Bixby wanted to hug him. Of course she couldn’t. First of all, it would be embarrassing for Cantor. And second, she would have to turn all the way around and that would be awkward. Really her position was a good thing, because if she’d been facing him, she would have thrown her arms around him and held on until he admitted he’d been distraught. Being a man, he probably thought he shouldn’t react to what he’d seen.
She felt herself blush. Realm walkers should remain stalwart and not go throwing their arms around others.
She cuddled Jesha closer to her and cooed in her ear. “Cats are very useful.”
Jesha purred.
Congested traffic clogged the road closer to Gilead. Their progress slowed, and Cantor realized the crowd pressed in on them.
“Bixby, you had better quit talking now. Someone might overhear you.”
“You know I’ll twitch.”
“That’s all right. I’ll handle it.”
If he was forthright like Dukmee, he would have told her he was nervous too. Instead, he busied himself watching the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious.
He noticed several citizens taking unusual interest in Bixby. He’d forgotten how bizarre her appearance was. He’d grown used to the layers of clothing, the additional bits of lace, the trailing ribbons, and the embroidered flowers cascading off of sleeves or from her waist or down her back. Her flyaway, corkscrew curls just looked like Bixby. The only way she could somewhat tame it was by smashing it down with a crown or a hat.
Her face turned as she watched a family in the back of a wagon. Oh, and she had a flower painted on her cheek today. And of course, the paint glittered.
“Bixby, put on that crown that obscures your presence. I’d rather people were a bit hazy on whether they saw us together since a lot of things are going to happen. Confused witnesses might come in handy.”
She quickly donned the proper headdress.
“That’s better.” Cantor observed the citizens on the road. “They seem to look right through you.”
She giggled. “Handy for our purposes, but I wouldn’t want to be ignored all the time.”
“Little chance of that.”
Bridger shifted back into his dragon form soon after they entered the city.
Bixby changed from fidgeter to chatterer. “Which is more comfortable, Bridger? Horse or dragon?”
“Definitely dragon. I always feel better in my own skin.”
“Which does Jesha prefer you to be?”
“Probably a sheep. More comfy to sleep on.”
Bixby laughed, but Cantor tossed them an impatient look. “Come on. They’re probably already there.”
When the hall came into view, all three friends stopped at once. Cantor drew in a sharp breath as the combined impact of his and Bridger’s reactions clenched his stomach. The avenues around the Guild Hall were packed with people.
Very few had business at the guild building itself, but markets and shops, restaurants, libraries, and museums lined the surrounding streets. Gilead was the capitol city, and this district was the cultural center. Unless the catastrophe occurred late at night or they could stop the explosions, the carnage would be unspeakable. They could not fail.
Setting his mouth in a firm line, he led Bridger and Bixby straight to the In Shadow Inn.
From two o’clock on, the establishment squatted in the shadow of the guild building. The owners of the inn played upon their location by keeping the inn in darkness most of the day. The elite members of the guild strutted past this inn, seeking more elegant establishments beyond. Roobsters made up the clientele of the inn, men and women of the lower class: the drivers, lackeys, grooms, and lowly messengers who served those of the guild without expectation of a better life.
The innkeeper gave Jesha a rude greeting. “Anyone notices the cat, out it goes!”
“She,” said Bridger. “Not it, but she. Out she goes.”
“That’s right,” said the grumpy man. “Out she goes.”
Cantor decided it was time to take the attention away from Bridger and his cat. “We’re looking for friends.”
“I don’t know who your friends are. Go ahead and look for ’em.” The innkeeper stomped away.
Cantor, Bixby, and Bridger stood near the door, surveying the room. No lamps were lit. Massive windows lined the street wall, but the grimy glass let through little sun. The common room of the inn was dim. As soon as Cantor’s eyes adjusted, he pointed to the opposite wall. Dukmee held a large table for them, but Feymare was not with him.
“I’ve ordered a meal,” said Dukmee as they gathered. “We’re likely to be busy the rest of today, and we may not get another chance to eat.”
They settled around the table. Jesha prudently sat in Dukmee’s lap under the red-checked tablecloth.
“Where’s Feymare?” Cantor asked.
“Out gathering information.” Dukmee looked behind Cantor. “Where’s Bixby?”
“Right here. Oh, I still have on the crown.” She took it off and grinned at their mentor. “You knew I was here.”
His eyes twinkled as he teased her. “I did.”
Bridger laughed. “Dukmee’s got a sense of humor. I didn’t know.”
Bixby gasped.
“I suppose you knew.” Bridger twisted his lips in a frown. “You don’t have to act so surprised just because it took me a while to figure it out.”
She shook her head at him and pointed to the door. Cantor and Bridger turned to look.
Feymare stood with the sun shining behind him. He glowed.
Cantor blinked. He should be able to see only the Primen warrior’s silhouette. But light poured from his entire body. The backdrop of sunshine highlighted his outline. Then it occurred to Cantor that there was no sun behind him. The inn was in a shadow.
He turned to look at his companions. Bixby and Bridger were awestruck, but Dukmee sat with an amused, content look on his face. Cantor surveyed the rest of the clientele of the inn. No one else seemed to notice the astonishing figure at the door.
Feymare stepped in, and the glow diminished somewhat, but now his apparel could more clearly be seen. He wore burnished armor. From his side hung a white shield with a bright blue, rearing horse emblazoned on the front. He wore a gleaming sword, and his long hair was braided for battle. Even the cloth of his garments and the shoes on his feet gleamed as if polished with moonlight.
Cantor swallowed the lump that came to his throat. The aura around the warrior proved his status. Only those following Primen would see the glory given the man by their creator. Even though Cantor had thought Feymare less than capable, this showed how little Cantor understood. Dazzled and humbled, Cantor almost rose to his feet and bowed. He remembered in time that the honor should not be given to the gifted but to the giver.
The closer Feymare came to their table, the less distinctive he looked.
Dukmee leaned forward. “No one else can see him as you do. Primen has revealed his status to us to give us confidence. It’s heartening to have a Primen warrior on our side.”
Feymare took the last seat available at their table.
“Did you learn anything?” asked Dukmee.
“Yes.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he opened them again, his demeanor had subtly changed. Tranquility had been added to authority, confidence, and purpose. The peace on his face was at odds with the nature of their task. Cantor wanted to fold his hand over that quality and use it for his own approach to the rescue attempt.
Feymare spoke quietly. “A meeting has been called for the councilmen this afternoon. It’s most likely that once the men are gathered in the forum, the Kernfeudal will make their move.”
Bixby whispered. “Not tonight?”
“This afternoon.”
Cantor glanced around the room, his mind on the crowds outside. An explosion large enough to bring down the huge structure across the street would surely damage all the buildings around it. “What about all the people?”
r /> “We will rescue the prisoners, then try to stop the explosion.”
Bixby’s voice quivered. “Can’t we warn those in the forum?”
“Yes, but first we will see the prisoners safe. If anyone knows of the escape plan, they will do their best to stop us. If they stop us there, then we will have no opportunity to thwart the destruction of the Guild Hall.”
Dukmee stood, holding Jesha in one arm. He searched the crowd, and found what he wanted. He raised a hand and, although he did not raise his voice, Cantor heard him call as if his were the only words spoken in the room. “Yo, innkeep!”
The man turned. However, none of the other patrons of his tavern seemed to notice. Dukmee tossed a bag across the room. Oddly, Cantor heard the coins clink within. Traps, enough to pay for the meal being prepared, but they would not stay to eat. He wondered if they were gold or silver. Ahma had always preferred to deal in gold.
He breathed a prayer. Let Ahma be there.
Dukmee indicated the door. “It looks like our business takes us away from our supper. Let’s hope later tonight we can sit down to a celebratory feast.”
The others rose as one and filed solemnly out of the inn.
UNDERGROUND, OUT OF SIGHT
It has to be this bridge.” Cantor stood at the apex of the river crossing. At one time, the river had been used as a moat around the building. Now the water flowed only on one side. “There should be a tunnel that leads to a cellar under there.”
Feymare turned to Bridger. “Why don’t you stay here and create a diversion while we sneak inside?”
“What kind of diversion?”
“Can Jesha help you?”
The ridges above Bridger’s eyes lifted. “I have just the thing. We’ll play keep-away. She likes that.”
Bixby and Dukmee strolled to the end of the bridge closest to the Realm Walkers Hall.
As they had planned in order to remain inconspicuous, Cantor and Feymare waited a few minutes, then started to leave.
Bridger grabbed the Primen warrior’s arm. “Wait!”
Cantor turned back. What was wrong? Had Bridger seen a threat of some kind? Why wouldn’t the dragon let them go?
“I want to help rescue my sister.”
“You are helping.” Cantor blew out his breath in frustration. If they had to go into a long, persuasive argument to get away, they would lose valuable time.
Feymare looked Bridger in the eye. “I need you here because you’ll be best at causing the distraction. Give us thirty minutes, then walk away from here, double back, and follow us into the tunnel.”
For a moment, Cantor thought the dragon would be stubborn, but after a brief hesitation, he agreed.
“All right.”
Feymare clapped him on the upper arm. “You and Jesha can start your commotion now.”
Cantor watched over his shoulder as he and Feymare joined Bixby and Dukmee. Bridger whispered something to the cat and put her down. Jesha leapt onto a passing cart.
“Stop!” yelled Bridger. “You have my cat.”
He ran to the man leading a donkey. Bridger grabbed the man and forced him to stop.
He pointed to the cart. “My cat!”
“Well, get your cat.”
Bridger scurried to the side of the cart, but just as he reached for Jesha, she jumped to a man passing the other way. The man screeched and tried to knock the cat off his shoulder. Bridger had raced to intercept Jesha, but she bounced back to the cart and then onto one of the struts that held up a side of the bridge.
Another traveler bent and tried to catch the cat for Bridger. She scratched him, jumped to the side railing of the bridge, sprang from there onto the man’s back, and then launched herself onto another, larger conveyance. Several people joined in the attempt to corner the cat. Bridger couldn’t reach the vehicle’s roof where Jesha perched. She looked calm, but the end of her tail crooked and straightened in subdued excitement.
A small boy clambered up the side of the carriage and tried to creep up behind her. Waiting until right before the boy pounced, Jesha cleared the space between vehicles and boarded a wagon headed the other direction.
Jesha had landed on a small cart overloaded with round fruit. Apples, oranges, and melons tumbled down and hit the bridge with force. The avalanche picked up speed and fruit bounced in all directions. Jesha continued bounding hither and yon, Bridger continued following, and more citizens joined in the chase.
Cantor chortled at his last sight of the keep-away game. The four rescuers would have no problem leaving the bridge unnoticed.
Below the bridge, Feymare found the opening to the tunnel behind a collapsed section of brick. The bridge had been supported by another column replacing the damaged buttress. The tracks behind the pile of bricks made it obvious that the tunnel was used. Cantor and Bixby followed the older men into the dark recesses. Feymare and Dukmee produced lighted orbs, giving two to the initiate realm walkers and keeping two for themselves.
Bixby wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell very nice down here.”
Cantor followed close behind her. “Makes me think we must be in the right place.”
“The storage rooms beneath my parents’ palace have a fresh, organic fragrance. A little clean dirt and lots of vegetables.”
“Clean dirt?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. You’ve grown crops with Ahma. The soil has nothing rotten or moldy in it. Anything like that has broken down into mulch and loam.”
Dukmee spoke softly over his shoulder. “We’re coming to the storeroom. Hold on a minute while I scout ahead. And be quiet.”
Feymare moved to stand behind them. Cantor saw Bixby open her mouth. He suspected she would ask him why Feymare had taken the rear position. They’d studied strategic positioning in the tactical planning round. She always had questions. He glared and put a finger to his lips. She grimaced and nodded.
Dukmee came back. “I don’t see anyone down here, but it is evident that it is frequently used. There’s a series of smaller closets all around the periphery of the main storage room. We can go from closet to closet all the way to the other side where the flour is stacked and a door leads to the cellar. Keep your ears tuned to pick up the slightest noise.”
“Aren’t the closets full of stuff?” asked Bixby.
“Some hold a few supplies, but most are empty.”
“Let’s go,” said Cantor. “We can figure out why the hall is so low on supplies later.”
Feymare crowded them from behind, urging them forward. “Agreed. We want to find the prisoners and get them out before the building above comes down on us.”
The globes they’d brought gave off enough light for them to see in their immediate vicinity, but not across a room. However, when they stepped into the closets one at a time, the small space lit up with a glow that was almost too bright.
Cantor tried to discern what was originally kept in each area. First he decided they weren’t closets so much as connected cupboards. One room had shelves and a few glass jars containing interesting vegetables, most he couldn’t name. It was a relief to see green beans on one of the shelves. He left the door behind him open so that Bixby could enter, while he went on through the open door to the next storage unit.
Ahead of him, Dukmee stepped through the next door, and Cantor knew immediately that something was different. Instead of the bright glow in a confined space, the light from his globe showed dimly.
Cantor followed and found they had entered the large storage room around which the smaller closets circled. Stacks of flour bags reached almost to the ceiling. He and Dukmee hid there, waiting for Bixby and Feymare.
As soon as they grouped together, Feymare held his finger to his lips and tilted his head, listening. Dukmee leaned around the towering bags. He crept forward into the main room.
In a moment, he was back. “Cats. They must keep them here to thwart a community of mice springing up.”
Whistling from beyond the flour raised Cantor’s eyebrows. “
Talented cat,” he whispered.
Bixby clamped her lips together and glared at him. He grinned at her, enjoying her outrage at his disregard for their successful hiding. He didn’t think they were in danger from one whistler, one who was still some distance away.
At Feymare’s signal, they dimmed their light orbs. The whistling came closer, joined by a metallic squeak. A pale light illuminated the rest of the room. The whistling ceased. The harsh squeak ceased.
“Hello, cats.” A young voice, probably a boy’s. Cantor wanted to see him. He crouched low and crept around the edge of the flour stack.
The boy wore all white clothing, although the white wasn’t pristine. Smudges decorated his chest and elbows. The rest of his outfit was cleaner, but still a far cry from fresh. A small baker’s hat sat on his head, and a too-big apron that hung around his neck reached below his knees.
The cats came to wrap around his ankles, weaving around and around in a typical feline demand for attention.
The boy dug in his pockets and sprinkled handfuls of unidentifiable crumbs on the floor. Whatever it was pleased the cats. The young baker put his hands on his hips and with a big grin watched his offering disappear.
“There’s a big do in the Hall this afternoon, cats. A special meeting’s been called, and we’re making a tea. It’ll be fancy. Little cakes, sandwiches, crackers, jam, cheese, and cookies. I’m helping with the little cakes. I’ll be pouring the glaze on them, so I’ve been sent to get the soft sugar. I’ll come back when it’s over and tell you all about it.”
He heaved several bags into the wagon he’d brought, turned it around, and moved down a dingy corridor. He whistled. The wagon screeched under its heavy load.
As soon as he was out of sight, Cantor backed up and ran into Bixby.
“He’ll be killed, Cantor.” She pointed toward the gap in the other wall where the boy had gone. “There are lots of people in this building that only work here. They aren’t bad. We must warn them and get them out.”
The rustle of movement sounded loud as the four, who had remained so still, shifted to continue their mission. Bixby stood and faced Cantor.