Shattering the Ley (7 page)

Then he was hauled to his feet, two of them leading him out of the room down what sounded like corridors, turning left, then right, then right again before a door creaked open and a gust of chill night air puffed through the hood. Before he could enjoy it—he was already sweating with apprehension, his own breath heating the air inside his hood—he was tossed into the back of what he assumed was a wagon. Straw crackled beneath him as he shifted and he heard a rumbling chuckle. The wagon lurched into motion with a quiet, “Tch!” The clop of horse hooves blended into the rattle of the cart as it jounced over cobbles.

Tyrus bit back a curse and rolled onto his back, not trusting himself to sit upright. He tried to control his breathing, the hood already stifling. Fear sweat broke out across his shoulders and back. He’d nearly had a heart attack during those first tentative, blundering conversations with Calven, the man’s eyes narrowing when Tyrus had finally tired of the obscure word play and simply asked about the splinter group. The few moments of careful silence that followed had felt like an eternity. But then Calven had glanced around the bustling market stalls near his own booth and said, “Not here.”

They’d met a couple of times after that in out-of-the-way inns and once in a park, Calven mostly quiet as Tyrus attempted to convince him of his conviction that the Kormanley needed to do more, that he was tired of Dalton’s lack of action. This last time, Calven had asked a few pointed questions, then grunted and told him to meet him at the tavern tonight. He’d led Tyrus into the back room the moment he arrived and produced the burlap sack. Tyrus hadn’t even seen who else was in the tavern, had no idea who the other men were who accompanied them.

The horse’s tread altered, the cart rumbling over wood for a long stretch—Tyrus thought it might be a bridge—and then back onto stone, although the cobbles were smoother here. His teeth didn’t feel like they were going to rattle from their sockets anymore.

The cart halted suddenly, rocking Tyrus forward. He heard muffled conversation, a bark of laughter—

And then someone grabbed his legs and hauled him out of the cart as if he were a sack of grain. His legs flailed over empty space and for a heartbeat he thought he would tumble out into the street, but someone else caught and steadied him.

“You don’t have to be so rough.” A voice he didn’t recognize. A woman’s voice. Somehow, this shocked Tyrus more than anything else that had happened so far.

The meat-handed man growled, “I don’t trust him.”

“Calven does, at least enough to bring him here.”

A grunt and then the meat-handed man grabbed his upper arm and hauled him forward. He stumbled but caught himself and was led away. The fresh air filtering through the hood dropped away, replaced by the faint yet pungent scent of pickling brine. The man leading him said curtly, “Steps up.” He tripped on the first one. They passed into a building—the sounds of their footfalls became hollow and the fresh air filtering through the hood dropped away. A door creaked open. “Stairs down.” Tyrus’ foot caught empty space and he pitched forward, the man wrenching his arm painfully to keep him upright.

By the time they reached the bottom of the steps, earthy scents replacing the brine, Tyrus was gasping, sweat slicking his face from the anxiety. He thought they passed through another door and then he was shoved downward with a sharp, “Sit.”

He plopped down onto a wooden stool and tried to calm himself. The scent of smoke and oil from what must be numerous lanterns cut through the burlap now. Feet shuffled, more than just Calven and the two others, but then everyone quieted and all Tyrus could hear was his own strained breathing. This lasted long enough that Tyrus jumped when a new voice spoke.

“We have a potential new member here tonight. Are you certain of his faith, Calven?”

“He believes.”

“Of course he does, he is part of the Kormanley already, those who are too weak to act, too afraid to take risks. Can we trust him?”

“I believe so. He was too clumsy and inept when he approached me to be a tool of the Dogs.”

Beneath the burlap hood, Tyrus scowled and wondered bitterly if that was why Dalton had chosen him for this task: no one would believe he could be anything but sincere.

“Very well. Remove the sack.”

The burlap hood was jerked off his head and he blinked in the sudden brightness of the lanterns. Six others stood around him in a loose circle, but he couldn’t identify any of them. Each wore the white robes that had long been used by the Kormanley—the true Kormanley—but heavy cowls had been added and all six had pulled them up over their heads, obscuring their faces in the shadows beneath. The room was small, obviously a basement, shelves and tables to one side beneath some type of banner, papers littering every surface. A closed door interrupted the mudbrick of the walls behind him.

Tyrus spit the taste of the burlap off to the side and glared at the cowled figures. “You get to see me, but I don’t get to see you?”

One of the figures snorted—Tyrus thought it was his meat-handed guard—but someone else, the leader apparently, answered. “You aren’t part of our group yet.” Then he turned to the others. “How are we progressing on our next operation? Has our new benefactor come through as promised?”

“He has. The supplies were delivered and have already been dispersed.”

“Where are we on our own delivery? How close are we going to be able to get?”

The woman sighed. “Not as close as we’d like. I’ve bribed the city watch, so we’ll be able to get the wagons into the park, but we can’t get any closer than that. The Wielders and the Dogs are keeping too close a watch on the staging area itself.”

“We still have some time. And there will be Dogs in the park, not just city guard. We need a cover for the wagons.”

“That’s one of the reasons I brought him,” Calven said, and motioned toward Tyrus.

Tyrus flinched. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Calven ignored him, turning toward the leader instead. “He works for Erenthrall, issuing permits for business ventures . . . including vending permits for the parks.”

All of those present turned toward Tyrus. The leader stepped forward, until he was directly before him. The lantern light fell in such a way that Tyrus could see the edge of his jaw and a neatly trimmed goatee.

“You want to be part of the Kormanley? You want to force the Baron to release the ley?”

Tyrus nodded and stuttered, “Y-yes.” He didn’t like the hint of danger in the man’s suddenly soft voice.

“Then we need six permits to sell wares in the park.”

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN
you’ll be leaving?” Cory said.

Kara squirmed beneath Cory’s gaze and the flatness of his voice.

It had been three weeks since she’d been to Halliel’s Park and rearranged the stones with the gardener, Ischua, and her father watching. Since then, the gap that she’d felt in the grotto between herself and her father had expanded, making any time she spent at home strained. Her mother had reacted the same way, withdrawing somehow, as if distancing herself from Kara even as her parents drew closer together. It was as if she had become one of her father’s clocks, one of the rare and expensive ones he’d been asked to work on, both of them nervous around her, for fear that something they did would cause her to break. Both of them tried to pretend nothing had changed, that nothing had happened, but the tension made staying home awkward. So she found any excuse to leave. She’d spent more and more time with Cory, when he wasn’t helping his father with the candlemaking; when he was, she found herself returning again and again to the park to speak with Ischua.

She could smell the tallow on Cory even now, the scent much sharper than before the sowing. Everything around her felt sharper. She could feel the energies flowing beneath her and around her, although this far away from the grotto the sensations were muted, the eddies like a faint breeze brushing against her skin. They strengthened or lessened depending on where she was in the city. They were strongest near the Eld’s main ley node, the short tower that connected the ley network in Eld with all of the other nodes in the districts and with the Nexus beneath the Amber Tower. According to Ischua, the nodes controlled the entire network in Eld—the flows of ley that regulated the barges and the transportation system, all of the heat and light that relied on the ley, the few ley cars in the area—everything related to the ley, including the ley clocks her father occasionally worked on. Kara had gone to the node and stared up at the stubby tower from around the corner of a nearby building, but there wasn’t much to see. Maybe four stories high, it was round, built of dark gray stone with few windows, the top crenellated like the old walls of the University down in Confluence. She hadn’t seen anyone on its heights, and she hadn’t seen how it could control the ley throughout the district. She hadn’t seen any of the ley at all. As far as she could tell, none of the ley lines that were interlaced throughout the city connected to the building.

Yet, when she was that close, she could feel the ley in the stone and in the air around her.

Now, to cover her sudden nervousness at Cory’s reaction, she reached down and picked up the small ball and scanned the scattering of metal thistles that lay between them. They, along with Justin, were in a small square paved in wide flat flagstone that was perfect for a game of Thistle Snatch, since it was far enough removed from most of the markets that the traffic through the area left them mostly undisturbed. Cory and Kara had found the square three years before, after they’d first met and had begun exploring the surrounding area, once their parents were willing to let them roam alone. Kara liked the architecture of the red stone buildings that enclosed it, and the tall stone obelisk that rose from its center, benches on its four sides and urns with scraggly bushes at its corners.

Head still bowed as if contemplating the thistles, she glanced at Cory. He was glaring at her, mouth set, back against the nearest bench, exactly the reaction she’d been afraid of, the reason she hadn’t said anything to Cory about Ischua or the park since it had happened.

She could feel Cory shifting away, just like her parents, and it made her sick to her stomach.

“Never mind,” she said tightly. “Forget I said anything. It’s my turn. How many thistles do I need to catch this time?”

She bounced the rubber ball, but Cory snatched it out of the air. “What do you mean you’ll be leaving?”

Kara winced at the anger in his voice. She swallowed, something hard lodged in her throat. “The Wielders are going to come and take me away at some point.”

Confusion crossed through Cory’s eyes. “The Wielders? But why? You haven’t been tested. You won’t be tested for two years.”

She shifted uncomfortably, caught Justin watching her out of the corner of her eye, his eyes wide. “I . . . I was tested. Sort of.” She told them what Ischua had said to her father after Cory had left, about the trip to Halliel’s Park and the grotto, about the fact that the gardeners were really Tenders, retired Wielders sent to the park to tend to the stones and the original ley system. Then she told them of the energy she felt, how she’d known where the stones were supposed to be through her feet, how she could feel it in the air and the stone and the earth deep down beneath her. Excitement crept into her voice, overwhelming her fear of how Cory and Justin might react, and when she was finished she found herself slightly flushed and breathless.

Until she saw Cory’s face and then she couldn’t breathe at all.

“But you can’t leave.” The anger she’d heard in his voice before had settled into an intense fury. “We were supposed to be . . . to be friends. You, me, and Justin! We were supposed to hang together, protect each other from the other kids, watch out for each other. How are you going to do that if you’re gone?”

Kara tried to say something, but no words came. Cory’s fury was shocking, but the fear that had crept into his voice as he shouted at her only confused her, along with the sudden redness of his eyes as tears began to fall down his face.

Justin fidgeted uncomfortably on his bench as the awkward moment spread, Cory and Kara staring at each other. Cory coughed up phlegm, nearly choked on it, and scrubbed his arm across his eyes, glaring at Justin defiantly for no reason at all before ducking his head as if embarrassed.

Still searching for something to say, Kara leaned forward and took the rubber ball from the limp hand resting in his lap. She held it a long moment, not willing to look up into Cory’s face, uncertain what she was supposed to do or how she was supposed to feel. She’d seen something in Cory’s eyes that she didn’t understand, but it still sent uneasy shudders through her chest, hot and fluid, but not unpleasant.

And then Justin said, “Five thistles.”

Bewildered, Kara turned toward him. “What?”

Justin shrugged awkwardly, watching her, pointedly not looking at Cory, and nodded toward the flagstone between them. “It’s your turn. Five thistles.”

Cory shifted beside her, the anger creeping back into his eyes, but before he or Kara could react a group of Dogs burst into the square.

All three of them gaped as the Dogs spread out, moving quietly along two sides of the square, most with swords drawn, heading toward one of the buildings opposite. The two in front halted at the corner, then motioned sharply to the remaining eight men. The men and women who’d been caught in the square on their arrival watched silently a single moment, then turned and left as quickly as possible, heads ducked and shoulders hunched, but the Dogs didn’t pay attention to them. They remained focused on the building, on the door two down from the right.

When the first two Dogs hit the short steps that led up to the door, Kara turned to Cory and Justin, their eyes wide, bodies still, as if afraid any movement would draw the Dogs’ attention. Kara’s heart thudded in her chest, but she reached down and scooped up the scattered metal thistles and began stuffing them in her pockets. “We have to get out of here,” she whispered fiercely. All of the tension from her announcement, all of the confusion over the emotions she’d seen in Cory’s eyes and the heated ache in her own chest, had vanished. All she could see was the image of the Kormanley priest in the market square on the day of the sowing and the blood splattered across his white shirt as they dragged his limp body out of sight.

Cory nodded mutely. Justin slid off of the bench and huddled down next to them, helping Kara snatch up the last of the thistles. They watched as the rest of the Dogs closed in on the doorway, the two at the corner moving forward when one of them reared back and kicked the door in with a grunt and splinter of wood.

“Now!” Cory said.

As the Dogs began streaming into the building, Kara, Cory, and Justin dashed from the base of the obelisk across the square in the opposite direction. Kara’s blood sang in her veins, her breath coming in harsh exhalations, burning in her chest as they ran. Cory and Justin reached the far corner ahead of her and charged beyond, but she skidded to a halt behind its protection, risked a glance back.

One of the two Dogs who had hung back had turned to watch their retreat, his face set in a deep frown. She was surprised at how young he appeared, although there was a hardness about his eyes.

His gaze caught hers and held for a long moment. Kara shuddered.

Then he turned back to the building, his fellow Dogs already inside.

Kara heard a crash, followed by a woman’s scream and a man’s enraged bellow. Then Cory grabbed her arm from behind and pulled her away from the corner and back toward their homes.

Allan watched as the team of Dogs charged the front door, bursting through into the interior with a splintering of wood and harsh roars as the lead, Range, ordered the others to fan out. More crashes followed, glass breaking, shifting from the front rooms into the back and up to the second story. Allan followed the movements of the men with his eyes, even though he couldn’t see anything. He could picture it in his mind, though. He’d led three such raids over the past week, the Dogs stepping up their hunt for the Kormanley priests and their followers as the Wielders—in particular Prime Wielder Augustus—prepared for the upcoming unveiling. The sowing of the tower had only been the first step, according to the Wielders. The real event wouldn’t happen for another two weeks.

And Baron Arent wanted nothing to go wrong. The attack and self-immolation in the tower during the sowing had sent ripples through the aristocracy and the Baron had taken his rage out on the Dogs.

Hagger nudged his arm. “Three kids just bolted toward a side street. Should I send men after them?”

Allan turned, caught sight of the three as two of them made the corner. The third, a young girl with light brown hair and a narrow face, spun back to watch, her eyes terrified. He held her gaze, then turned back to the house. He knew the question was a test. Hagger was the leader of this squad; the decision would be his, not Allan’s. But he answered. “No. They’re not worth the effort.”

Inside, something large and solid crashed to a floor, followed by a woman’s vitriolic cursing and a man’s animalistic roar of rage.

“That’s our cue,” Hagger said, and began trotting toward the building, hand falling to the sword strapped to his side. Allan followed a few short paces behind.

They passed through the outer door and into a room whose furniture had been trashed, chairs and tables tossed to the floor, strewn with the broken glass and pottery of lanterns, plates, and what appeared to be urns. The sharp scent of pickling brine permeated the space, vinegar burning Allan’s eyes. The shouts of the other Dogs were everywhere, the eight men calling out to each other as Hagger barreled through the rooms, all in as much disarray as the first. One of the men shouted, “Downstairs, downstairs!” and suddenly Hagger and Allan were pounding down a flight of steep steps into a torch-lit basement lined with crumbling mudbrick and makeshift shelves filled with sealed pots. One wall had been cleared, the shards of clay and the watery contents strewn across the floor—Allan couldn’t tell what had been pickled—but the stench was horrendous in the confined space. He tried to take shallow breaths, blinked away the tears, and caught sight of the far wall.

The shelves had been torn away and were now a splintered wreck on the basement floor, exposing a narrow doorway leading into the basement of the house next door. Lantern light shone through, blocked as Hagger passed the Dog guarding the door and ducked down to enter. Allan followed.

As he straightened on the other side, Hagger stepping out of his way, he found a woman and man trussed up in the center of the room, kneeling on a stretch of carpet. The man’s nose had been broken and blood covered his upper lip and dripped from his chin. A bruise had begun to form on the woman’s face. As Hagger entered, she spit at his feet. The elder Dog merely chuckled and scanned the room.

Lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating a wall of texts, scattered tables and chairs, and a banner bearing a vertical squiggly line with a straight line branching off from it. One table held a few waterskins and a stack of parchment.

Hagger’s attention returned to the two captives. Allan moved toward the table bearing the waterskins. The strange banner hung above it. One of the Dogs shifted out of his way as he approached.

“Are you Kormanley?” Hagger asked. When neither answered, he stepped forward and gripped the man by the chin, squeezing hard as he forced him to look up. “I asked, are you Kormanley?”

The man’s jaw clenched in defiance, his eyes hardening.

Moving faster than Allan thought possible, Hagger released his chin, grabbed the man’s nose with one hand, the back of his head with the other, and ground the broken cartilage between his fingers.