Farlanders' Law

By D. Wallace Peach

Immune to influence, the Cull Tarr infiltrate the tier cities, and the Shiplord plies the queen for a bond that will cede her realm. Catling’s daughter, Rose, becomes collateral in a game of power, and the only way to save her is to lose her. Oathbreaker and lawbreaker, Catling rebels, and her power grows more deadly.

In the frozen lands of the Far Wolds, treaties collapse. Forced to choose sides, Whitt betrays his oath. Fugitives, he and young Rose traverse the realm and enter the rebel world of the Farlanders. The brief tranquility of their lives crumbles as Ellegean aggression escalates. Sent by the queen to broker a lasting peace, Gannon proposes a risky strategy—to win the battle for the Far Wolds, Whitt and the people he loves must lose the war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Wallace Peach
• Release date: Apr 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781635355178

D. Wallace Peach

D. Wallace Peach started writing later in life after the kids were grown and a move left her with hours to fill. Years of working in business surrendered to a full-time indulgence in the imaginative world of books, and when she started writing, she was instantly hooked. Diana lives in a log cabin amongst the tall evergreens and emerald moss of Oregon's rainforest with her husband, two dogs, two owls, a horde of bats, and the occasional family of coyotes

Book preview

Table of Contents

Farlanders' Law

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Kari’s Reckoning

About the Author

Books by D. Wallace Peach

Map

Chapter One

Brightest Night.

Three full moons sailed an obsidian sky. The Cull Sea roared with high tides, smashed against the breakwater, and cast glittering spray to the Winterchill wind. The song and surge of the waves shaped Elan-Sia. They salted the delta’s freshwater sloughs and sawgrass marshes, saturated the peat, and swamped the tree islands. Elan-Sia lived by the tides, the revolution of the planet’s life demanding accommodation.

Suffering marked the human ordeals of life as it did death. The pain that keened from Catling’s lips and trembled in her exhausted limbs fled when a daughter slid free in a final gush of blood. It broke over her body and ebbed as three midwives nestled the tiny baby on her chest.

She stared at the odd, misshapen head, the old man face, the twig arms and froggy legs, skin thin as flower petals, fingernails like tiny shells. The baby’s hair was a slick black sheen, her eyes gray, features she’d inherited from the man who sired her.

Throughout her pregnancy, Catling had silently stewed over how she would feel about the child, whether the infant’s presence would serve as a constant reminder of her repeated rape, of her helplessness in Algar’s hands, his groping, his smell, his taste. She sensed none of that trepidation, those days of worry for naught.

Instead, the baby reminded her of Gussy on the day Zadie delivered her into the world of the stead. Such memories raised tears for a lost lifetime, a wistful dream that evaporated upon her waking to a harsher, crueler morn. Those days had marked the most sacred of her life, a few years of recaptured innocence when they called her Rose for lack of another name. Zadie had chosen the name because of her eye, and Wenna had given her the choice of calling it her own. The tender mothers of her youth had seen the ugly mark bruising her face and named it something lovely, called her a thing of beauty when she was a scrawny cast off lacking a voice of her own.

This little one possessed no flaws, no strange blemish or discoloration or unexplained power, nothing to hurl her life into heartbreak and ruin. So, Catling chose the name again, and in that instant, all her misgivings, all her dreaded anger and doubts and regrets about the baby resting on her body vanished. Every indignity Algar had inflicted upon her, every threat and injury and act of destruction faded into the murky distance. For years, those with unfettered authority had wielded her as a tool. Now, the power of the infant’s face, the gray eyes and soft hair, the little bowed lips, the helplessness of this new life eclipsed them all. Suddenly, only this life mattered, her child’s life, and she drifted instantly and deeply into love.

Welcome, Rose, she breathed.

A pretty name, one of the midwives said. Let’s get you both into clean blankets and warmed up before the queen visits. Pulled from her reverie into the gray Founder-made world, Catling sighed and let the women finish their duties. One of them left the room to advise the queen of Rose’s birth.

Only once had Lelaine offered to inquire about the herbs to terminate the budding life, and for a week, Catling had considered it. Her emotions had lain in shambles, the arc of her life tangled beyond her control. Algar’s abuse had twisted a knot in her belly that had left her physically sick as if he’d poisoned her very core.

Yet, even then, Lelaine’s motive hadn’t been concern for Catling’s welfare. She thought of the realm, duty, a monarch’s responsibilities. It was a role she bound around her skin like a fur cloak, trimmed with enthusiasm and scarcely a shred of empathy. The suggestion had left Catling wary, and Gannon had counseled caution despite his relationship with the queen, advice Catling appreciated.

The midwife swaddled the infant and cozied her in Catling’s arms. I’ll send a wet nurse shortly.

I plan to nurse her myself, Catling replied. A vision of Zadie’s sweet intimacy with Daisy and then Gussy danced in her eyes.

Oh no, dear, the woman tutted, her tight smile compounding the regret in her eyes. I understand your wish, but Lelaine-Elan said absolutely not. She needs you available at a moment’s notice and without constraints on your time.

Lelaine has no right to decide this matter, Catling said, the command pricking her. She doesn’t rule over my child.

The midwife sat on the edge of the bed and patted Catling’s arm, her voice a whisper, Choose your won’ts and can’ts with care, my dear, and consider the implications before you plant your feet and resist her. If you fulfill your obligations without question, the queen will have no reason to interfere with your daughter’s life.

Catling stared at her. Were the last words intentionally ominous? A warning or a threat? What are you suggesting?

The door to the room opened, and Lelaine tiptoed in, her blond ringlets framing her smile. The midwife stood and bowed, retreating from the bedside. Lelaine assumed the vacated place, curious blue eyes seeking the infant cuddled in Catling’s arms. How lovely, Catling. May I see her?

Would you like to hold her?

May I?

Catling offered the bundle. Her name is Rose.

Lelaine cradled the baby and cooed. She’ll receive wonderful care, Catling. The best in Elan-Sia.

I plan to care for her myself.

Of course. Lelaine smiled and stroked the baby’s cheek, all her attention focused on the small face. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your obligations, you may do whatever pleases you. She’s your daughter.

Catling watched the queen enjoy the newborn, the woman oblivious to the barb she’d so innocently thrown.

Shall I send in the wet nurse? the midwife asked from the door.

Yes, certainly, Lelaine replied, handing the baby back and rising from the bed. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ve canceled all visitors for a few days so you might enjoy your baby.

The woman at the door paused. Catling choked on her words and nodded.

***

All three moons glimmered on the Fangwold’s porcelain world, the mountains’ teeth biting against the sable sky. A rare night, the serrated peaks rose stark and untainted by the season’s snow-laden clouds. Wind swept down the sheer slopes in a bitter gale, and the snow beneath Whitt’s feet squeaked. He clutched his cloak closed, frosty fingers tucked into the folds as he crossed from the barracks to Guardian’s citadel and the commander’s quarters.

The deep cold would guarantee short patrols. Whitt nodded to the miserable wretches on duty as they crunched through the moonlit crust, hunched down in their cowls and swaddled in layers of fur like crag bears. An invasion over the pass was possible but highly unlikely. Come Winterchill, frostbite became a fiercer enemy than the Farlanders.

He greeted two guardians at the citadel door and entered the stone foyer, relishing his release from the relentless wind. Lanterns hung on chains from the wood ceiling, casting a fiery glow on the granite expanse. Benches lined the walls below the arrow slits overlooking Guardian’s icy grounds and snow-capped outbuildings. The fortress was the only city in Ellegeance constructed by man.

The tap of his heels echoed down the corridors, the rhythm altered by a slight limp, the result of fighting with a broken ankle in Nor Bis. The usual bustle in the citadel surrendered to the soft hush of random conversation since the Brightest Night celebration had commenced in the cavernous dining hall. His next stop once the commander freed him.

He knuckled Jagur’s door and waited.

Come in, Whitt.

Whitt scraped the door shut behind him to prevent the trapped heat from escaping. Despite the lively fire burning in the stone hearth, ferns of frost iced the window. The commander sat behind his desk, reading a missive with a pair of round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, a recent addition the big man hadn’t stopped grumbling about. More gray streaked his trimmed beard, and Whitt couldn’t help but conclude that the war between the tiers had aged him. You wanted to see me?

Have a seat. The commander tossed the letter onto his desk and picked up his pipe. I’ve found myself a new page with duties commencing in the morning. Figured you’d be happy about that since you’re the oldest page in the realm.

Whitt stifled an urge to say it was about time, even though he’d advanced beyond the duties of a page several years ago. I’ll miss working by your side, Commander.

I’d have kept you on until you were an old wart, but Tavor’s grousing that you’re due for a promotion, and he nags like a mule with a burr in his tail. So this is it, Lieutenant. He presented Whitt with the lapis crescent signifying his rank.

Lieutenant?

That’s what I said, isn’t it?

Yes, Sir.

Then that’s what I meant.

Whitt accepted the badge. Thank you. I’ll make you proud.

Make yourself proud, Whitt. You’re the one who has to live with you. Jagur leaned forward and packed his pipe with oily leaves. I’m sending you south to Tor as soon as the pass is open.

To the Far Wolds? Whitt blinked at him, the delight at his promotion taking a sudden turn. He hadn’t expected a post outside Guardian, the place he’d come to know as home. He’d never stepped foot in the southern territories.

Do you realize that you question everything I say? Jagur arched an eyebrow. Going forward, I’ll pretend you understood and move on. Suit you?

Whitt cracked a smile. Sorry, Sir.

Now, toss a log on that fire. I’d order my page to do it, but he’s not here.

His badge in his pocket, Whitt fed the fire. The commander lit his pipe and puffed until the fragrant smoke wreathed his head like a storm cloud.

Yes, the Far Wolds. Jagur tapped the papers littering his desk. Guardian has forty warriors between the three settlements. They’re supposed to keep a damper on hard feelings, and all they seem capable of doing is sending letters griping about the weather. Despite the regal wishes of our fledgling queen, the trouble isn’t simply evaporating.

The commander raised an eyebrow. The high wards control the inner cities, which wouldn’t be a problem if they kept their ambitions and guards inside their gates. To their thinking, our treaties amount to a list of friendly suggestions. The high wards want control of the outer cities too, and it isn’t going over well among the natives.

None of that’s new information, Sir. Whitt had aired his opinions regarding clashes between Ellegeans and Farlanders for a decade, and if tensions were heating up, it didn’t surprise him in the least. For all our talk about law and justice, we do a poor job of it. What choice do the clans have but to resist us? What would we do were the situation reversed? They want to stay in their homes, and we want them out.

I’m aware of that, and it sums up the problem. This pending catastrophe has brewed long enough, and hoping everyone will tire of fighting and get used to each other isn’t a plan. When the restraints on reason snap, who will the queen send in to sweep up the mess? Guardian, that’s who. Our oath is to Ellegeance, and in my mind, keeping the peace in our territories applies. Especially if it means Ellegeance doesn’t end up in another unnecessary war.

I concur, Sir.

I’m glad to hear it because you don’t have a choice. Jagur puffed on his pipe. I’m sending Tavor along, and Cale, naturally, since the two are joined at the lips.

Whitt smiled at the description. What’s my mission?

Find out what’s going on down there and bring back solutions that both parties will accept and the queen will enact. Those are your short-term orders. Once we get the queen off her royal duff, you’ll be stationed there with a modest command, implementing whatever it is we’ve agreed to.

For how long?

For as long as it takes. The commander eyed him. You have other plans?

Whitt inhaled and let out a sigh. He had tried to bring Catling to Guardian, but the queen had refused to release her from her vow. Since he was a scrawny runt of a boy, his childhood chum had never strayed far from his thoughts. Part of him still clung to the promise of innocent love and the warmth of old friendship. Yet, Brightest Night had arrived, and she probably cared for a baby now. She was a prisoner of duty more than he, and they resided at the realm’s opposite ends. Perhaps the time had arrived to move on. No, Sir. No plans.

Jagur held the pipe aside while he studied Whitt. You did your noblest with her and for her. Influencers are a complicated lot, and Catling is more complicated than most. A woman who can sway your reason and emotion on a whim is inherently dangerous. They swear they won’t, but what woman could resist giving her man a subtle nudge in the right direction? She has a life in Elan-Sia, a decent one. It’s time for you to think about the same.

I’ve wanted to do something for the Farlanders for years, Whitt replied. It would be an honor.

You’re not doing it for them; you’re doing it for Ellegeance. If it happens to benefit the clans at the same time, all the better. Jagur sucked on his pipe and frowned, the fire out. Go on. It’s Brightest Night, and come spring you’re headed somewhere even colder. Enjoy yourself.

Yes, Sir. Thank you for everything, Commander.

Jagur pointed the stem of his pipe toward the door, and Whitt took the cue. The commander was part cranky old man, part father, and part genius when it came to knowing what Whitt needed. Maybe he acted that way with all the men, but Whitt took it personally. Jagur had surely saved his life.

He reversed his direction down the stairs and through the citadel’s chilly corridors. A promotion, a trip south, an eventual command. Even if it were a small one, it would be an important one. This is why he’d come to Guardian, to be part of something larger, something that could make a difference. He wouldn’t offer any solution that didn’t also benefit the clansmen. He owed as much to Sim, to her dead family and his dead friends.

He yanked his cowl over his head and held his cloak closed before stepping into the wind. The two half-frozen guards grinned and saluted. Whitt chuckled and returned the gesture, gripping the warriors’ inked dagger on his forearm. Apparently, he was the last to know about his elevation in rank.

He trod through the snow toward the dining hall, its slit windows awash with light, and paused for a view of the moons. The pink giant Sogul shone in the northern sky, blue Misanda to her left, racing for the horizon, yellow Clio high overhead. Guardian spanned the notch in the mountains. Below him, terraced fields and rough terrain descended along the South River, joining the Slipsilver and wending northward to Elan-Sia and the sea. Was Catling gazing up at the same moons? Thinking of him? Did it matter?

His eyes closed, he sent her a lonesome farewell. Be safe, my love. I hope happiness finds you.

Chapter Two

Once the party emerged from the cleft between the peaks, tall cairns guided Whitt across the barren terrain of the Fangwold pass. Behind him, his companions’ steeds plodded along in single file. Knee-high snow, crusty with grit, blanketed the rough track. It would have swallowed the thick-boned horses if the ceaseless winds didn’t blast it from the treeless rock.

The ride down the far side proved easier than the ride up but only by fractions. At the lower elevation, the air began to warm, and water trickled as the Far Wolds’ frost-laced world melted beneath the Springseed sun. In the foothills, the Whiprill’s headwaters sluiced alongside the trail in a tumbling cascade. The whitewater spilled into a man-made reservoir held in place by a timber dam, a new addition and source of contention between Ellegeans and Farlanders.

There it is. Whitt glanced over his shoulder at Tavor and Cale. He pointed beyond the blue lake to the valley. The largest of three Ellegean settlements in the south, Tor enjoyed its central location beneath the pass. Outlyer lay to the east and Falcyn to the west. Unlike the Founder-made cities of the north, the settlements weren’t limited to a single structure of towering tiers. Man-built, they sprawled across the countryside without constraint.

From the height, Whitt garnered a view of the design and expanse. The original settlement comprised a third of the city, the stone structures and its precise grid of streets enclosed within a gated barrier. Before the Far Wolds War, the settlers had relied on a stockade wall. They’d replaced it with stone over the past decade, enlarging its area. According to reports, with rare exception, only Ellegeans with guild status lived and worked within the inner city.

Beyond the gates, the outer city rambled, covering twice the territory with a maze of twisting roads. A smog of wood smoke rose from a hundred chimneys, and except for an area southwest of the city, the surrounding land had been denuded of trees.

Twilight glimmered in the east before they reached the outer fringe of buildings, and locating the bricked quarters of Guardian’s warriors took the remaining hour before dark. They stabled their mounts and carried their gear into the two-story dwelling by the light of two moons, Misanda nowhere in sight.

A knock on the door brought a tall guardian with a furry face and a hook nose to rival Tavor’s. He eyed them beneath bushy brows that met in the middle of his forehead. Tavor, Whitt, and Cale is my guess. We heard by bird to expect you. Enter at your will.

I’m Whitt. Whitt edged into the warm hearth, followed by Cale and Tavor who introduced themselves.

Lodan, out of Kar-Aminia originally. I’ll show you to your room and heat up some mess. Stirred up a decent stew this morning.

The room was a bunkroom with six beds, four available. Not much privacy. Lodan shrugged at Cale. We moved the worst of us into the other room. Your other option is renting a place at an inn.

This will do, Cale said. I sleep in my armor anyway.

With her knives, Tavor added.

I’ll spread the word. Lodan chuckled and led them back to the hearth where he set a cauldron above a low fire. We have twenty of us in Tor. I’m on home duty, half are patrolling, and the rest are getting spiked at the Hangman’s Hound. A good place to mingle with the Farlanders if that’s your preference.

Twenty isn’t many. Whitt took a seat at the table, and Cale and Tavor slid onto a bench.

Ten each in Falcyn and Outlyer, Lodan said. Useless, if you ask me. We need thirty more boots in Tor alone if we’re going to manage this fiasco. I send reports to the commander saying the place is skunked, and I get three, pardon the griping.

The queen doesn’t listen to him, Whitt said, defending Jagur. That’s why we’re here. To layer another set of opinions on top of yours and report back.

Lodan raised his eyebrows. You got that kind of clout with the queen, I’m charmed to know you. We keep some cold tipple on the sill if you’re thirsty.

Sounds good to me. Tavor rested his forearms on the table. What’s High Ward Antoris say about the unrest here?

The man’s a mean old piff. Lodan poured tipple into four cups. And as ambitious as a king’s bastard. He keeps his justices twisting the law into knots whenever it serves him. You’d think they wag two tongues the way they talk out of both sides of their mouths.

The city guards? Tavor asked.

Most aren’t bad, but they aren’t the sharpest blades in the belt either. They follow orders, a dandy thing if the orders are worth following. Captain Pike’s in charge but doesn’t give a solid shit about anyone but himself. He doesn’t question, doesn’t care, and does as he’s told.

A coward. Cale tipped back her cup.

Worse. Lodan scooped out the stew. The man has no heart. He’d tramp on the body of his own mother if it kept his boots clean. Antoris demands unlimited territory, the justices reinterpret the law, and Pike sees it done.

What have you tried? Whitt asked, suspecting the worst.

Every trick up our sleeves. Lodan narrowed his eyes. We can’t be everywhere, and we’re outnumbered. And if we stir up too much trouble, there’s a good chance one of us will end up eating mud.

***

Mid-Springseed, Whitt bent over a gaming table at the Hangman’s Hound. His third cup of spike dulled his skills, assuming he boasted any to begin with. The tavern teetered outside the city walls, frequented by Tor’s laborers, thieves, and whores, Guardian warriors, and tall Farlanders. Cale and Tavor, his bald head shining in the lamplight, lounged at the next table, gambling for copper with a pair of bearded timbermen.

Shafter made a nonsensical move, and Whitt sipped on a tepid cup of spike, ruminating over the board. The tavern smelled of rank bodies, stale tipple, and frying fat. The noise echoed between his ears, making it hard to think. He was losing the game, his army disconnected and vulnerable on the flanks. He’d advanced the wooden pieces forward in the middle, and Shafter circled, nearly decapitating his force. The vanguard was safe but ineffectual. His next move would save one of his flanks but sacrifice the other. He could take his pick.

Across from him, Shafter grinned, his ice-green eyes gleeful slits, his flaxen hair in a long braid. The runic scars on his face and cuts in his pointed ears gave him a brutal aspect. Bigger than Whitt by half, the clansman held his drink better too. Bad choices, Ellegean.

Gracious of you to say so. Whitt rolled a wooden die and moved a warrior to the fortress gate, out of range of Shafter’s bowman. I don’t know how you do it. Th isgame has too many variables. I can’t look far enough ahead to avoid the traps.

Shafter reached across the table and tapped two of his three long fingers on Whitt’s forehead. Need to think like a Farlander. Instead of attacking Whitt’s warriors, he used his turn to rearrange the river, bringing the jagged course closer to the fortress wall. Strategically changing the game’s landscape was a skill Whitt had yet to grasp. Shafter sat back and downed his tipple. Don’t look here and there, at this opening and that challenge. Free your eyes and see the whole board as one dance.

The shift of the river changed the entire game. What was left of Whitt’s strategy collapsed, and he blinked like a drunkard without a sentient thought. I’m never going to learn this game. It’s hopeless.

I will conquer you in two moves, Shafter informed him.

Whitt sighed and glared at the board. Too tired to figure it out, he randomly moved the trees into the middle of the lake. He bobbed his eyebrows and quirked a smile. Let Shafter reason that one through.

The noise level increased as Cale polished off a bawdy jest and the timbermen broke into roaring laughter. They raised their empty mugs for refills. The tavern door swung open, slapping a tray from a serving woman’s hands. The smashing crockery added to the general chaos, topped by the barkeep’s cursing.

Raven, Shafter said. Her name alone speaks trouble.

Whitt peered up from his doomed game. The offender, a tall Farlander woman with her telltale milky hair, scanned the room and made straight for his table. Shafter rose at her approach. She stepped close, lips to his ear, her voice lowered to a breathy whisper, You must come with me.

Shafter’s eyes thinned. Where is Sim?

The woman regarded Whitt and his Guardian greens, the lieutenant’s crescent stitched to his shoulder. He returned the attention and awaited her reply.

Raven, Shafter ordered. Where is Sim?

Her gaze switched to the scarred man. They force her to the gate.

Shafter reached for his hilt, and Whitt bolted from his seat, his body blocking the path to the door. Who forces her?

Raven sneered, Who do you think, Ellegean?

Why? What did she do? Why did they arrest her?

You ask too many questions. The woman beckoned to Shafter. We must hurry.

Whitt raised his palms. If she didn’t kill someone, I can help her.

Tell him. The runes on Shafter’s forehead deepened. Answer his question.

You want to know why? She held her three-fingered hand to Whitt’s face. Because she is native, and that is crime enough.

Whitt gave up and turned to his friend. Guardian holds authority outside the gate. Let us handle it.

No. Sim is my burden. Shafter steeled his jaw. I must go with you.

You’re right. She is and I understand, but it’s better if Guardian goes alone. I’ll help her. Trust me. I’ll bring her home. He grabbed his staff from the wall and called to Tavor and Cale. Your game’s over. We have work to do. The two guardians gawped at each other as if contemplating whether it was worth their bother. They rose from their seats. Shafter shared a reluctant nod, and Whitt swung to Raven. Which gate?

North.

What did she do?

Raven glared. She was born.

Whitt gave up and faced his friend. I’ll bring her to the camp. He dropped a half silver on the table and jerked his head toward the scowling serving woman and her tray of broken crockery. That will cover us and her. Turning on his heel, he dodged Raven and darted between the tables for the door.

The fresh air cleared his head, still cold this far south, even in mid-season. Tavor and Cale showed up beside him, slightly off balance, and Whitt frowned. We’re not fighting. We’re claiming authority and taking Sim off their hands. Are you up to this?

Tavor belched. Just don’t expect much more than that.

We’ll look dangerous, Cale said, raking back her short curls.

Fine. Follow me. He loped north through the dirt lanes avoiding the abundant mud from weeks of rain. Blue Misanda smiled at her rare dominance in the starlit sky. Darkest Night neared when she too would hide over the horizon.

He’d scarcely learned his way through the labyrinth of Tor’s outer city, the roads riddled with alleyways and dead ends, more tangled than they appeared from the foothills. If guards escorted Sim to the inner city, she was under arrest and had likely provoked it, no matter Raven’s claims.

Within sight of the gate, he slowed, his ankle bothering him when he ran. He pushed aside the corner of his short cloak, revealing his rank, and patted the belt draped at his hip, his knife and short sword reassuring. A step to his rear, Tavor and Cale flanked him with a scowling seriousness that bordered on impressive. Five city guards idled near the wicket. Not far from them, an iron cage housed a crag bear. Though modest in size, the tawny creature weighed as much as three men, and it plodded in endless circles. Whether displayed as a curiosity or warning, the bear’s captivity struck Whitt as cruel and soured his mood.

He swallowed his distaste and dipped his chin, My respects.

Respects, the guards mumbled in odd unison.

We’re seeking a Farlander woman. She’s being escorted to this gate. Have they gone through?

One of the guards chewed on a fingernail and shook his head. Nothing yet.

Whitt beckoned to his companions and lowered his voice, Tavor, keep an eye on those five. Cale and I will deal with the escort. Let’s see if we can do this without creating a spectacle.

Fine by us. Tavor bobbed his eyebrows at Cale. We left a game half-played at the Hound.

I doubt we’ll wait long. Whitt paced, grinding the end of his staff into the dirt with each step. The sound of the advancing party turned the corner before their bodies. Whitt paused, and Cale joined him, her own staff planted like a sentry.

Four guards strode up the lane with a tall woman in their midst, her hands secured behind her. One man held a long knife to her back, while another gripped her stick, prepared to use it. The guards were soaked and splattered with mud as if the rutted puddles had leapt up and embraced them. A muttering guard bled from a gash in his forehead.

Whitt had seen Sim twice since his arrival, and neither time for more than a fleeting encounter. She was pure Farlander—her pearl-white hair cut short and tucked behind her tapered ears, eyes pale emeralds, and her gift remarkable. He’d seen her plant a stick in the ground and grow a tree before his disbelieving eyes.

She smiled as Whitt intercepted her captors. "I’m Whitt, Lieutenant with the Warriors’ Guild stationed in Tor. I’m here to assume custody of the prisoner and return her to the