After the Dragon Read online

  His intent was to say No but his mouth said, ‘I will help you.'

  She let go of his shoulder and his mind. He stepped back, stumbling, taking a quick glance at Faustus, whose face was a picture of fear and awe. A sudden rush of fury at the Ullwyn overwhelmed him—that the man had deliberately sought him out to drag him into this. And then at Fortune, for apparently telling him to. He had no anger for the DarkElf, though. He didn't think that was possible. The only thing he could hold in his mind in respect to her was a desperate need to help her. Although that was her doing, his mind skittered away from blaming her.

  'Damn it,’ he said. And, ‘Cousin,’ spitting the word like an insult at the Ullwyn's feet. ‘What am I supposed to do for you?'

  'You're a thief, aren't you? Used to furtive activities.’ Faustus was calm again but Trick wasn't going to forget the look on his face. ‘Take us out of the city and down to Wyvern without being caught.'

  'By who?’ This, Trick felt, was an important question. The thought of other DarkElves on their trail made him shudder.

  'By anyone.’ Faustus looked around the dim street as if expecting enemies to fall on them.

  You blind, impotent little fool. But he didn't want them to see the coiling anger in him. He kept his voice light and insolent. ‘You don't know, do you?'

  'Let's get moving and we'll never find out.'

  Trick shrugged it off. It was more important to run than to quibble about the pursuer. ‘Do you have horses?'

  Faustus hesitated, looking uncertain. ‘One.'

  'You ran out of the manor with your pet horse and a handful of pocket money.’ He kept his tone flat and neutral.

  Not neutral enough, for Faustus flared up. ‘Look, Patrick, unlike you, I've got sense of chivalry and—'

  Mizzle gestured sharply and he went silent.

  Trick sighed to see his complete slavery. ‘I've got two more horses, but then we have to get them out the gate. So we're going to be quiet and we're going to listen to me and do exactly what I say.'

  Faustus was reluctant to reply but Mizzle gave one curt nod, expressionless.

  That blank face, so still and so very beautiful, chilled him but he let the need to help her swallow him and did not surface again until they reached the barracks.

  Trick recognised the man on duty at the gate. ‘Evening, Walton.’ It was well after curfew and he waited.

  The other soldier scowled at him. ‘You just about killed him, you know.'

  'I should've tried harder, then’ Trick said, deadpan. Let them think he was too dangerous to cross. Fortune alone knew it was almost the truth.

  Walton fidgeted with his pike, eyes hard, but he turned and shoved the gate open. ‘They can't come in.'

  Walton couldn't know Trick was coming back out. He turned and looked at the two standing behind him. Belatedly, he remembered the elvish aversion to iron. No sign of pain or fear marred Mizzle's smooth face but he guessed she might be relieved at an excuse not to go in to this iron-weaponed stronghold. If she could feel something so human as relief.

  'That would be a good idea,’ he said, making it not quite a question. And Mizzle crossed her arms and nodded. Faustus made not a sound of protest. Trick suspected he would not have left Mizzle's side even if he had known Trick was going out the back way.

  He crossed the yard. Noise spilled out of the mess hall as he went soft-footed past, but the stables were almost deserted. One young stableboy slept in an empty stall, sweet with the smell of hay. Trick did not wake him. New recruits were assigned to the stables but the boys seemed to do most of the work.

  He greeted his two horses, rubbing their noses as they nuzzled him over the stall doors. They were yet another source of conflict between the other soldiers and him, when only officers owned horses and no common soldier was allowed to keep theirs. They could not accept that he cared for big Bet for a friend, and that the pretty mare Skye and the special treatment he received was simply a stroke of Fortune like many of the events of his Goddess-blessed life. This latest affair was not one of those blessings. Perhaps Fortune had finally grown tired of him and was granting his wish to join his wife.

  He was still undecided. Mizzle's willingness to wait outside gave him the chance to get away but he was reluctant to leave the horses. He would have to wait a long time before the Ullwyns stopped watching the walls and the barracks and he could safely return to the city.

  'Curse Fortune and her stupid—’ Trick cut himself off, not wanting to wake the stableboy. Stupid Fortuna, stubborn Goddess, insisting that he be Her next High Priest. He had been on the run from the Ullwyns since he was twelve, since the night the old priest had died. He couldn't count the number of times they had dragged him back.

  Not again. And no matter how he longed for his dead wife's embrace, he wasn't going to throw his life away following the DarkElf around. ‘I could wish for a cleaner death.'

  He headed towards the rear of the stables, where a narrow window would let him out against the back wall of the barracks compound, an easy climb. Instantly, his chest constricted and his legs went weak. He went over, clutching at his throat and heaving for breath.

  When his vision cleared, he found the stableboy leaning over him, wide-eyed. He pushed the boy away and got up. No wonder Mizzle hadn't blinked about letting him come alone. Her influence had caught him deeper than he suspected, throwing his body into utter panic at the thought of deserting her even as his mind planned escape.

  Trick looked to the boy, who stood silent and staring. He remembered this one now. He had arrived a quarter-moon ago and had never said a word. ‘Go back to sleep, Mouse.'

  The boy nodded, but went and perched himself on one of barrels against the wall, watching. Trick dismissed him. Mouse had no voice to call for help, and if he tried to stop him or run for the guard, Trick would incapacitate him.

  He saddled Skye, then Bet. Mouse brought over the tackle while he tried to decide what to do. The hypnotic effect of the DarkElf's eyes had long-lasting effects but surely he would not be imprisoned forever. The feeling would fade and he would be able to escape.

  'I just have to be patient,’ he told Mouse, who nodded wisely. Trick was surprised into a laugh. ‘All right, Mouse. Don't tell anyone.'

  He led the horses out of the stables. The boy followed him to the door and came trailing after him as he went towards the gate. Trick glanced askance at him but he seemed harmless enough.

  He expected Walton to be sullen and suspicious when he got back to the gate, and hoped Faustus would respond to whatever ruse he had to use to get out of the barracks again. But the guard wore the same expression that he suspected he did.

  He looked from Walton's glazed eyes to Mizzle's blank face. ‘What did he do to deserve that?'

  'She didn't do anything,’ said Faustus. ‘What's that boy doing?'

  Trick turned. Mouse stood by Bet's side, stupidly small against the bulk of the big horse. ‘What harm is he?'

  'We must go.’ Mizzle turned away from them. Trick sensed great impatience behind the mask of impassivity.

  Faustus was already following her when Trick had a spark of an idea. ‘Just wait a little longer.’ He ran back into the compound.

  On the other side, apart from the mess hall and sleeping quarters, were the officers’ quarters. In the darkness, Trick slipped inside and went up the stairs to Field Marshal Gowan's office.

  A few days ago he had been called in here to be given another mild dressing-down, ending in utter leniency. He had read the contents of her desk upside down. A map of the continent had lain open, showing various strategic locations in Bourchia, Livania and Ardmore. Though Trick knew ways across the borders that weren't on this map, he had seen routes into Wyvern Forest marked on it. These were certainly speculative but could be useful, even if he insisted to himself that he would be gone long before they got near Ardmore.

  He eased open the door, holding his breath. Sometimes the Field Marshal worked late into the night. He had seen lamplight spillin
g from her window as he crept into the barracks, out after curfew again. But the office was dark and deserted and the map still on the desk. A moment later, it was folded and tucked into his tunic and he was down the stairs.

  Halfway to the gate, he detoured again, this time to the kitchen. Troops were moving tomorrow to reinforce the border against what were euphemistically called threats to Bourchia's north—DarkElves. They were more likely to trade for what they wanted than raid for it now but Bourchians had long memories. In the kitchen, sacks of food were ready to be packed in the morning. He took two, heavy and hard to carry.

  Mouse still stood at the gate. Trick looked hard at him before shaking his head and brushing past him. ‘We can go now,’ he said without a moment of regret for the comrades he was leaving behind.

  Mizzle nodded and they walked away from the barracks with never a murmur of protest from Walton. Trick slung his sacks over Bet's saddle and took the reins from Faustus. He looked around once and saw that Mouse trailed along behind. Again, he shook his head, unable to fathom what the boy was playing at. Again, he considered chasing him off. Again, he could not see the harm. If Mouse wanted to turn him in for desertion he had had ample opportunity.

  Faustus led them away from the city gates and towards the river. After one turn, Trick noticed Mouse was gone. He wished he could flee too. ‘Faustie, you think I'm going to the manor?'

  'I need to get my horse,’ said Faustus. ‘Don't be such a coward, Patrick.'

  'And is your horse in the manor?’ Faustus could insult him all he liked but he wasn't putting himself into the hands of the Ullwyns.

  'I've got him in a stable nearby.’ Faustus looked at him with practiced contempt. ‘I paid a stablehand to wait up for us to let him out again tonight.'

  True enough, they stopped a few streets away from the Ullwyn Manor at a well-appointed livery stable. Faustus went in and came back with a large black stallion that laid its ears back at the other horses.

  'Keep Blackie under control, cousin.'

  'Blackie?'

  'That's the name of your horse, isn't it?’ Trick shot him a deliberately insolent grin.

  'No,’ said Faustus, sounding annoyed. ‘It's Coal.'

  'Ah,’ said Trick, still grinning. ‘That's different, then. Keep him under control.'

  They set off again, to Trick's relief, away from the manor and towards the city gates.

  'The gates are shut for the night. How are you planning on getting out?’ He already suspected Mizzle would play her hypnosis game again.

  Faustus looked at him. ‘That's why you're with us, Patrick.'

  Trick stopped. ‘What do you expect me to do?'

  'What? You're a thief, aren't you?’ The Ullwyn's voice rose.

  Mizzle watched them both.

  'Which doesn't include walking up to the city gates and demanding to be let out.'

  'Think of something.'

  Trick couldn't help himself. He turned to Mizzle. ‘Why don't you do something?'

  She looked back with her cat's eyes. ‘There is more than one, yes?'

  He took a moment to get what she was asking. ‘More than one guard on the city gate? Yes.'

  'Then I can do little.'

  Trick looked at her a moment longer. So she had an honest streak, to admit such a weakness to someone she had to know was not her friend. And while he stared at her he remembered he was no threat to her at all. He shook his head and looked away so he could think. They needed a way out the gate. Now, what had he heard? What had he heard?

  'Cousin?'

  'Shut up, Faustus.’ Something was coming to him. In the inn scant hours ago, he had overheard a conversation between two men. One of them was telling a long convoluted story which ended with the obscure punchline, ‘And I'll be damned if the password hasn't been changed to catsbane.’ Both of them had found this immensely funny.

  Trick frowned. Why had that come to him? Because Catsbane was the name of Field Marshal Gowan's dog and the man in the inn was wearing the uniform of the army messenger service.

  Messengers for the army camps on the Bourchian-Livanian border and up north watching for—Trick looked at Mizzle again—northern threats were allowed out the gates at any time.

  'Right,’ he said. ‘Right. Let's go to the gate.'

  * * * *

  Trick had to knock on the sentinel box repeatedly before a guard stuck his head out. ‘What?'

  'Got a message for General Tradder.’ The map he had stolen showed that the General was commanding the southern border.

  The guard looked him up and down and past him at Mizzle and Faustus. ‘You ain't wearing the uniform and I ain't seen you before.'

  'Well, you wouldn't have,’ said Trick reasonably. ‘The password's catsbane.'

  The guard hesitated. Trick could almost follow his thoughts. This stranger knew the password, wore an army uniform if not the messenger one, the night was cold, and his stewed ale was getting cold while the other guards were peeking at his cards. ‘All right.'

  He pushed the door open the rest of the way. ‘Come on, mates, let's get this nipple-hugging gate open.’ He and three other soldiers came out. Two turned the wheel that raised the portcullis, while the other two got the heavy wooden bar up and pushed ajar one half of the great gates.

  The travellers led their horses out. Trick shivered in the cold breeze as the gate slammed shut behind him. He felt a pang. He couldn't come back to Port Told, not after deserting the army, not after the Ullwyns found out he had been hiding there—he had no doubt Faustus would let it slip if he hadn't already. They always looked in the last place he had been, as if they supposed he was as stupid as they were.

  There were other cities. He turned to Mizzle and offered her Skye's reins. ‘She's faster, Miz. For when your family catch up with us.'

  Mizzle didn't blink. She took the reins and swung up. From under her cloak she unhooked a small bag and put it into one of the saddlebags. Her every movement captured the eye.

  Trick was never so glad for the distraction of his wife's ghost. He forced himself to turn away and mount, looking back once more as they rode away from the gates. They followed the road through the rough peasant huts that had grown up around the walls. King Fillip occasionally ordered them cleared but he was, if not actively benevolent, at least indifferently non-interventionistic and so the temporary town was always allowed to grow back.

  They reached open ground with no more disturbance than a few barking dogs. At the crossroads beyond, Trick kept them going west. He wanted to move them away from the coast and into farmland where there was more shelter before he turned them south for the border.

  After a couple of miles, he glanced back. Faustus was muffled into his cloak but the cold wind off the sea did not seem to bother Mizzle. Neither made any response to his glance. Trick wished he had thought to bring a change of clothes and a warmer cloak for himself.

  Facing forward again, he hunched down in the saddle and tried to doze. DarkElves were nocturnal so he suspected they would be travelling by night from now on. He wouldn't object, if only because it lessened the chance of being spat on. DarkElf females led the raiding parties and these people held grudges, no matter that no raid had reached this far south in living memory.

  Hundreds of years ago, the northerners had borne pillage and burning and worse. There was good reason many Bourchians were dark-haired even though Bourchia had once been a province of fair Livania. Port Told had never been touched. Neither had the southern parts of Bourchia, who were more likely to curse Livanians than the DarkElves. But the males had some of the same glamour that made the females so damn dangerous. Not all dark-haired children from those times had been products of rape.

  Trick shivered and told himself it was the wind. It wasn't as if he'd never met a DarkElf. The northern border might be patrolled but DarkElves visiting in Port Told weren't unheard of. He had even grown up on a pirate ship that had had a DarkElf crewman.

  A male DarkElf who had admitted how deadly the f
emales were. Trick shivered again and swore under his breath. He was tired and letting fairy tales and rumours get the better of his superstitious Livanian side. He was not frightened of her—he would not let himself be frightened of her. Bet tossed her head and plodded on.

  The thought of his father's ship made him consider turning back to the coast to buy sea passage. But pirates off Livanian waters made merchants loath to sail south and the cost would be offensive. Perhaps, once in Livania, he could get them onto one of those pirate ships—but he doubted his own credentials. Would anyone remember old Ben Matray, let alone his half-Bourchian son?

  Again, he looked back. This time, Faustus spurred his horse forward. The horse snapped at Bet and Faustus pulled its head around. ‘We're supposed to be going to Ardmore, cousin. South.'

  Trick wondered if Faustus was always this grating or whether lack of sleep was making him irritable. ‘Since you're the big expert, I can go home.'

  The Ullwyn snorted. ‘Just don't try any of your games.’ He dropped back to ride beside Mizzle.

  Going straight south from Port Told would mean running the gauntlet of coastal patrols. If they went too far west they risked hitting the main south road, which led past the border garrison. In between, the forest crept its fingers northward and they could slip south. Let Faustus guess at his motives till then.

  They passed one sleeping village and another. Then Trick finally took them off the road and onto a southward tending track. Looking at the stars, he guessed they were a few hours away from dawn. They would have to find shelter for the day. He was already sore from being in the saddle but was comforted by the thought that Faustus couldn't be any better. His thoughts skittered away from how Mizzle was bearing up. The same thing happened when he tried to think about why she might want to go to Wyvern, stronghold of the LightElves. For no good purpose, surely, but he couldn't hold the idea in his mind long enough to examine it.

  Trick shrugged. What was it to him if Mizzle wanted to make a suicidal run into the heartland of her enemies? As long as she didn't expect him to die for her, she could do what she pleased to the LightElves. But he sagged in the saddle as Linnet's cold arms embraced him. Did it matter how he died? He might wish for a cleaner death, but this way would do the deed just as well. What else was there for him, with Linnet gone and no hope left to him of avenging her and redeeming himself?