But what was the yethu doing here, of all places? Tithian stared at the animal, which faced the gates, as intent as any hunting beast he’d ever seen, its opalescent teeth bared.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Come here, you.”
The platinum hound paid him no mind. With a sudden yap, it leapt forward, and passed through the bars… emerging on the other side. It started to run on, then stopped, turning back again to whine at the knights.
“What?” grumbled Xenos, “Does it expect us to do that too?”
There was a chain holding the gates shut, and a lock on it. The captain of Chidell’s city guard would have the key, and probably Lord Dejal, too. But they were both back at the palace, and Tithian’d be damned if- He stopped, starting. The lock was open.
Warrior’s instincts prickled his scalp. His sword hissed as he drew it out of its scabbard, and his men followed his lead. Biting his lip, he reached out with his free hand and pushed on one of the doors. Creaking, it swung open. The yethu took off again.
He could feel the slaves’ eyes on him as he entered. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. The Hammer had brought them into slavery in the first place, in most cases, and they didn’t forget. More than a few would gladly seize the chance to take revenge. If the cages were unlocked …
The yethu yapped again, halfway down the market. There were other sounds, though-a woman’s cry of alarm, an angry shout, a curse. Tithian halted, signaling to his men, and peered ahead into the moonlight.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Tithian?” called Wentha MarSevrin. “Gods, is that you?”
“Get this thrice-damned thing away from us!” snapped another voice-one of her sons, Rath most likely.
The yethu had them both pinned up against a relief-carved wall, liquid lips peeled back in a snarl Lady Wentha looked terrified, Rath somewhere between that and anger. He had his saber out, and held it before him to keep the hound at bay. Tithian wondered what good the blade would be against the beast, if it came to that.
As he and the other knights drew near, the yethu backed down, looking at him with expectant eyes. He held up a hand, ignoring its answering whine as he turned to Wentha.
“Milady, I apologize if the creature frightened you,” the Marshal said. “It means no harm to friends of the Kingpriest.”
The yethu seemed to think otherwise. It gave Rath a vicious look as he sheathed his saber again, growling deep in its throat.
“I’m glad for that, Lord Tithian,” Wentha said, shaken. “And I’m glad you’ve come. We need your help. It’s-it’s my brother.”
Tithian wanted to ask her why she was here, why the gate to the market had been unlocked-but no. Answers could wait until he found Cathan.
“Where is he?” he asked.
She led them to him, the yethu padding along beside. Soon more shadows came into view, huddled against the wall. With a ringing screech, the platinum hound leapt toward the shapes, then stopped an arm’s length from them, raised its head and howled, then exploded in a spray of silver droplets.
Tithian stumbled and the others cringed as the bits of the yethu rained down. The creature had been summoned for a purpose, and that was to find the Twice-Born and his family. After fulfilling that purpose; it had vanished.
Tancred crouched at the base of the wall, staring at where the hound had been a moment before. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, his face as white as the vestments he wore. He saw Cathan, sitting with his back against the wall, his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed. For a horrible moment, the Grand Marshal thought he was dead-then the Twice-Born opened his mouth and let out a deafening snore. “He’s drunk!” Tancred said.
Tithian could smell the wine from where he stood. There was an empty skin next to Cathan, and dark red stains on the front of his tunic. A thin dribble ran from the corner of his mouth.
“Gods,” Tithian said, and turned to Wentha. “How did he end up here?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. We saw him leave the feast, and followed him. He was already in a bad state, yelling like a madman, and we couldn’t turn him around. He passed out here. We were going for help when you showed up.”
He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing.
“How did he unlock the gates?” Sir Xenos pressed.
“How should we know?” Rath snapped back. “They were open when we found him.”
“Lord Tithian,” Tancred pressed. “Did he know about the slaves?”
Tithian blinked, then shook his head. No, he supposed, Cathan wouldn’t have known.
“No wonder he got so upset,” Wentha said pointedly. “Come on. You have to help us.”
He looked down. Cathan was about to slump over on his left side. Tithian bent down and steadied him before he could fall. The reek of wine made his eyes water.
“Please,” Wentha pressed, “he doesn’t deserve this humiliation. He’s your friend, Tithian. If someone should spot him in this state-”
Tithian sighed. She was right-Cathan didn’t need the shame of being discovered drunk in the slave quarters. They could fill in the details later.
“All right,” he said, and slid his arm around his former master’s shoulders. Straining, he helped him up. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”
Chapter 11
The rocking of the Kingpriest’s gilded barge made Cathan’s stomach lurch. There wasn’t even any chop on Lake Istar, and the boat-a wide, square-sailed vessel with a dragon-shaped prow and a high viewing gallery at the stern-skipped lightly over the littlest of waves. To Cathan, however, it seemed as if it were about to capsize at any moment. He gagged, putting his hand to his head.
He hadn’t been so drunk … or drunk at all… since his time in the Hammer. He couldn’t recall ever having a hangover so bad. But drinking a whole skin of raw wine in a little over a minute had worked: He and his family were here, on the god-cursed barge, and Idar and his rebels remained hidden from the Lightbringer and the Hammer. Beldinas was none the wiser.
It was a damp morning, gray mist swirling across the lake’s surface, fine drizzle darkening the water to the color of slate. A canopy of white oilcloth stretched over the afterdeck, warding off the rain. A young sailor perched on the bow, blowing low notes on a long, silver trumpet to warn off any boats that might not see them in the mist. Cathan saw the Kingpriest’s glow out of the corner of his eye, started to turn his head, then thought better of it when white lights exploded in front of his eyes. He slumped, breathing hard, his face clammy with sweat. “Here,” whispered a voice in his ear. A face bent over him-Tancred. Rath was beside his brother, as usual. “Take this.”
Something pressed into Cathan’s hand. He looked at it: an amulet, made of what looked to be a small slice of malachite. He turned it in his hands, then glanced at his nephew.
“For the Araifas,” Tancred answered. “It will cloud your thoughts if they try to read them.” Glancing around, he opened the neck of his robes. Between his collarbones, next to the silver triangle he wore as a holy sign, was a similar medallion, made of lapis. “You’ll need it.”
Nodding, Cathan slipped the necklace over his head. He had to lift his head to do it, which made him feel like several trolls were trying to bash their way out of his skull, but he staved off the urge to pass out. He felt a strange sensation, like an itch in his mind, as he tucked the malachite into his tunic.
Suddenly Wentha was there, bending over him, smoothing back the hair he hadn’t had in years. “It’s magic, yes,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”