Kytt shrugged off his carryall and slid it over to Laurelle. He motioned for her to continue. Barrin’s form filled the hall. With care, she should be able to reach the stairs without the guards seeing her.
She squeezed Kytt’s hand, then sidled low to the floor, close to one wall. Kytt straightened behind her, edged past Barrin, and signaled by hand for the bullhound to keep his place.
The wyld tracker called to the guards. “It is only I,” he said, though surely the guards knew Kytt. Who else traveled with a bullhound? Plainly they only sought amusement by hassling the young tracker.
Laurelle reached the stairs, laden with two squirming cubbies, both arguing in low growls through the roughspun at one another. She thanked the gods of the aether that neither of the two barked. The knight at the landing glanced to her above his masklin. She nodded and slipped around to the stairs.
Behind her, Kytt spoke with exaggerated loudness. “I was just seeing to the cubbies. Making sure they had fresh milk and feed.”
“A duty you won’t need much longer,” one of the guards said.
Laughter followed Laurelle out to the stair.
“Especially with the regent turning arse-end and running,” another said. “No need any longer for two cubbies.”
“And Liannora definitely could use a warm muff to match her new cloak.”
“Now that’s a muff I wouldn’t mind slippin’ a hand into,” one whispered.
“Don’t let Sten hear you say that.”
More rough laughter chased Laurelle round the stairs. She climbed, her heart thumping and a fire building in her chest.
“Off with you, then,” the guards barked to Kytt. “Before that dog of yours shites all over our hall.”
“Or he does!” his companion said. “Look at that nose on the boy. I wonder if trackers use it to sniff each other’s arses.”
Kytt appeared below, rounding up with Barrin. His face blushed through his tanned skin. He quickly joined her and accepted his burden back. Together, they climbed the seven levels to the floor where Lorr kept his rooms.
In short order, they had the cubbies behind doors and a fire burning in the cold hearth, and Barrin was again sprawled and already snoring.
“I should be returning to my rooms.” Laurelle rose from where she had been scratching one of the whelpings on the belly.
“They are calm with you,” Kytt said, nodding to the cubbie.
She warmed more than she should have at his generous word. “Dribbling milk over my fingers for the past three mornings and nights was what truly won them over. We had a houndskeep back…back home in Weldon Springs. That’s off near Chagda Falls.”
“I know where Weldon Springs lies,” he mumbled.
“Of course you do.” She shook her head at herself. Kytt’s own realm, Idlewyld, lay on the opposite coast of the Fifth Land from Weldon.
“Rich country,” he said. “Well-forested.”
“My father owns a thousand tracks. He baited bears and boars with the hounds. I used to sneak off to play with their cubbies.”
Laurelle shied away from that memory. She had mostly snuck off silently to the cubbies when her father had been beating her mother. Her family did not speak of such matters. Bruises and welts were hid under powder or behind lace.
Laurelle brushed a hand through her hair. “I should find Delia. Real or not, she should know of the threat we overheard.”
Kytt stepped to the door. “I will accompany you back to your floor.”
“I know my way.”
“Of course you do,” he said, mimicking back her own words from a moment ago.
She glanced to him and noted a ghost of a smile. She returned the same. It was rare to hear any ribbing from the young man.
“Best you have an escort.” He grumbled a bit, glancing away as shyness overcame him again. “Barrin can watch over the little ones.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Laurelle gathered her things and the two set out. Lorr’s floor was only two above hers. The walk was shorter than she would have preferred. She even found her steps slowing. Too soon, they reached the level that housed Chrismferry’s Hands.
The hall was empty, all locked away or about their own concerns. The diminutive Master Munchcryden, the regent’s Hand of yellow bile, had a preference for wagered games, whether played with die or board, while the shaven-headed twins, Master Tre and his sister Fairland, seldom left their rooms, preferring the company of books and private reflection.
But such privacies were harder to come by now.
The warden could not indulge an entire floor for the regent’s company any longer. Especially with Tylar fled. The vacant rooms had been filled with a goodly number of the masters who had been chased out of their subterranean levels. The halls now reeked of strange alchemies, and the occasional muffled blast would echo down the hall from some combination gone bad.
Laurelle led the way. Her room was not far off the landing. It was a small blessing, as the deeper halls were clogged even heavier with alchemical vapors, but it meant stepping away from Kytt sooner than she would have liked.
“I’ll see you at the seventh evening bell,” Laurelle said as they neared her door.
“The whelpings always enjoy your visits.”
“Just the whelpings?” She lifted an eyebrow.
Kytt shuffled his feet-but he was saved from answering by a sharp outburst off by the stairs.
“The skull is gone! Why do you harp so on the matter?”
It was Master Hesharian.
Laurelle quickly freed her key and unlocked her door. Kytt stared back at the stairs. Once her door was open, she tugged the tracker inside with her. She leaned the door closed, but she kept a crack open to peer out.
Master Hesharian entered the hall with his usual dog in tow, the milky-eyed ancient master.
“Leave it go, Orquell,” the head of the Council groused. “My midmorning meal awaits, and I’d prefer my breads were still warm.”
A reedy voice argued. “But I spoke with Master Rothkild. He related how he had cored samples from the skull. Even a tooth. He had them stored within glass flutes in alchemical baths.”
“And I heard the same. He insists the mixtures had rendered any Grace down to dregs. Nothing that could prove useful.”
“Master Rothkild does not have my experience with Dark Grace. There is much I can discern if I could retrieve those bits of bone.”
“The warden will not allow another trip down to the Masterlevels. Whatever lurks below remains quiet, and he wisely does not wish to stir it anew. With the regent gone, there may be a chance the storm will blow away and afterward our levels could be cleansed with fire. Then you can collect those bits of skull.” Hesharian sniffed. “So let the matter die for now. I’ve my meal to attend and am near to famished.”
The pair passed Laurelle’s room. Master Orquell glanced in their direction as he passed. She and Kytt pulled back. Neither wanted that gaze to discover them hiding and spying.
“Then I’ll leave you to your meal,” Orquell said. “There is a matter I wish to attend anyway.”
“Very good. You attend. I’ll see you in the fieldroom at the next bell.”
They continued down the hall.
Laurelle met Kytt’s eye. “Can you track that one?”
“Who?”
“Master Orquell. I’d like to see what he’s about when he’s not in Hesharian’s shadow. It is seldom the two are apart. This may be our only opportunity.”
Kytt looked hesitant.
Laurelle pulled her door wider. “It will not take long. You heard. No more than a bell. Then Orquell will need to return to the maps and plottings in the fieldroom, falling once again into Hesharian’s shadow. As privy as that new master is to what is discussed in that room, I’d like to see what matters he attends when alone.”
Kytt nodded reluctantly.
Laurelle waited until the two masters were out of sight, then led Kytt back into the hall. Together they headed off after their prey. With Kytt’s keen senses, they could keep well back. They passed Hesharian’s room. His voice carried out, haranguing some scullery about the state of his jam.