Chapter 4 #4
Syla shifted lower among the potato sacks. Vorik extricated his arm so that he could wrap a hand around the hilt of his sword. She gripped his wrist, not wanting him to attack the town guards unless they had no choice.
“I’m protecting you from anyone with rounding up in mind,” Vorik murmured.
“Your potato deliveries are getting later and later, Jibbs,” a guard who’d come out said, and Syla didn’t answer.
“Days are starting to get shorter. I’m just hoping we can get the cargo shipped before things start to spoil. You know how uppity Island Lord Absok gets about potatoes with eyes.”
“His people just turn them into vodka anyway.” The guard lowered his voice.
“The enforcer agents are in town. If that’s why you came in late, you’re wise.
Take Dog Butte Drive. They’ve got the Baker Fountain intersection staked out regularly, and someone came by earlier, specifically asking about you. ”
“Thanks, Doffmor. I’ll leave a sack of potatoes with your wife.”
“See if you can arrange some vodka to come our way too.”
The wagon trundled into motion, and Syla let out a sigh when nobody leaned over the side to peer in.
“The glass district is off Dog Butte Drive,” Jibbs called softly back once they’d left the towers. “I’ll drop you off along the way.”
“Thank you.” Syla thought about sitting up again, but if there were agents lurking in the city, it would be wise to remain out of sight. Besides, after the long day, it felt good to lie in Vorik’s arms. Though a soft giggle startled her. Had that been… Aunt Tibby? Did Aunt Tibby giggle?
“I believe romance is happening elsewhere in this wagon,” Vorik murmured.
“That can’t be right,” Syla whispered, more stunned than she probably should have been. But she’d never imagined her aunt having romantic urges. Especially toward Fel. “They’re… older. And he doesn’t have enough books.”
“Oh? Have you surveyed his collection?”
“I’ve never been in his quarters.”
Had Fel’s room in the castle even survived the initial stormer invasion? She had no idea. Before all this had begun, he’d only been her bodyguard for a couple of weeks, a supposed last duty for him before retirement.
“It may contain shelves stuffed with books,” Vorik said.
Another giggle came from the other side of the wagon.
“It must,” Syla whispered.
Vorik shifted closer to her, resting a hand on her hip. Did he have romance in mind too?
Jibbs directed his horses around a corner, and they passed under a lantern burning on a post. Scant seconds later, a thud sounded as something hit the side of the wagon.
Startled, Syla started to sit up, but Vorik whispered, “Stay down,” and used his hand to keep her in place.
Fel swore and lurched upright. Jibbs cursed. Another thud sounded, and an arrow lodged into the wagon side opposite Syla, an inch below the top, the fletching quivering.
“Stay down,” Vorik repeated before ignoring his own advice and vaulting to the street, his sword in hand before he landed.
Fel stayed in the wagon but lifted his crossbow, quarrels already loaded. He fired at someone in a dark alley between two buildings.
“They’re enforcers,” he said. “I saw a gray uniform.”
Syla clenched her jaw and stayed down, but she also wanted to do something. And to punch Fograth. If only he were there.
“Get everyone with a moon-mark!” someone shouted as uniformed men charged toward the driver.
Jibbs lifted his crossbow, leaped off the bench, and tried to find cover behind the wagon, but enforcers were running up from both sides of the street.
“There are two women in the back too!” someone yelled.
“Look out for the guy in black. He’s—” A clash rang out, swords coming together, and drowned out the rest of the statement.
I may need your assistance after all, Wreylith, Syla called out telepathically.
To do more than be a distraction? The dragon still sounded indignant.
Yeah.
A horse squealed in fear and reared up. The wagon lurched, tossing Syla across lumpy bags of potatoes. Jibbs swore and jumped back as the horses took off down the street. Fel also swore, his aim disrupted.
Syla risked lifting her head over the edge of the wagon. By the light of street lanterns, Vorik was visible, dodging arrows and slashing his sword through crossbow hafts and bow staves. He kicked a man trying to get close but wasn’t trying to kill anyone.
“He deserves a medal,” Syla said. “This isn’t even his fight.”
“I deserve a medal,” Fel grumbled, reloading his crossbow.
Jibbs charged after the wagon, trying to reload his own crossbow as he ran, but two gray-uniformed men sprang out of an alley, and one tackled him.
Fel fired, catching the second enforcer in the shoulder before he could help.
Jibbs managed to keep his feet and whirled, using his crossbow like a club to strike the closest attacker.
By then, Vorik had disarmed or knocked out the rest of the enforcers, and he sprinted up in time to grab Jibbs’s foe and hurl him into a brick wall.
Two more uniformed men stepped out of a building with a woman gripped between them, her nightdress flapping around her ankles, her feet bare. Fury burned in her eyes as she struggled. Was that a moon-mark on the back of her hand?
Indignant, Syla almost leaped out to help the woman herself, but Fel fired a crossbow quarrel into one of her captors’ shoulders. Releasing his prisoner, the enforcer wheeled away. The other man pulled the woman in front of him to use as a shield.
Furious, Syla launched herself out of the wagon. The enforcer half-drew a sword but must not have believed a woman in a cloak could be a threat.
“Release her!” Syla demanded as her moon-mark flared silver, adding power to her voice.
“Another one!” the man blurted, looking at her hand.
Syla rushed forward, darted around the woman, and gripped the enforcer’s wrist. He hadn’t drawn his sword fully and started to push her away, but her power flowed into him, and she clenched it around his throat in warning—and to scare him.
Eyes widening, he released the woman.
“Run,” Syla told her, keeping her grip on the enforcer so her magic would continue to affect him.
“Yes, my lady.” The woman darted to the side, but she glanced back, almost tripping as surprise widened her eyes. Syla’s hood had fallen back, and the woman corrected herself. “Yes, Your Majesty!”
A shadow at Syla’s side made her jump, but it was Vorik. She released the enforcer. Gagging and gasping, the man ran back into the building.
“Didn’t we decide you should hide in the wagon?” Vorik touched Syla’s back and guided her toward it—it had run up onto a wooden sidewalk, gotten stuck, and the horses were neighing protests.
“I was needed elsewhere.”
“There is a lot of danger to deal with on your island.”
“I’m noticing. Trust me. Thank you, Fel,” Syla added when she and Vorik reached the wagon. Jibbs had also caught up to it. “I’ll help you find a nice retirement property once I’m back on the throne.”
Syla looked toward the cloudy night sky. Thanks to Vorik and Fel, she might not have needed to call Wreylith to help, but she could sense the dragon approaching.
“I didn’t realize that queens performed such services,” Tibby said, clutching the shielder components to her chest. The wagon had tipped sideways, and she looked rattled.
“Oh, yes. I’m also finding Wreylith a cave.”
“Do me a favor,” Fel said, “and make sure my retirement property isn’t next to that cave.”
“Are you sure?” Syla asked as a great roar came from the sky nearby.
The stone and brick buildings along the street kept them from seeing the dragon, but Wreylith was, without a doubt, approaching.
The remaining enforcers scrambled away and disappeared into alleys.
The horses hitched to the wagon squealed in alarm as the red dragon landed on a large adobe building at the corner of the next intersection.
It had an ornate door in the front, with a sign above it, as well as tall carriage doors on the side for deliveries. The sign read Tabuvar’s Glassworks.
“My poor horses.” Jibbs tried to settle the team as he looked warily toward Wreylith.
An enforcer stepped out the front door of the building, jaw descending as he looked up at the roof. Wreylith’s talons were curled over the edge, and she opened her maw, and plucked the man up before he could jump back inside.
Syla lifted a hand, not sure if the enforcer was part of the raid—or whatever it was. But she wasn’t fast enough to stop Wreylith, and the dragon flexed her neck and tossed her captive over three buildings. A cry of pain came from the alley that he disappeared into.
Vorik touched Syla’s shoulder and pointed into the doorway of the glassworks. A couple of lamps burned inside, and she could make out someone’s legs sticking out from behind a workbench. Was that… Tabuvar?
“They must be trying to round up everyone in the city with a moon-mark tonight.” Jibbs looked stunned, even though he’d been the one to warn them that such activities were ongoing. The earlier raids must have been on a smaller scale.
You are welcome, Wreylith stated. I hope you’ve learned tonight that dragons are a necessity, not a distraction.
I have learned that, yes. Syla didn’t point out that they’d been doing all right on their own.
If a dragon was willing to help, one shouldn’t downplay her contribution.
Syla assisted Aunt Tibby down from the wagon, and they walked toward the glassworks with Fel and Vorik, the men’s weapons still out as they eyed their surroundings.
I’ve also learned it was pointless for me to think I could sneak around Castle Island.
Queens are also a necessity, not a distraction. They should stride regally with their heads high, not sneak, like furtive rats scurrying about in the back of a cave.
I’ll keep that in mind.
You clearly need a dragon advisor familiar with history to assist you in this endeavor.
Clearly.
“Tabuvar?” Jibbs called through the doorway. “I brought you visitors. Are you… alive?”
The legs twitched, and an angry, muffled voice spoke—or tried to speak.
Fel walked in first, checking the various work areas and cabinets and nooks for threats.
Despite the late hour, a furnace and kiln in the back of the spacious front room burned, putting out heat that spread throughout the building.
Syla sensed magic about the place and hoped Tibby would find the tools she needed to start work.
Once Fel waved that it was safe, Syla went to the fallen man, a sturdy white-haired fellow that she recognized once she saw his weathered face. He’d visited the castle a few times when she’d been a girl, installing the chandelier in the dining hall and beautiful blown-glass lanterns in the library.
“Are you injured, Tabuvar?” Syla touched his shoulder and used her magic to check for wounds.
“More angry than injured,” he said, though blood oozed from an abrasion on his jaw, and he touched a lump on the back of his head. “But that surly thug was rough. I thought the stormers were invading at first, but he was an enforcer, no doubt. He…” Tabuvar paused as his gaze settled on Vorik.
“I’m not rough,” Vorik offered. “My touch is practiced, precise, and adequate to a task.”
“You’re Captain Vorik,” Tabuvar said.
Syla didn’t know if the glassmaker had recognized her yet, so his identification of Vorik surprised her.
“That’s right,” Vorik said.
“You and your brother sank the last ship I served on when I was in the fleet.” The man’s gaze slid to Syla, his brows drawing together before he seemed to realize, “You’re Princess Syla.”
She almost corrected him, but she hadn’t held the title of queen for more than a few weeks before Fograth had usurped the throne. She wasn’t much of anything right now. Not until she could get it back.
“Yes, and we need your glassworks, please. My aunt is going to make a new shielder for Harvest Island.”
Tabuvar blinked and looked at Tibby. “Lady Tibaytha? It’s been a while since we spoke, but isn’t your field… agricultural equipment?”
“Yes, it is. When I’m done with the new shielder, it may have an integrated plow, tiller, and hydraulic lift system.”
“I… Is that a joke? I forgot your side of the family is known for quirky humor.”
“Just quirk in general, yes. May I look around?” Tibby waved toward shelves and pegboards full of tools, many of them having magical signatures.
“Anything to help the Kingdom. And Syla. Little Syla. You’ve grown up so.” Tabuvar gripped her arm. “We need to keep you alive. Fograth took the castle, and he’s arresting everyone with a moon-mark.”
“I know. We’re going to stop him.”
“Thank the moon god.”
A stormer approaches, Wreylith told Syla.
She looked toward the door, but Vorik had disappeared. Had he gone back outside?
Is it Lieutenant Wise?
The man has white hair and lacks magical power. It is only by the scent of his leathers and the dragon he rides that I noticed and identified him. Your mate is approaching him now.
Syla stood up, tempted to hurry out and join the conversation—or spy on it.
But it wasn’t as if she could sneak up on Vorik.
Besides, Wreylith’s words about not scurrying about like a rat came to mind.
If she went out there, it would be openly and regally.
But should she? Or should she let Vorik meet with his old colleague without interference?
She trusted him fully, didn’t she? She bit her lip.
Tabuvar tried to push himself to his feet but had to steady himself on the workbench. Wincing, he touched the back of his head again.
“If you’ll let me use my magic, I can heal you,” Syla said, nodding to herself. This was her duty. She would trust that Vorik was on her side and would tell her if anything relevant came out of his meeting with the lieutenant.
“That sounds wonderful.” Tabuvar slumped down on a stool. “I’ll make you a new chandelier for the castle once you reclaim your throne.”
“People don’t usually promise to do things for me until after I heal them.”
“Your timely arrival kept me from being tossed into a jail wagon—or worse. There are rumors about what Fograth is really doing to those with moon-marks. Nothing good.”
“We’ll put a stop to that,” Syla reassured him, then focused on healing him and determinedly did not let herself pepper Wreylith with questions about Vorik’s meeting. As she’d decided, she would trust him fully, even if her curiosity made her want to charge out there.
“It won’t be easy,” Tabuvar warned. “Fograth has a lot of allies.”
“I have a dragon.”
“I… imagine that would be useful.”
“Very useful.”
Smugness emanated from Wreylith’s perch on the roof.