The guards outside Keir’s cell glanced uneasily at Gael as he emerged. The skinny one moved to secure the door, but halted when Gael touched his elbow.
“Leave it unlocked, please,” Gael requested. He didn’t like the idea of Keir trapped in there. She was a healer, not a mage who could move dead metal.
Skinny’s eyes pinched in worry. “Sir?” he said.
“You will stand guard, as you were ordered, ensuring that the prisoner stays within and that no one save myself, or Opteon Barris, or the Lord Magus, enters. But you will leave the locks disengaged. Is that clear?” Gael pinned both trolls with his gaze.
“Yes, Secretarius,” the pair chorused.
He surveyed them a moment more, remembering how he had identified Keir’s cell at once, merely by their positioning.
“Guard the entrance to the corridor, rather than her door specifically.”
They glanced at one another and then shuffled into the stair hall, one on each corner where the corridor opened into the larger space. Skinny cleared his throat.
“Like this, my lord Secretarius?” he asked.
“Just like that,” answered Gael.
“We’ll fain we don’t know which cell she’s in, sir. If you like,” offered Skinny.
“Yes. I would.” Gael nodded curtly and strode away.
He gave similar instructions to the prison opteon in the front room—allow only Barris or Nathiar to enter Keir’s cell—and then hurried toward the artisans’ yard. The sun had slipped slightly from its zenith, causing the gatehouse shadow to creep outward by a hair, but Gael hadn’t spent as much time in Keir’s cell as he’d feared.
His life now possessed an entirely new direction. Could a life change so extraordinarily so quickly? His had.
As he crossed the grassy lower level, he searched the yard for one of Carbraes’ messengers. That would be the fastest way to locate the regenen. A hum of activity and bustle floated from the windows of the workshops lining the edges of the yard—the artisans laboring busily within—but the only trolls in sight were a cluster of apprentices outside the woodcarvers’ lodge.
Gael took the steps from the lower level to the upper two at a time.
Someone burst from the door of the kitchen annex, racing down its ramp, just as Gael reached the top of the flight of stairs. When the runner veered, leaping the short drop at the middle of the ramp, instead of passing all the way to the bottom, Gael recognized him.
Short brown hair, lean stature, kitchen apron, bright brown eyes. Barris.
The cook nearly bowled Gael over, so rushed was his approach. He gripped Gael’s forearm.
“Sias! I’ve sent nearly every scullion I could spare from the regenen’s kitchen in search of you! Gael, Dreben’s taken Keir! The Mother only knows what’s happened to the boy since, but it can’t be good. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do what I can.” Barris looked thoroughly harried.
“It’s all right. I promise it’s all right.”
“No! It isn’t! It’s the worst!” Barris cast a harassed glance around the yard, as though some recourse lay upon its sunlight grasses, and then returned to Gael’s face. Some of the tension left the cook’s stance. “You’ve seen him,” he said. “You’ve achieved his release.”
“I’ve seen him just now,” agreed Gael. “He’s all right,” he repeated.
Barris exhaled loudly, then shook his head. “I might have known you were ahead of me on this. What did the brigenen accuse the boy of?”
Gael winced. Not only was he ahead of Barris, he was a long way ahead of him. Would it harm the cook to be seen talking with the secretarius, given what Gael intended to do? He thought not. And . . . he liked this vantage point. No one could approach close enough to overhear them without being seen.
Gael pressed his friend’s hand where it lay on Gael’s forearm. “Barris, Lord Dreas is dead, and Dreben is march in his place.”
Barris swallowed, all the animation draining from his eyes.
Gael continued. “Arnoll, too, has passed from this life.”
Barris looked hurriedly at the ground, passing one hand over his brow and eyes. He stood like that a moment.
Gael waited. He had more to say, but he knew Barris would need an interval—even if a short one—in which to assimilate these losses.
When Barris looked up again, Gael spoke, telling him as succinctly as possible about Keir’s attempt to heal the old march, Carbraes’ order for the immediate re-forging of the gong, Dreben’s elevation, Keir’s subsequent arrest, and Arnoll’s death in the smithy.
“Sias, Gael!” Barris muttered, both sounding and looking a little pale. “Between Theron and Dreben I won’t stand a chance. I may as well swallow down a brew of hemlock now.”
“Theron’s schemes lie exposed to the regenen, who will keep him in check. And Nathiar will stand your friend.”
Barris searched Gael’s face. “Nathiar. Not you?”
“I am leaving Belzetarn.”
Barris gulped. “Sias and every last handmaiden of the nine! Why?”
“The gong possesses a lodestone of the ancients within it. Keir believes that if”—Gael decided not to tackle the matter of Keir being a young woman—“he locates that lodestone’s twin, he can heal trolls. I go to help him in that endeavor.”
“Heal trolls?” Barris spluttered.
“As he healed me, before he attempted to treat Dreas.”
“Who he killed!” accused Barris.
“Check the position of my nodes,” said Gael.
Barris’ breath was too fast to permit the inner sight. With an aggravated glance at Gael, the cook brought it under control. The widening of his eyes told Gael when Barris saw the changed pattern of energea within him.
“So. This ballyhoo you’re feeding me is true.” Barris shifted uncomfortably. “And you’re really going. Will Carbraes let you?”
“I believe I have the means with which to persuade the regenen.” Gael could feel the unpleasant expression on his features.
Barris swallowed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ll miss him, too. I’m already missing him.”
The seeming change of subject might have perplexed Gael on a different day, in a different place, but now . . . it was all on the table, a world of change.
Gael clamped his lips and dropped his chin slightly in acknowledgment of Barris’ sympathy. “Will you come with us, Barris?” he asked.
“No!” The cook rocked back on his heels.
Gael refrained from response.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” said Barris in a wondering tone.
Gael nodded.
“No.” This denial was more considered. “I’m needed here,” Barris added.
Gael could make that argument for himself, of course.
“Not by Carbraes.” Barris gave a slight grin, then sobered. “By the boys. I cannot leave them to Theron’s caprice. And . . . you and Keir will manage fine without me. Better even.”
“You’re sure?” Gael probed.
“I’m sure,” said Barris. “But how can I help you, Gael? I’m not convinced the regenen will bless your venture.”
“Have you any clue where Carbraes may be found? The sooner I talk with him, the sooner I depart, the better. Even does Carbraes bid me farewell, there are others who will do their best to hinder me. And Carbraes can be convinced by cogent argument. Best mine be the first and last word he hears.” Gael’s eyelids dipped.
“He’s on the rampart”—Barris jerked his head—“the one Keir always favored.”
Gael’s brows knit briefly.
“Have you stowed what you need in saddlebags?” asked Barris. “Arranged for horses? You’re not planning on striding out Belzetarn’s gate in”—Barris scanned Gael—“the tunic and trews you stand up in and nothing else, I trust.”
Gael half-voiced a laugh. “I’d thought to send a messenger boy to secure the services of one of the porters. They know packing.”
Barris shook his head. “Then that is what I can do for you,” he said. “Go on, Gael. It’s the stairs between the hospital and the feltmakers. Get!”
Gael nodded. A porter could handle the gathering of gear perfectly well, but Barris—Gael was sure—had better access to the citadel’s supplies and storerooms. And an opteon-cook possessed far more authority.
“Barris—” Gael paused.
Barris flicked his bright gaze to Gael’s face. “Yes?”
“Get Nathiar to tell you how to find a certain glade in the forest. Tie the horses there, and return within the walls. If I am wrong—if Carbraes detains me—get Keir away!”
Barris gripped both Gael’s forearms. Gael gripped his in response.
“This is goodbye, isn’t it?” said the cook.
“One way or another, yes,” replied Gael. “Be well, my friend.”
“I’ll be eating regularly,” quipped Barris, even while his grip tightened. “But you, my friend? Do you even know how to cook?”
Gael laughed. Barris’ hands loosened. Gael let his own hands fall away, turning to stride toward the stair to the old sentry walk.
Next scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 104)
Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 22 (scene 102)
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The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)
