Anhaga Read online

  The scream had long died away now, but there was nothing comforting in its absence. Where the hell was Harry?

  Min clenched his fingers into fists and tried not to panic as he followed Sabadine and the servant through the shadowed corridors of the house into what appeared to be a study or a library. Certainly the room contained more books than Min had read in his life. Which, to be fair, was only three. More books than Min had seen in his life, then. Entire shelves of them, arranged around the walls. And, in the center of the room, a large table surrounded by high-backed chairs. A man rose from one of the chairs as Edward Sabadine and Min entered.

  He might have been a decade or so older than Min. He was tall and well-built. A neat, dark beard enhanced the sharp angles of his handsome face. His hair was gray around the temples and combed into well-coiffed waves. He looked distinguished, like a scholar, but no scholar carried himself like that. This man was undoubtedly a solider.

  “My son, Robert,” the old man said.

  “Aramin Decourcey,” Min said.

  Robert’s eyes were blue or gray. Min couldn’t be sure. His gaze was speculative, clever, and cold. That seemed to be a family trait of the Sabadines. They probably beat all warmth out of their children from birth.

  “Take a seat,” Sabadine said.

  A servant darted forward from some shadowed corner, pulling back one of the heavy chairs.

  Min sat.

  He listened for more screams that never came and hated Harry for ruining his morning—and his entire life—while hoping desperately that he wasn’t hurt. There were gods and spirits he could petition, naturally, but Min had nothing to offer them except the lint in his pockets. Anyway, if he’d had anything of value to barter with, he’d have offered it to Edward Sabadine, not some insubstantial entity. Min was a practical man.

  Sabadine sat across from Min, with Robert at his side. “There is something that has been taken from me, and I wish it to be returned.”

  Min glanced from Sabadine to Robert and back again. He found both their faces unreadable. “Do you know who took it?”

  “Yes.” Sabadine pressed his lips into a thin line. “A hedgewitch called Kallick.”

  So Sabadine wanted him to steal from the Gifted. Any mage or wizard worth their salt—and Min knew that a family like the Sabadines would have several in their service—could take a common hedgewitch in a heartbeat. The only reason Sabadine would refuse to use his own Gifted against this Kallick was because he needed to be able to deny all knowledge of the action if things went wrong. Criminality and plausible deniability. Two of Min’s favorite things. They both fitted him as comfortably as an old boot.

  “And what did Kallick take from you, sir?” Min asked.

  Sabadine’s lip curled. “My grandson.”

  That was unlike any answer Min had been anticipating.

  Robert leaned forward slightly. “How familiar are you with the traditions of prentices?”

  Min shifted his gaze back to Sabadine. “Your grandson is a prentice?”

  He liked this less and less. What a damned shame, then, that Harry’s life depended on it.

  “He was born Gifted,” Sabadine said. “Sent as a prentice to Kallick when he was….” He trailed off, frowning.

  “Eight,” Robert supplied for him. “As the law requires.”

  “Kallick was supposed to send him home when he was fourteen,” Sabadine said. His voice had a sudden edge to it that sounded almost like a growl. “He did not. It has been five years.”

  “The law is with us,” Robert said quietly, as though he thought that mattered to a man like Min. “Kallick ignores our petitions.”

  Min felt a sudden flash of admiration for any man, even a hedgewitch, who dared to ignore the Sabadines. He wasn’t stupid enough to smirk at the idea, though.

  “I want the boy returned,” Sabadine said, the corners of his mouth turning down sourly. “It’s a fair exchange. Your boy for mine.”

  And there it was, of course. The reason Min couldn’t refuse. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t be at least a little intractable. “What if your boy does not wish to come home?”

  “He has no choice,” Sabadine said. “My claim on him is stronger than Kallick’s.”

  Still, if the boy was unwilling…. Min’s uncertainty must have shown on his face.

  “And so is Robert’s claim,” Sabadine grunted.

  Min turned his gaze back to Robert, and saw, for the first time, an expression of discomfort on the man’s face.

  “Robert’s wife is dead,” Sabadine said. “It’s time he took another spouse.”

  Perhaps it was Min’s hangover that caused his brain to stumble over that connection.

  “Robert is your son,” he said in an attempt to clarify the situation. “And the boy is your grandson? The marriage is between your son and….”

  “My nephew,” Robert said, his expression stony once more. “I am betrothed to my nephew.”

  No, not his hangover that caused the stumble at all. His sense of decency.

  “Ah,” Min said.

  Ew, said his brain.

  Sabadine smiled grimly. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” Min lied, because to hell with this. The second he had Harry, he was out of here, and he was never coming back. “We have a deal, sir.”

  Of course, he should have known a snake like Sabadine would have made refusal impossible. He realized it the moment the door to the study swung open and a man in a blue robe entered. A sorcerer. The Sabadines were wealthy enough and powerful enough to have a sorcerer in their employ. The man was dragging a sniffling Harry along with him.

  “Harry!” Min exclaimed.

  Harry looked up. His eyes were wide, and his face was tear-stained. And a black sigil the size of a coin had been burned into his cheek.

  Min’s heart froze.

  They’d cursed him.

  The Sabadines had cursed Harry.

  Well, fuck.

  Chapter 2

  THE SHRINE of the Sacred Spring was located on the very edge of the eastern quarter of the city, in the cleft of a shallow valley that lay between two hills. From the east, the haphazard crowded streets threatened to spill their workshops and taverns and tenements into the valley. That’d certainly pollute the sacred waters. The houses on the other hill, where the western quarter began, were larger. Narrow lanes gave way to wide streets, and dusty shutters gave way to glass windowpanes. The residents were wealthy, certainly, but not quite wealthy enough to escape their neighbors.

  The Shrine of the Sacred Spring was the heartbeat of the city. According to legend, it was here the founder of Amberwich, Rus Cardor, had built his hut. Min didn’t have much time for legends. The Shrine was what it was. A squat, unimpressive collection of buildings with a temple in the middle. The path to the temple was bordered by trees tended by the hedgewitches who served the Shrine. Temple servants collected the fallen leaves and offered them to petitioners in exchange for coins. Min curled his lip at the display, but if he actually thought a few dead leaves would help Harry, he’d be flinging money at the servants right now.

  Harry’s heaving sobs had trailed off into sniffles on the walk from the Sabadines’ house, but Min kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder all the same. Harry was wearing his hood pulled up over his scruffy dandelion-fluff hair and had a hand clapped to his cheek for good measure. Min steered him around the line of people waiting to get inside the actual temple and headed for a green-robed acolyte instead.

  “Hey,” he said, and the acolyte clutched his basket of leaves to his chest protectively. “I need to see Aiode Nettle. Where is she?”

  The acolyte looked him up and down warily. “Is Hedgewitch Nettle expecting you?”

  “No,” Min said, showing his most charming smile. “But, like the mild showers of spring, I find that although I arrive unannounced, I am always most welcome.”

  Usually something like that would make Harry snort with a laugh. Today, nothing.

  The acolyte seem
ed just as unmoved.

  Min dug a coin out of Harry’s pocket—his own were empty—and handed it over.

  “Follow me,” the acolyte said.

  Instead of heading for the temple and the sacred shrine inside its walls, the acolyte led them to one of the many side buildings. He pushed open the door. Inside it was dark and cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the day. Sweat cooled on Min’s back, making his shirt feel clammy. He and Harry followed the acolyte past several closed doors and then up a set of stairs.

  “Hedgewitch Nettle?” the acolyte asked when they reached the first door at the top. He rapped gently. “You have visitors.”

  The door was wrenched open, and Aiode stood there. Her expression of surprise morphed into one of suspicion. “Thank you, Dar. You may leave us.”

  The acolyte scuttled away.

  Aiode narrowed her eyes at Min. “What do you want? I’m supposed to be at the ritual blessing in a moment. And, believe me, you didn’t acquit yourself well enough last night to earn another attempt.”

  Clear and to the point. Min could respect that. He tugged Harry’s hood back, then gripped his wrist and pulled his hand away from his cheek. “This is my nephew, Harry. He’s in trouble.”

  Aiode’s eyes widened as she took in the sigil burned into Harry’s cheek. “I can see that.” She drew a breath. “You’d better come in.”

  AIODE’S ROOM was small, neat, and clean. A window overlooked what appeared to be a private courtyard in the temple complex and let the sunlight in. Min paced up and down while Harry spilled the entire sorry tale, and tried not to growl at the boy, or possibly grab him by the throat and shake some fucking sense into him. Because clearly it was too late for that.

  He had met Talys Sabadine at the Beltane festival. She had been wearing yellow ribbons in her hair. Harry had bought her an oatmeal cake and—

  Min raised his brows a little at that. Stolen her an oatmeal cake, more likely, but why muddy the waters with that?

  —and later that night she’d taken his hand and they’d jumped over the bonfire together. Harry’s voice grew higher pitched as he talked. He hadn’t known she was a Sabadine, and she hadn’t known that he was a… a….

  He flushed.

  Aiode made a sympathetic noise.

  “A nobody,” Harry finished at last. He sniffled. “But that didn’t matter to either of us. We met up a few times. Then, last night, we got caught. It wasn’t the first time I’d been to her room, but her servant came in without knocking.” He shuddered at the memory and twisted around to look at Min. “I told them I’d marry her and make it right!”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Aiode said, catching Min’s gaze.

  It was something of a strange miracle that Harry was still so naïve in so many ways. That he seriously believed there was any possible way the Sabadines would toss Talys into the gutter to be with him. Because love. Harry thought love was the answer. Min wished he could laugh at him for it, but he couldn’t even summon a regretful smile.

  Aiode raised her hand and traced the sigil on Harry’s cheek. “This is….” She sighed. “This is a very complicated, very expensive curse. If I’m not mistaken, this is moon work.”

  “What does that mean?” Min asked.

  “It means you have until the next full moon until it kills him,” Aiode said.

  Harry blinked, and tears slid down his cheeks.

  “Do you know of any way to remove the curse?” Min asked.

  “This is the work of a sorcerer,” Aiode said.

  Well, that answered that. Min had suspected it, but Aiode’s confirmation still felt like a blow. Sorcerers were incredibly powerful. Most worked directly under the king, using their Gifts to defend Amberwich from attacks by the Hidden Lord. They were feared, even by the other Gifted.

  “It’s a blood curse. It can only be removed by the one who placed it. This curse…,” Aiode said, her brows drawing together, and then shook her head. “Using this curse on Harry is like using an anvil to crush an ant.” Her gaze sharpened. “What do they want you to do?”

  Min stopped pacing for a moment. “They want me to get back Sabadine’s grandson. He’s a prentice to a hedgewitch and is apparently years overdue his return. He’s supposed to come back so he can marry Robert Sabadine. His uncle.”

  “Makes sense,” Aiode said, and shrugged at Min’s expression. “A way to bind the boy to both his grandfather’s will, as head of the Sabadine household, and his uncle’s, as his betrothed. A child submits to the head of the household, and an adult submits to their spouse. If those two are in accord, the little bird is caught twice in the same snare.”

  Without being given even a moment of freedom between one snare loosening and the other slipping tight, Min realized. No wonder the boy was refusing to come home.

  “Well this little bird apparently enjoys his freedom as a prentice and doesn’t want to come home,” Min said.

  “So that poisonous old toad is sending you to fetch him.”

  Min nodded.

  Aiode looked thoughtful. “A hedgewitch, you say?”

  “Some fellow named Kallick.”

  “The name is familiar to me,” Aiode said. “I’m not sure I can recall….” She frowned and shook her head. “What is of greater concern, of course, is why a family with a sorcerer in their employ would want you to go and collect the boy.”

  “I have a reputation for discretion,” Min said. “And I have a feeling that Edward Sabadine doesn’t want the entire city to know he arranged to have his own grandson abducted. The law might be on his side, but what of his reputation? One of the most powerful men in all Amberwich, and he can’t even summon his own grandson home?”

  Of course, it wasn’t that simple at all.

  “Kallick!” Aiode exclaimed suddenly. “Kallick Sparrow! I remember now!”

  “Remember what?” Min asked, a sense of dread crawling over him.

  “Kallick,” Aiode repeated, her eyes widening. “Kallick lives in Anhaga!”

  A chill ran through him.

  Ah. So that was it. It wasn’t that Min was more discreet than a sorcerer. It was that he was more expendable.

  A COOL breeze shuddered through the leaves of the trees lining the path as they left the shrine complex. Acolytes darted here and there like frantic squirrels, gathering up the leaves as they were shaken free. They laughed and chattered as they worked.

  Behind them, a line of hedgewitches made their way from their quarters to the temple building where they would perform the daily Blessing of the Waters. The priest who had tutored Min had dragged him along once as a child. The ritual had involved a lot of chanting, singing, and an unexpectedly exciting finale when saltpeter had been tossed onto the braziers inside the temple, and flames had fizzed and sparked and burned. At eight, Min had been very impressed and even a little scared. These days it took more than flash-and-bang tricks to frighten him.

  Some things still did, though.

  Like Anhaga.

  Min pushed his thoughts away from that and wondered instead how his name had come to the attention of a man like Edward Sabadine. He had taken jobs from representatives of noble Houses before, but they were the sort of jobs Min had assumed his employers would wish to keep secret. Min’s crowning glory had been two years ago now. He’d returned to a nobleman a family heirloom—the ugliest necklace Min had ever seen, for the record—that had made its way to another noble family courtesy of a cheating husband enamored with a daughter of the second House. Messy all around, but the sort of mess that, if exposed, would have led to mutual mockery of both Houses.

  The necklace had been kept under no special guard but the existing magic wards of the household. Min’s client had been unwilling to send his own Gifted against those of another household and risk escalating a private affair into what amounted to a declaration of hostilities, and Min had a reputation for being able to bypass all kinds of security, even magical. His services weren’t cheap.

  A routine job, all in all, but maybe audaci
ous enough that someone must have talked, and word had gotten to Edward Sabadine. At the time Min had been too drunk on his own success to consider that perhaps he might one day become a victim of it.

  Or that Harry would.

  He tightened his arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked.

  At the crest of the hill, he looked back. The Shrine of the Sacred Spring was an inviting swathe of green in the shallow valley. Behind it, in the distance, rose the Iron Tower. If the Shrine of the Sacred Spring was the heart of Amberwich, the Iron Tower was… well, it was the dick, wasn’t it? It jutted proudly from the top of the King’s Hill in the western quarter of the city, arrogant and bellicose and demanding attention. The tower was surrounded by the king’s private parklands, which contained the barracks and the stables of the Royal Guard, the fortified Treasury, the Sorcerers’ Guildhall, and the old palace. The king lived in the Iron Tower, and who could blame him with a bunch of sorcerers as neighbors? In the Iron Tower, the king could command his sorcerers without fear of one of them putting him in thrall. The purpose of the Iron Tower had always been twofold: it protected the king from his own Gifted as much as it protected the city from the fae.

  The Iron Tower dominated the King’s Hill. It was six stories high and topped by a sharply pitched red roof that gleamed in the sunlight. The walls of the tower were white, the paintwork weathered by the years. Barred windows overlooked the parklands. Under the roof, a parapet extended out from the tower wall. The tower was hundreds of years old. There were grander buildings now in Amberwich, but none as fortified as this. None as solidly imposing.

  Min turned his back on it.

  The streets grew narrower and more crowded as they passed farther into the eastern quarter. Clouds were moving in, the sort that promised just enough gentle rain to make the way slick and to sharpen the stench of the streets. Skinny dogs nosed in the gutter, accompanied by skinny kids. People went about their business in the stores and workshops that lined the way. Min’s fingers itched out of habit as they passed a vendor’s cart loaded with apples, and his stomach growled, but he kept moving. They passed a painted booth set up on a corner where the pedestrian traffic was forced to slow and watch the show: a puppet, its smirking face painted green and a silver crown on its head, pulled tufts of knotted red wool out of another puppet’s belly. The older children laughed and jeered at the spectacle. The younger ones wailed.