Lora of Two Worlds

Brendan hadn't expected two hidden guards, nobodies until last week, to turn this hard after a few days with his sister.

He reached for his sword. Before he could clear the scabbard, Carl was on him. The younger brother pinned his arm, reversed the lock the way Brendan had done to him, and pressed him flat against the wall. Carl put his mouth to Brendan's ear:

"Brendan, I'm not as smart as you. But I'm not stupid either. Look down there. Those people crying to come in and fight fires, are they really civilians? You know the answer."

Brendan's gut clenched. He looked, and saw the Lohenheim garrison. Men in the garrison's colors, moving under cover of darkness, slowly closing in. When they emerged into the firelight at the gate, the bucket-carrying "civilians" were already surrounded.

What was this? Cedric Salt had told him only that if he helped the Silver Shield fight the fire, the royal overseer would recommend him for promotion.

If he could get away from the garrison, he'd have a wider field.

The gate-tower guards had seen it too. Bows came up, arrows nocked, ready to fire: Why would the garrison move against unarmed civilians? Were they going to fight with buckets? They had to be fakes.

"Nobody fire! Those are the Lohenheim garrison!" Carl shouted.

Jonas, who'd been running back, snapped to. Yes, what was he thinking? He strode to the parapet, looking for the signalman, when something cracked him hard on the head. Lucas's foghorn voice:

"Signalman can't see a thing! Those are the garrison down there! I told you lads to practice reading torch-signals at night, torches! But no, you see a flag waving and go looking for a flag! Every one of you ought to be sent to the privy to meditate!"

Lucas, one hand holding up his trousers, the other wielding a sponge-stick, used or unused, nobody could tell, went down the line of guards, cracking each on the crown. The whole rampart reeked of the cesspit.

Brendan had done him a good turn covering his post. Couldn't let the boy lose face. Lucas grinned, sheepish:

"Lord Carl, don't mind us. Not the young lord's fault, he's new. Our gate's a bit special: there's a fixed bridge over the moat, and night signals are supposed to be read from the bridge. The men below were in the wrong spot, couldn't find the signalman. My whole crew owes a stint in the privy for this."

"You heard him, let go." Brendan, given a ladder, saw no reason not to climb down.

Then Lucas went on: "The Crown Granary's on fire, by rights, we should send our off-watch men to help. That's in the regulations. But opening the gate without the garrison commander's order, that we can't do.

Right now it's only the granary gate burning, the storehouses are fine.

Five hundred paces west, there's a stream that runs under the palace wall and out through the city wall. It's in the royal park, sure, but in an emergency, drawing water from there's within bounds. The Silver Shield can handle it themselves."

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Lucas was an old hand. He'd been on the privy when the shouting started, come up to the tower, taken one look, and known exactly what was what.

Torches flickered in the wind. Tam's heart sank: with Lucas here, even Brendan and Tam together couldn't get that gate open.

"Since Captain Lucas has spoken, everyone to your posts. Hold the gate."

Carl bowed to Lucas, gave Brendan a long look, and headed down the stairs with Shawn and Keane, not looking back.

The air still reeked of smoke. By degrees, the night settled back into silence. Those two hours had scored a scar on Lohenheim, not too deep, and healable, for all that.

But there were more than a few people who would sleep no more that night.

"Lucy!"

"Here, my lady. Are you getting up?"

"I can't sleep... Go see if Shawn and the others are back yet."

"Not yet. If they were nearby, they'd have moved the pot of lilies up to the gable. It's still down on the step."

No phone to check in with. This age was the worst. Lora rolled over, gave up, and sat up, groping for her shoes in the dark.

"Should I light the candles?"

Lucy was already there with a candlestick. "Norton's in the colonnade, should I send him to the forecourt?"

"No, when my brothers come back, Shawn will come too. His arm's still hurt. I shouldn't have sent him today. That was careless of me."

Lora sat at her writing table in nothing but her linen shift and a cloak, flipping through the pages of her own quill-writing. Truly ugly.

The formal script was still foreign to her. Quills were hard to use. Tallow candles were too dim and smoky; beeswax wasn't much better. At least it was cool out, she didn't miss air-conditioning as badly.

Three days from home. She wanted to go home.

Tonight should nail the Venns' coffin shut, right? The original girl's revenge was complete. The Count wouldn't be demoted. House Odenheim would be all right from here on. But how was she supposed to get back?

Three days of tension, and then tonight, visiting Aprille, asking her questions, the whole chain of cause and effect finally clicked into place. The bowstring in her head went slack. And with the slack came a restless, nameless irritation.

No. She had a bad feeling.

Why irritated? Don't tell me it's that time of the month.

How did women in this age even deal with that?

Sponge-sticks in the privy had nearly driven her mad. At least Margaret had smuggled her some soft rags. Paper wasn't cheap here, clerks and scholars treated ink, quill, and vellum as sacred things. Using their precious vellum in the privy would get you crucified.

She wanted to cry.

Before she could, Keane came back. He murmured to Margaret at the door, then crossed to the window of the inner room and spoke through it:

"My lady, Lord Carl guessed you weren't asleep. He sent me to tell you: everything's settled. Everyone's safe. Go to sleep."

"You've been up all night, you go sleep too. The killers are caught, there's nothing dangerous here now. How's Shawn? Did his arm get banged up?"

The question surprised Keane. No wonder Shawn had turned loyal in just a few days, the young lady didn't treat you like a servant. She was different.

"He's fine. Still with Lord Carl. There're a lot of fires tonight, while the gates are shut, the garrison and the sheriff's men have to sweep the whole city. I don't think any of them will sleep tonight."

"Got it. Margaret packed some pastries earlier, I wanted to send them to the young lords, but I wasn't sure there'd be enough to go around. Take them to the Count, let them divide them up."

"Yes, my lady."

After Keane left, Lora lay back down. Her hand went under the pillow, she meant to pull out the Rose Needle, but found the medallion instead.

Right, one more thing to do. Still hadn't found her rescuer.

How did you even look? Post a notice on the church door?

Her fingers moved over the medallion, slower and slower. Before she'd figured it out, she'd fallen asleep clutching it.

One wall away, at Yewholm, the candles still burned. Leon, with no word back, couldn't sleep either. He sat on the daybed in his robe, turning the Abyssal Token over and over in his hands.

The iron token was finely made, mostly solid, with lettering on both faces. The odd part was the bottom: a band of openwork, three fingers' breadth wide. Who makes a token with openwork? Didn't they worry it would bend under pressure?

His thumb traced the openwork pattern. Something tugged at him, he'd seen this before. Then it hit:

That pattern... it was... it was the same as my medallion!

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