Mage Bond, page 17
All toughness and sinew, the roughhewn man reached inside his tattered jacket and yanked a knife from an inner pocket. Martin smiled. Now the game got interesting. With clumsy motions, the sailor slashed. Martin expertly danced out of the way. How could the man know Martin practiced these moves daily since learning them outside of a temple?
Martin pulled Dmitri’s knife from his belt. Even after only a few lessons, the runes on the knife handle felt familiar, the weapon becoming an extension of his hand. Where he willed, the knife obeyed.
Martin twirled and wove, grinning all the while.
The man slashed.
Martin spun out of the way. His assailant’s actions might as well have been slogging through mud. Martin sliced a neat line down the man’s sleeve, avoiding skin. “That was your warning. Next time, blade tastes flesh.”
The man wheezed, growing slower by the minute. He jabbed. Martin dove, knocking the man from his feet, rolling back to standing in one smooth motion.
The sailor rose a moment later. His shipmates might think him a worthy fighter. Martin did not.
This time, when the man charged, Martin sidestepped, trailing his blade down the path on the sleeve. A thin red line appeared. The knife hummed as though tasting blood aroused its appetite.
The man screamed, slashing blindly, unwilling to admit defeat.
Without really trying, Martin avoided each clumsy lunge. He didn’t need to read thoughts to know intent.
He darted around his tiring opponent and levered one arm behind the sailor’s back. The man screamed again, this time dropping the knife.
Too easy, leaving Martin barely winded. He’d hoped for a good workout, at least. Sour body odor stung his nose, nearly making him loosen his hold. “On what ship do you sail?”
“That is not your business.” The sailor spat on the ground.
“I’ve already told you that it is.” Power surged through Martin’s veins, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit. The capture.
The man struggled but proved no match for a trained fighter. Martin dropped his voice to a sinister murmur. “Take me to your captain, and we’ll collect the money you owe. How you pay him back is your problem.”
“Like hell, I will.” The man struggled anew.
Martin chuckled; a rehearsed sound aimed to raise the man’s hackles. “Suppose I should tell him that you planned to kill an innocent man to cover your debts.” Martin turned the sailor to catch his horrified expression, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.
Merchant ship’s captains were a suspicious lot, unlikely to risk the Father’s wrath by employing a man with blood on his hands, lest foul weather beset them.
The midnight hour approached as Martin made his way back to the tavern, money bag in hand and memories of a ship’s captain clouting the sailor upside the head. A kinsman, no less. Not Martin’s problem. He’d succeeded in his mission to protect the innocent.
He stopped short. Protecting the innocent? A tenet of the Father. For how long had Martin taken the mission to heart, never realizing his desire to right wrongs had as much to do with Dmitri’s teachings as his own da’s?
Light still shone in the tavern window when he arrived, though dim, and the great door resisted his push. Had he returned too late? Martin tapped lightly. With the tavern shut down for the eve, he didn’t really expect a reply. Peter opened the door in trousers and loose-fitting shirt, apron discarded at some point, holding a broom in his hand. His eyes widened.
“Martin? You came back?” The flush coloring Peter’s cheeks shouldn’t have brought such joy.
Martin lifted the money bag he’d gotten from the captain. Peter’s eyes widened even further. “What is that?”
“It’s what is owed to you and yours.” Martin dropped the bag onto Peter’s outstretched hand. “His ship’s captain is none too pleased but is a man of honor and made good on the debt.”
“By the… Would you like to come in?”
“The hour is late.” Martin glanced around the room, never before having seen the cozy interior free of patrons. Alone. Alone with Peter. The man Martin despaired of ever working up the nerve to speak to. He wouldn’t push if Peter wanted him to leave.
But he had questions. So many questions.
And more than a little desire.
“We’re closed, but at the very least, I owe you another ale.” Peter discarded the broom against the wall and pulled two tankards from a shelf behind the bar. “Though I promised not to ask, my curiosity burns how you knew what the sailor intended.”
Martin shrugged, weighing his words with great care. “I learned to read people a long time ago, and my mother always said drawing the black swan meant ill intent.” Not the whole truth, but enough. Although the hour was late, Martin had no real desire to leave. Not truly knowing why, he stepped more fully into the tavern and closed the door behind him.
Peter gave him another dazzling smile. “Make yourself comfortable by the fire.”
During his adventure, Martin hadn’t noticed the cold, having shut everything else from his mind but his mission. He placed his cloak on the back of the chair and wandered over to the hearth, holding his fingers over the embers.
Peter returned with two tankards. The amber liquid glinted in the firelight. Martin’s gaze fell on a deck of cards left lying on a table. Peter followed his gaze. “Do you play?”
“I have.” Martin would never confess how long it had been since he’d viewed a deck of cards as a mere game. If he stared hard enough, he’d start seeing Petran’s features on Peter’s face. No, Petran was dead. Every time Martin thought of the hanging on his first day in the city, his heart ached.
Every time he tried to see Petran in Peter… What had he been thinking, again?
Peter sat at the table, expertly shuffling the deck. “Care for a game while we drink our ale? I can’t thank you enough for retrieving the money. I run an honest business but still cannot afford for many people to walk out on their bills. Plus, by law, the man he shortchanged may look to me for his winnings.”
All the more reason for Martin to have gotten involved in something he probably shouldn’t have. He sat down across from Peter. “Then, by all means, deal. But, I must tell you, I don’t gamble.”
Peter chuckled. In the short time Martin had known him, the man laughed a lot, as attested by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He’d certainly filled the room with his booming friendly cheer during Martin’s visits. “Neither do I. I’d rather spend the money on my business than lining someone else’s pocket. As I said before, I’m an honest man. Honest men don’t last long as gamblers.” He eyed Martin from beneath his lashes.
The warmth in those eyes sent squirming sensations through Martin’s insides. Oh, for those eyes to be turned up at him while Peter sank to his knees… Pushing aside thoughts best reserved for later, Martin toasted with his ale. “Truer words were never spoken.” Did Peter even realize he closed his eyes, enclosing the deck in his hands for a moment?
As one would before a card reading.
Peter handed the deck to Martin, who cut the cards, then Peter dealt them four each.
Martin lifted his. The dove, the opening rose, the less-traveled path… The lovers.
Peace, new beginnings, a long journey, and the card that needed no interpretation.
Martin reached for the deck, stilling the trembling from his fingers as he lifted one card. The sinking feeling in his chest named the card without his even looking. The judge.
He was to be tested and judged, but what would be the outcome?
Unknowing of the pounding of Martin’s heart, Peter calmly lifted a card and smiled. Likely, by Peter’s estimation, the dove carried five points, the opening rose two, the less-traveled path one, and the lovers seven. The judge counted for ten in a game.
One more card to go. Martin took a sip of his ale. Maybe cards weren’t such a good idea after all. At last, he lifted the final card: the black sorcerer. Dark forces lay in his path. Perhaps, but didn’t they already? Just last eve, he’d killed a demon. Or was it the eve before?
He raised his eyes to catch Peter studying him, those startling dark eyes seeing clear down to Martin’s soul. Neither moved. Outside, a carriage clattered down the cobblestones, and overhead, a guest coughed in one of the rooms. Martin couldn’t look away. With every passing moment, his heart beat faster. Wiping his hands on his trousers didn’t make them less damp.
He laid down his cards face up. Without taking his eyes from Martin’s, Peter did the same.
To him this was just a game of chance. “I win,” Peter crowed.
Which meant Martin lost. Judging by the images, he was bound to do so much more. Good thing Peter didn’t know the hidden meaning of the cards.
Peter pulled a card from his stack and held it suspended over Martin’s. A flush suffused his face. Closing his eyes, he placed his card on Martin’s with a bleak smile. Then again, maybe he did see the significance of their choices.
A pair of lovers lay on the table.
At that moment, the patron who owed Martin a life debt staggered down the stairs. “Peter, might I get a nightcap?”
Martin sighed and drifted out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-three
So close! They’d been so close! Then the man they sought to save interrupted.
Peter pushed aside frustration to ask his patron, “How much did the sailor owe you in bets?” He hefted the purse Martin left.
The old man scratched his balding head. “Let me see, about two silvers, I think.”
Probably an exaggeration, but the purse could easily spare two silvers. Peter handed the customer his coins. “Here you are.”
He shared a drink with his long-time customer, then the man toddled back upstairs to bed, enjoying himself immensely at getting a free room and a handsome sum in bet winnings.
Peter deducted the amount needed for the sailor’s meal and drink. A goodly amount remained. If Martin couldn’t be convinced to take it back, Addie would use the windfall, providing for those in the neighborhood who’d fallen on hard times or helping mage-borns leave the city.
Sitting at the table he’d shared with the handsome Martin, Peter stared out into the night. A priest of the Father wandered by, followed by two more. No business remained open at this hour. Where were they going?
The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck prickled as he recalled the priest’s warning. He had no desire at all to step out into the night. Usually, he enjoyed a walk after work. Every self-preservation instinct he owned screamed at him not to go out. He rose, darting outside just long enough to secure the shutters over the windows, then returned to the safety of the tavern, locking the door behind him.
Whether mage abilities spoke to him or his imagination ran wild, something outside needed to stay out. But what of the priests, in their brown head-to-toe clothing? Were they safe?
The one he’d met in the alley hadn’t been afraid.
He snuffed all the lanterns save one, banked the fire, and made his way to his room with the remaining light. Martin was out there tonight. Was he safe?
Something told Peter that Martin could take care of himself. The money in the pouch spoke of his skill.
The lantern flickered, casting sinister shadows on the walls and the one tiny window of Peter’s bedchamber. Surely he didn’t need shutters over a glass scarcely larger than his head, up this high.
His bed creaked when he sat down, and he stared out the window, recalling the porthole on the Seabird, how he’d grown up in that little cabin, his father keeping him safe. He longed for the sea breezes, the slapping of waves against the hull, the gentle swaying lulling him to sleep.
He snuffed the lantern and lay down. It had been a long day. Spinning thoughts kept him awake until the wee hours of the morn.
Peter was moving, carried between two of the crew, staring up at the frantic eyes of his father. Why was Da afraid? Nothing scared him. The crewmen placed Peter on his bunk. White-hot pain shot through his shoulder. He’d have screamed if he’d had the breath.
Blood soaked his clothes. His, or someone else’s? He’d seen someone die, right? The crew left. His father stayed. The captain should be on deck. They were under attack.
Weren’t they?
His father spoke low, but not to Peter. Maybe he prayed. Only, Peter had never known his father to pray. Peter gasped for breath, every inhale pure agony.
When his father finished speaking, he left and closed the door.
Someone else was there. Who? How badly was Peter injured? Just a scratch, right? Soon healed into a puckered scar.
The someone sat on the floor beside the bunk, crooning, wiping Peter’s chest with a damp cloth. The pain dulled to a faint throbbing. He looked up. The wall-mounted lantern that he rarely used cast shadows and light over the face of a young man, eyes as blue as a summer sky.
“I…” Peter began.
“Shh… Rest. It’s going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right.”
Peter slept fitfully, swimming to the surface of consciousness, only to plunge down again. The presence never left, calming him, wrapping him in a sense of security. Nothing bad could happen, not with this man nearby.
There had been blood. Lots of it. And pain. A shaft of wood sticking from Peter’s body.
He blinked his eyes open and pressed his fingers to his shoulder. A scar. Only a scar. His clothing that night had been drenched in drying blood, as were his blankets. Someone else’s, maybe? How many of the crew had they lost?
A young man slept on the deck by the bunk, one arm over the side, hand clinging to Peter’s.
Peter squirmed to see who was there.
Sky blue eyes stared up at him.
Peter bolted upright, flinging the covers aside and patting his shoulder. A scar. Just a scar. He searched the blankets, but couldn’t see in the dark. The lantern flared to life. He wouldn’t even bother to question at this point.
No blood, though sweat drenched his skin. Sitting on the side of the bed, he buried his face in his hands.
It’d been a long time since he’d had such a vivid dream of his father and the Seabird.
He removed his face from his hands and ran tentative fingers over his scar. He’d been impaled by a piece of splintered wood. His father pleaded with him not to die. They’d taken him to his cabin.
Where he’d been healed.
Blue eyes. Chills prickled up Peter’s spine.
A mage. He’d been in the presence of another mage.
In the distance, an eerie howl shattered the quiet. He extinguished his lantern and peered outside. In the street in front of his tavern, a lone figure stood under a gas lamp, wrapped in brown wool. The figure stood still, hood turned up as though looking straight at Peter.
Peter dove back under his covers. Lately, his powers had grown stronger, providing light, moving objects. What if he did something like that in front of the wrong person? Like a Chosen.
When he peeked out the window again, the priest was gone.
He stayed awake, staring at the walls for the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-four
Something seemed different, something Martin couldn’t name. People seemed more subdued, the city holding its breath, waiting. For what, he didn’t know.
He stared across the desk at Commander Enys. “What’s going on?”
“You feel it too?” Enys dropped his feet from the desk to the floor, waving a hand toward the straight-backed, uncomfortable chair he deliberately put in his office to encourage some of the more eager butt kissers not to stay.
Martin plopped down into the chair. “Something is off.”
“We’re receiving more missing person reports than even you can keep up with.” Enys handed a sheet of parchment across the desk.
Normally, the demons’ victims, if reported at all, didn’t warrant the attention of the city guards. Scanning the list made Martin’s blood run cold. “Children?”
“Yes. Two young boys, aged ten and six. Dock rats, no parents.” At least Enys’s voice wasn’t full of derision. He didn’t mean the term as a slight, merely used the word he’d been taught.
Unlike most citizens of the upper city. “Who reported them missing?”
“Some of the other children approached a school matron. She promised to pass on the word, even though she didn’t teach the boys in question.” Enys gave a weary smile, reclaiming the missive from Martin’s hand. “My niece, as it turns out.”
Surely the demons hadn’t started claiming children. Wouldn’t Dimitri have said?
“There is no reward, but my Esmerla does charity work down by the docks and knew the boys. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d look into the matter.”
The descriptions weren’t very good, two young boys with brown hair and eyes. No one even knew their real names. The street kids all went by nicknames, the better to avoid the constables. It could have been half the kids on that end of the city. Martin looked up. “They had a pet dog. Did anyone find the dog?”
“No.”
Wherever the boys were, they’d taken their dog. Did they possess mage blood? “They weren’t taken to the Lady’s temple, were they?”
Enys leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over the expanding belly he’d grown in the time Martin had known him. “No one knows, but they didn’t seem the sort that would appeal as novices. Too lowborn, not pretty enough.”
Who in the lower city might talk to a guard? Oh, yes, though better not reveal Martin’s position to a certain tavernkeeper who might be privy to local gossip. “I might have someone I can ask.”
Enys gave a curt nod. “I thought you might. Usually, I’d send someone of lesser rank, but you’ve seen our typical investigators. They strut around, boasting much while accomplishing little. You? You blend. And you’re also not of the E’Skaara nobility, with your looks. Those in the lower city might talk to you when they wouldn’t talk to others.”
