Brexan was cold and hungry herself, but she dared not move in that direction; Jacrys was sure to spot her; he had proven his skills in that arena. Instead, she decided to break into the warehouse: maybe she could discover what the spy was up to. As she stepped through the door, the black cloud that had been hovering in place over the harbour for the past Moon drifted back over the city, where it appeared to join forces with another, slightly smaller but the same threatening colour. The pair blew east, side-by-side, against the wind, as if they had been summoned.
Brexan moved quickly, scared that Jacrys would return soon. Peering through the window she could see the cavernous structure was empty, but at one end there were some rough doors; offices, maybe. Jacrys had left the main door unlocked. Brexan thought carelessness was not his style; now she was convinced he didn’t intend being away for long. She hurried towards the rooms at the back.
Sallax was in the second room she visited, immediately behind what looked like Carpello’s private office and, temporarily, at least, Jacrys’ living quarters. The big Ronan was sleeping, and even in the dim light thrown by a bedside candle, she could see that he looked much healthier than the last time they met. He had obviously been well fed, his hair had been cut and he had been given a shave. Most importantly, he no longer stank like a midden. Brexan smiled in relief and moved closer.
His body was bound across the chest and one shoulder with clean strips of heavy fabric – Jacrys had obviously treated the partisan’s injuries. She had thought him in disguise, bent over as if he were a wounded beggar, but seeing him bound up like this, she wondered if he had broken something coming over the Blackstones. Brexan marvelled at the strength of will that kept some people going. She wondered if she would have given up, but remembering her broken cheek and cracked ribs, decided to give herself more credit… perhaps she and Sallax were not so different after all. Suddenly she wanted very badly to take him away from Jacrys and this cold, damp warehouse. The tapestries on the walls and woven carpets on the floor did little to take the edge off the bitter cold; the Redstone would be far better for Sallax’s convalescence – not to mention getting him out of Jacrys’ grip. She had enough silver to stay on there at least another Twinmoon and in that time, she would nurse the big man back to health.
Her own transformation was complete: she had become a freedom fighter, just like Sallax, and Versen.
Sallax woke as she was severing the cords holding him down.
‘The girl,’ he started in a murmur, ‘the girl knew Sallax.’
‘Yes, Sallax,’ she replied softly. His injuries were obviously more than just physical. ‘I know you.’
‘The girl,’ he said again, watching her work.
Brexan sat on the edge of the bed, sheathed the knife and asked, ‘Do you want to come with me, Sallax? I have a warm room, with good food and soft blankets. You’ll be comfortable there.’
Sallax appeared anxious, uncertain how to respond.
Brexan glanced towards the chamber doorway. Nervous now, she tried not to show it in her voice. That might upset him. ‘We need to decide pretty quickly, though. All right? Will you come with me?’
‘The girl knew Sallax.’ He grimaced, as if sitting up would be a great struggle and then smiled when he realised nothing was holding him down.
‘I do know you, Sallax. I heard all about you from Versen. He spoke about you, all the time.’ He was too thin, but she would see to that. The venison stew at the Redstone would fatten him up. She would help him regain a sense of who he was, and how he had come to be in Orindale. Brexan didn’t know what could have turned Sallax’s mind to such paste – maybe he had encountered one of the wraiths Gabriel O’Reilly had described and instead of killing him, they had addled his mind.
‘Versen?’ Sallax reached for her. Brexan started to back away, thought better of it and leaned forward to take his hands.
‘Yes, Versen. I knew- I know Versen. He and I are close friends.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. This was no time to start crying; she had to get him up and out of this warehouse before Jacrys returned.
‘You know where Versen is?’
Her shoulders heaved, and she smeared away tears. ‘Yes, I know where Versen is.’
Sallax groaned as he lifted himself from the bed and swung his legs over the side. As he placed his bare feet on the carpet he began looking around the room for clothes. ‘It’s cold,’ he muttered.
‘You’re right. It’s too cold to take you all the way up there like that. You’ll make it without boots, though – I can get you new boots when you are up and about. Wait here. I’ll see what I can find in the other rooms.’
Brexan hustled into the spy’s room; there was no point in going about on tiptoes; Jacrys was still out buying breakfast. She spotted a bag left open beside the fireplace. Inside, she found a tunic, a finely woven shirt of quality wool with a delicate pattern stitched around the collar and across each wrist. ‘Fop,’ she said, her lip curling, and put it back. She found a wool blanket on the cot Jacrys had moved in front of the fireplace. ‘Sleeping in here with a blanket and fire blazing while Sallax freezes in the other room, motherless rutter,’ she scolded. The more she discovered about the spy, the less she liked him.
‘I wish you would leave my mother out of it,’ a soft voice said. ‘As for being a fop, what can I say? One has one’s vices. Some, like our good friend in the other room, enjoy fighting for a cause. Our benefactor, the good Carpello, well, he gets his pleasure from a young girl from time to time. Me? I like fine clothing.’ Jacrys stood in the doorway that separated Carpello’s office from the vast emptiness of the warehouse. He held two loaves of warm bread, a block of strong cheese, two sausages and a flagon of what smelled like tecan.
She drew her knife as she turned; this time there was no point pretending she was anything but an enemy. ‘I’m glad you brought in breakfast. I got hungry looking for you.’
‘Under orders from General Oaklen again, I assume?’ The spy placed his food on a broad walnut desk. ‘Is he still determined for you to retrieve that stone?’
Brexan smirked. Jacrys still had no idea the stone was lost in another world an eternity away.
‘What’s funny?’ Jacrys asked, drawing the dirk from his belt.
‘Nothing, Jacrys, or Lafrent, or whoever you are today, nothing except that you are going to have to travel much further than you could even imagine if you want to get that stone.’ She began circling, hoping she could be quick and ruthless as she had been fighting the Seron in the meadow on the Ronan border. There was no way out, except past Jacrys. She unfastened her cloak and let it drop to the floor.
‘I’m sorry to say that when I am finished with you today, my dear, there will not be much left for old General Oaklen to-’
She cut him off. ‘Oaklen didn’t send me, you arrogant dryhump.’
‘Oh, really?’ Jacrys didn’t appear to care. ‘Working on your own – a Ronan girl with a passion for freedom? A freedom even your grandparents never knew?’
‘I was one of Bronfio’s platoon. I saw you murder him.’
‘And I suppose you followed me all the way here to get revenge. Oh, but that is precious, my dear. You? A trained killer? Don’t make me chuckle. You should have died with the rest of that wretched platoon in Riverend Palace.’ He handled the dirk as if it were an extension of his own hand.
Brexan watched him, and tried to keep from looking frightened; he was obviously better than she with a short blade. The only chance she had was to defeat him mentally; beating him physically would need a stroke of exceptional luck.
‘Do you hope I’ll believe you are Prince Malagon’s top field agent?’ she asked, sneering. ‘Look at you – you’re a mess. I wonder if the prince knows you’re holding one of the Resistance’s top men as your private prisoner in a warehouse less than a quarter of an aven’s amble from where he himself is in residence… and you, living in a warehouse yourself? You are on your own, Jacrys, just like me. So stop trying to sell me a new ploughhorse; I’m full to here with your blather.’