The old man saw the look on her face and grinned again, displaying the gaps between his yellowed teeth. “Why, yes, my girl,” he said, and nodded once again to her necklace. Sora let it slip back under her shirt, disliking the way his eyes lingered on the artifact. “Yes, indeed. The Cat's Eye works as a compass of sorts. It leads you...to where you want to go.” Then he held up a finger. “To where you truly want to go.”
Sora hadn't been expecting that. She turned to glance at Crash, her eyebrow raised skeptically. The assassin didn't meet her gaze; he was propped up against a wall, arms crossed, distinctly unimpressed.
“How do you mean?” she asked, turning back to the mapmaker.
“I mean...that you can ask it to lead you through the swamp. You can ask it to direct you. But the Cat's Eye has whims of its own. If it senses that you want to be somewhere else...well, then it might just take you there instead.”
Sora paled at this, a myriad of possibilities running through her head. She touched the stone subconsciously under her shirt, wishing that it was more familiar to her, that it didn't feel so mischievous and unpredictable.
She turned back to the storekeeper to see a small, stormy cloud of dust rising in the air. He was scuffling from table to table, shuffling through parchment like a madman, stacking and unstacking. Finally from a table at the back of the room he pulled a large book, almost too heavy to lift, bound in wood and string. He opened it wide, the pages crackling.
"Ah, here we are," he muttered. Sora stepped around the tables and paused behind him, peering over his shoulder, trying to see around his wide hat. "An older tome, to be sure, but I can't imagine much has changed. This is a history of sorts. It speaks of the War of the Races. Bought it quite a few decades ago while I was mapping the changes in land formations....” His voice petered off as he caught a cold glance from Crash. “Right. This section here tells of the Cat's Eye, perhaps on a brief page. Not much is known of them anymore, you know. Nor ever, I suspect. But here it is, here it is...yes.” Sora saw a small drawing of an orb that looked similar to the Cat's-Eye stone. She recognized the smooth swirl at its center, the black lines highlighting its glow. The letters were heavy and ornate, drawn with an artist's hand.
“The stones were used to lead armies through dense mist, across stormy oceans and treacherous terrain,” he quoted. “They were essential in the Battle of Aerobourne, when the humans fought against the Harpies....The Harpy ships flew above-ground, powered by sunstones that were mined from the ocean....”
Crash snorted. Sora blinked, realizing she had been holding her breath, spellbound. She had already been imagining the sweeping masts, billowing sails and great gusts of wind that had lifted the flying ships into the air, up through the clouds, powered by shining white sunstones. She had read stories of the Battle of Aerobourne before.
“A bearer had to keep firm control of his thoughts and desires while leading a legion. He had to be completely loyal to the cause. Any thoughts of doubt or deceit, or a desire to run from battle, could lead the entire army into aimless circles. Above all, the bearer must be disciplined.”
Disciplined. The word fell on Sora's ears like a heavy stone. Am I? She quickly recounted several times she had refused an extra scone at breakfast, or had waited patiently through her morning studies for an afternoon ride. And yet, traveling with Crash and Dorian had showed her a different kind of discipline. A whole new world of hardship, where one had to hunt each night, wait an hour or more for a warm meal, constantly cover one's trail, and take good care of the horses.
“How much discipline?” Sora asked. Her voice wavered only slightly.
“Never mind that,” Crash snapped. “How does one direct the Cat's Eye? Need she visualize her destination? Or simply wish it?”
The old man turned away from the book. “I haven't the slightest,” he said, his mustache bristling. He gave Crash a pointed look. “I've never worn a Cat's Eye, and I wouldn't know. You would have to be stupidly desperate to travel through the swamp, either way.” And then his eyes narrowed, darting back and forth between Crash and Sora. He gave them a second look, perhaps wondering why they were so anxious to travel into Fennbog swamp....
Crash seemed to pick up on the same thought, flipping the storekeeper a silver coin. The old man caught it in mid-air with a practiced hand.
“For your trouble,” Crash said. He turned away, motioning for Sora to follow. She quickly picked up their bags, giving the mapmaker a slight nod for courtesy's sake, then hustled from the room.
The storekeeper watched them leave with quiet, thoughtful eyes.
Crash and Sora walked for a brisk twenty minutes until they were in a completely different district of Mayville, though still on the Fallcrest side. Crash finally paused in the dim glow of a window and waited for her to catch up. Sora reached his side and awkwardly met his eyes, firmly resisting the urge to look away.
“This is The Oaken Door,” he said, indicating the building next to them. True to its name, there was a solid oak door painted a deep, rich red under a hanging lantern. It looked as though it had been built for giants. The doorknob was a large brass ring, dangling at Sora's eye level. “Burn and Dorian will be waiting for you in the common room, downstairs.”
“You're leaving?” she asked sharply. She knew what that meant. Collecting payment. Her thoughts began to race, spinning about in her head. Her eyes darted around the shadowy streets, wondering which way he was headed, where his contact awaited. Or perhaps there was no middleman, and he was meeting directly with his employer. She could suddenly envision Lord Sinclair riding up in a polished carriage of burnt cherrywood, with the sheen of four gray thoroughbred horses prancing through the night. A heavy sack of coins dangled from his ringed hand, thrust elegantly through the carriage window. “How much?” she blurted, her eyes still focused on that imaginary carriage. “How much are you being paid?" she boldly asked Crash. "I will pay you more—double—triple—if you'll tell me who hired you!”
The assassin gave her a smooth, blank stare, like a pane of glass. “I was given no name,” he finally consented to say. Sora was surprised by the direct answer. “And I have seen no faces. I work in complete anonymity.”
“Then take me with you!” Sora repeated. “I'll hide in the shadows, I'll try to identify....”
“Go inside,” he ordered icily.
Sora flinched at those words. She searched his eyes but saw only hardness, the coldblooded gaze of a snake. She turned to the door, simultaneously juggling the packages and trying to turn the knob.
“Is it far?” she said, still struggling with the door. “How soon will you return?” She finally got the knob to turn, and shoved the solid, heavy door open. Despite its size, the door swung easily on its hinges.
Suddenly she was engulfed by a wave of light and sound.
When she glanced up, Crash was gone.
Chapter 7
Sora entered the building. Her first thought was to drop the packages and head straight back out the door, but then Burn's golden eyes gleaming across the room met hers.
He and Dorian sat at a low table toward the back of the inn. Upon seeing her, the giant Wolfy nudged his companion, and the silver-haired thief looked up. Grinned. Fangs. He set down his cards and slipped out of his chair, smoothly navigating the room to her side.
“You look no worse for wear, sweetness,” he said, taking her by the elbow. But he didn't offer to help her with the packages, which was irritating, since she felt like her arms were made of strained rope. “Did Crash say when he will be back?”
“No,” she muttered. She wondered how many times they had done this before—sat in some smoky rundown tavern while the assassin did his dirty work.
“Ah, then it should be soon. Come sit by us. Your hands are like ice.” Finally he took the bags from her and slipped his hand into her cold grasp. She glanced sideways at him, shock briefly passing over her face.
He grinned, a wicked look that made her wonder at his thoughts. Then he leaned i
n close to her ear. “Come now, sweetness. Everyone in the room is staring. At least act amiable toward me.”
Now Sora noticed quite a few sets of eyes glancing in her direction. Perhaps it was because of her many packages, or maybe it was unusual to see a young woman here. The room was mostly filled with farm types, grizzly old men and weathered merchants relaxing after a long day at market. The few women in the room looked lush and bawdy, wearing low-cut blouses and frayed skirts.
She caught sight of a familiar man, and her eyes widened. It was the ugly, bulbous giant from the market. He sat opposite them, close to the door, creating an uproar with his shouting, drunken companions. They laughed and sang, thunking their tankards on the table. He caught her eye and raised his mug to her, ale sloshing over the side, a rosy tint on his cheeks. She grimaced and turned away.
Dorian led her across the room. Sora kept her head bowed, avoiding the side glances she got from different tables. When they reached Burn's corner, she piled all her stuff under his chair, then sat down on an empty stool, relieved to give her legs a rest. Her feet were ridiculously sore, her toes rubbed raw by her leather boots.
Three other travelers sat at their table—an older serf in a worn linen shirt, a man who was perhaps his son, and a narrow, dark-eyed fellow with a blackened front tooth. Burn shuffled the cards as the men guzzled their drinks. None of them attempted to make conversation beyond the card game.
Then Burn put a massive hand on her shoulder, as if he was a warm, solid rock. “Have you eaten?” he rumbled, giving her a lion-fanged grin. Sora was momentarily startled by his long canines, which protruded past his lip. She shook her head numbly, and he signaled for a waitress to come over. “A bowl of stew for the lass,” he called, and patted her shoulder again. Sora felt a small earthquake pass through her body. Then he turned back to the game, dealing the cards swiftly around the table. His hands were surprisingly dexterous.
Sora couldn't stop thinking about Crash and his mysterious payment. She had to find out who this middleman was...and if he was connected somehow to Lord Sinclair.
“I need to use the privy,” she said suddenly. She looked up, meeting Burn's and Dorian's eyes, and a few disinterested glances from the other card players. “I'll be right back. Is it down that hall?” She pointed to a hallway just beyond their table, which might or might not lead to the rear of the building.
Dorian's ear twitched. He regarded her sternly. “Aye,” he finally said. Then he glanced back at his drink. “I take it you can handle yourself, sweetness?” he muttered. “This game just started warming up....”
Burn looked at his smaller companion. “You should go with her, keep an eye on her,” he grumbled.
Sora studied the two men, sizing up their body language and the number of empty glasses on the table. Well into their third or fourth drinks, she guessed neither of them would want to trundle through the packed common room just to stand in the cold hallway, waiting for a girl to finish her business.
She gave them a fierce look. “If I'm not back in a minute, you can tie me to the chair for the rest of the night.”
The thief and the mercenary glanced at each other. Dorian sighed, leaning back. “I can see down the hallway from here,” he grumbled. “Be fast about it, sweetness. If you're not back in a minute, I'll do more than just tie you down.”
His words were slightly slurred. Sora knew what drunkenness looked like, even if she herself had never been drunk. In fact, she didn't like the taste of wine.
“I'll be right back,” she said, trying to look appropriately cowed. Then she slipped from her chair and darted away from the table before the men could change their mind.
She entered the dark hallway only a few yards to their left. She could feel Dorian's eyes on her as she stepped into the shadows, barely illuminated by a smoky candle high up on a shelf. The privy was marked by a half-moon carved into the door. She glanced over her shoulder; at this angle, Dorian could barely glimpse her.
Sora entered the small, dank closet, holding her hand to her nose. She didn't close the door completely behind her. Instead, she gazed through the slight crack, waiting for Dorian to look away; that didn't take long. The smaller thief laughed and looked down, distracted by his cards. She quickly slipped out of the privy and down the hallway, as quickly as her sore legs would carry her.
An exit. I have to find an exit! She would steal a horse from the rear of the inn and be on the road in minutes, riding bareback if she had to. She would return to her manor, call the King's guard and have Lord Sinclair firmly interrogated for murder....
Whumph! Something was pulled over her head.
Sora struggled, her hands flying to her neck, where a cord tightened. Someone had pulled a bag over her head! She tried to scream, to suck air into her lungs, but the nasty cloth firmly smothered her mouth. Then her arms were twisted behind her, and a large body—a juggernaut, for sure—lifted her clear off her feet. She was aggressively shoved forward, slammed against the sharp edge of a door-frame and then out into the coldness of the night.
There was the crunch of gravel. Horses snorting and whuffing. Jingling harnesses. Rough hands throwing her over a high saddle. She tried to kick her feet and roll back onto the ground, but a heavy fist knocked her upside the head—wham!—and she went silent, stunned.
A minute later, they were galloping down the street.
* * *
Sora awakened with her hands tied. She was seated in a hardwood chair, the sack still over her head. She didn't know how much time had passed.
There was the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing. And then....
“Really, Gunter! Take that blasted bag off her head! She is a Lady!”
“'pologies, My Lord,” came the guttural response. Sora recognized the voice, having heard it once before, as belonging to the large man from the market.
There was another scuffle. The drawstring was loosened from around her neck and the bag was slipped off her head. She blinked; one of her eyes was swollen almost shut. The side of her face throbbed where she had been struck. Even the brush of air felt like fingers going across her cheek.
When she looked up, her first sight was of a narrow window with a glimpse of a red-tiled rooftop. She was in an attic, she guessed, or perhaps a second story. They were still on the Fallcrest side of town. She didn't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than an hour. The moon was full and heavy, bright stars fanning out like a silver skirt.
Her good eye combed the room, taking in corners with dust and cobwebs, old boxes and crates, a half-covered painting. She spotted Gunter's shadow in the corner, holding the black bag in his massive paw. She would have glared at him, but it hurt too much to frown. There was another man, slight of build, in the corner, sitting on a short stool with a piece of paper in his hand.
Then a tall figure appeared. He shifted, blocking out the pearlescent light of the moon. Sora turned to stare at him. He wore a very expensive blue cloak. Though the room was in shadow, he still looked dimly familiar; had he been at her Blooming? Remembering her clumsy performance, she paled at the thought. His hair, falling around his ears in wispy layers, was dark, yet flecks of gray glinted in the moonlight—he had been carrying too many burdens for his age.
“Jerith, light the candles, will you?” he said, irritated.
The small man in the corner stood up and shuffled to a tall candelabra. He struck a match and quickly lit the four white candles at the top. Sora's nose wrinkled as heavy smoke spewed into the air.
When she looked again at the man in front of her, she saw the silver emblem on his breast pocket, glinting in the candlelight. “A Seabourne,” she murmured, surprised.
“Lord Gracen Seabourne, of His Majesty's Royal Guard,” the man corrected. As he moved and blocked the window, his cloak fluttered about him like the great wings of a raven. When he looked down at her, she saw his gaze flicker over her swollen eye. He grimaced. “That was not intentional; my apologies,” he said. “And I a
m very sorry about the death of your father, Lord Fallcrest.”
Sora winced painfully at that, but said nothing. The death of her father seemed almost trivial compared to everything else she had been through: the abduction, the Cat's Eye, the monster in the forest, and soon, a trip through Fennbog swamp....
She let out a sigh of relief, some of her tension loosening. Well, at least now the madness would come to an end. She was amongst nobility again, people who knew and respected her title. It was time to set things straight. “My Lord, I have reason to suspect that my father was murdered,” she said, raising her chin slightly.
“As do I,” Lord Gracen replied.
Sora frowned, wondering what he meant. “Then you know of the assassin?” she asked, confused.
“I suspected there was an assassin, yes. Would you agree?” the Lord murmured. His dark eyes were unreadable. Sora opened her mouth to speak, then paused, suddenly suspicious. She didn't like his tone of voice. Just why had she been abducted from the back of an inn? If she had been rescued, then why was she tied to a chair—and why hadn't her captors been arrested?
Her eyes traveled to the giant man in the corner, Gunter. His massive, hairy forearms dangled almost to his knees, like heavy tree limbs. She guessed he was the one who had recognized her and brought her in. There was a large sack at his belt that bulged with coins. Her thoughts began to race, arranging and rearranging all of the little pieces of the puzzle.
“What's this about?” she finally asked.
“You don't know?” Lord Gracen replied, raising one dark, smooth eyebrow. “Or perhaps you are very good at playing dumb. There is a warrant out for your arrest.”
“My arrest?” Sora shouted incredulously.
“Yes,” Lord Gracen nodded, his voice grave. “On suspicion of murder.”
“Murder? Whose murder?”
“Your father's.”
Sora's jaw dropped almost to her chest. She stared up at Lord Gracen, too shocked to think.