed. “It’s only my belief that torture doesn’t produce actionable information that stays my hand in this case,” she said.

  Breon’s breath whooshed out, leaving him a little weak and giddy. “If I may say so, Your Highness, you are truly an example for others when it comes to—”

  “However,” she said, setting his heart to hammering again. “We have other ways to exert pressure.” She picked up the jafasa with one hand and strode to the hearth, dangling the instrument over the flames. “I’ll give you a week to think about it. After that, this goes into the fire.” She handed it back to Shadow. “Think on that, busker. Maybe you would like a chance to play this one last time before we carry out your sentence.”

  You are truly an example for others when it comes to hard-heartedness. That’s what I meant to say. He was already writing a tragic ending to this story.

  As she turned away, Breon said, “What is the custom here in the north? Am I to be hung, beheaded, or burnt alive?”

  She turned back, and smiled a crooked smile. “Maybe all three.”

  38

  REUNION

  Jenna found that she preferred the role of hunter to that of prey for a change. Still, even from the air, the fugitive ship wasn’t easy to find. The sun was setting again when they finally found it hidden in one of the inlets that sliced the shoreline. The ship was nudged up next to the high cliff, and camouflaged with branches and leaves. If not for their two pairs of dragon-sharp eyes and a fairly small footprint of land to search, they might not have found it. The crew of this ship, whoever they were, seemed to be skilled at lurking along the shore unseen. Was it because of previous encounters with the empress, or did they, too, have something to hide? The fact that they hadn’t fled back into a major port raised some important questions.

  Such as: If they were not northerners, then who were they? Had Jenna and Cas come upon pirates attacking each other?

  They landed on top of the cliff that hemmed in the inlet, and crept forward until they could peek over the edge. Down below, they could see a small, hot fire sheltered under the cliff overhang. The enticing smell of roasting meat wafted up to them.

  But the closer they got to the ship and its crew, the edgier Cas became. Saw ship. Now go. When Jenna didn’t respond, he nudged her, practically knocking her over. Go!

  “I need to talk to them,” Jenna said stubbornly. “You stay here. I’m going down there.”

  If there is such a thing as a dragon pitching a fit, Cas came close, complete with a flaming display. He rose up on his hind legs, and Jenna was startled at how big he had become. No! Bad ship. Bad men. Enough. Go find sheep.

  “Shhh. They’ll see you.”

  Collar. Dark. Chains.

  “I know you don’t like ships, but—”

  Collar. Dark. Chains.

  “I have to go.”

  The dragon’s armor glittered as tremors ran through him. Cas come with Jenna.

  She knew he was scared, and it touched her that he wanted to come with her anyway.

  “If you come down with me, you’ll scare them.”

  Yes.

  “I want to talk with them, not fight with them. Anyway, you can’t maneuver down there. It’s too narrow, and you’re too big. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Cas folded his wings tightly against his body and curled his tail around his feet. Small now.

  In the end, Jenna descended the steep, treacherous trail alone, following the rocky bed of a small stream. All the way down, the dragon’s disapproval clamored in her head.

  He’d promised to stay on top, but dragon promises are as lasting as a late-spring snowfall.

  She inventoried her weapons. She had her bow, but she wasn’t yet an accurate shot. She had her knives. She had her wits. That would have to do.

  When she reached the bottom, she followed the narrow, rocky beach toward the sound of voices and the flickering light of the campfire. The crew spoke an unfamiliar language, but they were laughing and boisterous, so Jenna got the idea that they were celebrating their narrow escape.

  Easing forward on hands and knees, Jenna peered around a shoulder of rock. Night had effectively fallen down in the ravine. Seven men and women sat cross-legged around the fire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. It seemed they had just finished their meal. Jenna would have thought they’d be passing around a bottle, but instead they were gathered around a small iron stand where they seemed to be brewing . . . tea.

  Pirates having a tea party? Not possible.

  Then a man on the near side of the fire stood, his back to Jenna, his fair hair glittering in the light from the fire. He stripped back his sleeve, exposing his muscular forearm. Drawing a blade, he ran its tip along his arm, leaving a dark line of blood in its wake. While the others watched raptly, he held his arm over the pot simmering over the fire and allowed his blood to drip into it. He followed with a fistful of leaves.

  After the brew had steeped for a few minutes, he poured it into small cups and passed them around. Each person murmured something and drank.

  Was this some kind of pirate religion? A bizarre blood rite? Was the fair-haired man a priest or a sacrifice? Jenna’s vision rippled as she sought to find the truth in him. Something about his stance, the lithe way he moved, even his clothing was familiar.

  Then it came to her, like a punch in the gut. It was Strangward. Strangward and his gang, still clinging like a tick to the coast of the Indio.

  Why, then, had the empress fired on him? He was her emissary, right? Maybe Jenna should have recognized him sooner, but it had never occurred to her that Celestine would be firing on her own man.

  Then again, he had failed in his mission to collect Jenna. Was he paying a blood price for that? With every fiber of her being, Jenna hoped so. This man, and his mistress, had destroyed her life.

  She’d never expected to find her quarry so easily, and she didn’t like these odds. She needed more firepower. Rising into a crouch, Jenna took one step back, then another. That’s when the scent of danger filled her nose. Hearing a slight sound behind her, she grabbed for her knife, began to turn. Someone seized hold of her, two massive arms lifting her so that her feet left the ground. She struggled, but her arms were pinned so tightly that they were going numb. Her captor carried her forward, into the firelight.

  The others scrambled to their feet, drawing a variety of weapons. Everyone but Strangward. Balancing lightly on his feet, fingering his amulet with one hand, head cocked, he studied Jenna and her captor. The light of recognition kindled in his eyes, and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Hello, Jenna,” he said in Common, as if he’d run into her in the market. “This is . . . an unexpected pleasure.” His crew shifted and murmured, but still did not stow their weapons.

  Jenna sorted through several possible replies. In the end, she said nothing, letting her scowl do the talking.

  Strangward looked over her shoulder. “Put her down, Teza,” he said. “Also, please disarm her so that we can have a civil conversation.”

  The pressure on her arms eased, leaving her hands tingling as the blood returned. Teza carefully set her down on her feet, took the knife from her hand, and patted her down for other weapons. Her skin grew oddly numb, and she k
new her scales were surfacing, as they always did in times of danger.

  When he was nearly finished, Teza stopped and stared at her, the puzzlement on his face almost comical. Then he reached out a dirty finger and ran it over her cheek.

  “Lord Strangward!” he said, standing to one side and pointing. He added something in their own language.

  Strangward studied her, then brushed his fingers lightly over her face and the skin on her forearm. He didn’t seem nearly as surprised as Teza. “Dazzling,” he murmured. He took a step back and looked her up and down, taking in her riding skirt and sheepskin jacket.

  “It seems that you have been transformed,” he said.

  “It seems that you and your empress are not getting along,” Jenna said. “Why is that?”

  Surprise flickered across his face. Taking her elbow, he drew her closer to the fire. “Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

  Well, Jenna thought, you did want to talk to somebody who could tell you more about the empress. She sat in the same cross-legged style as the others had.

  He gestured toward the teapot. “Would you like some—?”

  “No,” Jenna said flatly.

  He grinned. “It’s an acquired taste. But I can make a fresh pot, if you like, without . . . spiking it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He sat down opposite her. “We have some roasted wild turkey and flatbread, if you’d like some.”

  Jenna wavered. It had been forever since she’d tasted bread. And turkey had always been one of her favorites. And she needed to keep her strength up. “How is the turkey cooked?” she asked.

  Strangward laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that seemed to come from deep within. “You are a demanding guest,” he said. “When someone gives you a sweet cake, do you poke holes in it to check the filling before you take a bite?”

  “If I thought it might be filled with blood, I might.”

  He laughed again. “I promise that any blood you see belonged to the turkey.” Strangward whacked off a slice of meat with his knife, folded it into a piece of bread, and handed it to her.