Shadowborn by Alison Sinclair Page A

mistakes teaching, he’d more than once nearly been shot by one of his own people before he’d learned not to pad noiselessly up behind them.
    They seemed good, steady. Mycene’s men, too, though most were wary of him, and a couple hostile. One of the hostile ones was a bordersman—by the accent, down toward Odon’s Barrow—and one of those who handled a rifle with ease. Maybe later he would learn the story.
    Boris caught him between rooms. “Father needs you,” the youth said, breathlessly. He leaned closer. “The guards?”
    “Called off.”
    “He needs you in the cellar,” Boris whispered. “Take the east stair.”
    “Finish my circuit for me, would you? Make sure everyone has some food or drink with them, and preferably in them. You, too,” he added, when Boris gulped. “Not a good idea t’start a fight on an empty gut; just makes y’shakier. Your sisters should have told you that.”
    “Yes. But,” he blurted, “I’m not a fighter.”
    “Nor’s your father, but there’s a use for thinkers, too.” He clapped the young man lightly on his arm, knowing not to press. He’d been too terrified to eat the first few times he had gone up against Shadowborn. And he had been even less a fighter than Boris when he had been cast out into the world. No village or town guard would take him, so it was Shadowhunting or banditry. “Go and check on your people.”
    “Ishmael,” the young man said desperately, “the Shadowborn are less than three miles away. What do I say if someone asks?”
    “Tell them the truth. Morale is one thing, trust another. What you do and say affects their trust in your family. So tell th’truth. That goes double if you’ve heard something about one of their families. Swap in one of the loaders if they’re shaky; let them go with no reproaches.” He paused. “You’ll do well. Y’come of good stock, and you’ve solid people around you. They know what t’do. Your part is mostly to steady them.”
    The east stair, Stranhorne had said, which meant hurrying without appearing to hurry the length of the southern corridor, and down five flights into the cellar. It also meant that he encountered only two or three people on the stairs, since most of the movement was up and down the western and central staircases. Only the southeast portion of that wall had sniper cover; the northeast was walled, with a watchtower on that wall guarded by a squad of men. A squad because they had no means of retreat.
    One of Stranhorne’s men unlocked and opened the door at his knock, and led him through the cellars to where the baron and a knot of men stood around a pyramid of boxes of munitions. Stranhorne stepped quickly away from the pyramid, moving to block Ishmael’s sonn—but not before Ishmael had recognized the detonators attached to one of the boxes.
    Stranhorne took his arm and turned him toward a wall. “I’ll trouble you to tell me,” he said in a low voice, “what was the first thing I asked of you?”
    Identity check, thought Ishmael: Stranhorne or Laurel, or both, had been thinking ahead. “That I never discuss or engage in my unnatural practice within your halls.”
    Stranhorne released Ish’s arm with obvious relief and waited. Aside from the damp cold of the cellars, Ish sensed nothing foul or chill around him. He shook his head slightly. Interpreting the gesture, Stranhorne said, “We need to think about what happens if they force an entry.”
    “Y’already are,” he noted.
    Stranhorne gave a grim smile. “You tell me: how strong would a mage have to be to survive this many tons of stone dropped on him?”
    For a moment Ishmael felt like that queasy and terrified seventeen-year-old facing his first fight. “I don’t know,” he said. “If taken by surprise—” The Shadowborn that he and Lady Telmaine had faced together had been strong enough to ensorcell an entire household, and more than Telmaine could hold for more than a minute or so—but that minute or so had