Letting the curtain fall back in place, she went to the plush bed. Blain Kirke had put her in one of the nicest rooms, and she looked at the soft, stuffed mattress longingly. She stared at herself in the mirror at the foot of the bed. At least she looked like herself again, instead of the mud-spattered waif who had wandered in hours earlier.
Moving back to the window, she parted the curtain again, glancing for signs of anyone in the alley beyond. There had been no word all afternoon. Nothing from Allavin. Nothing from Sturnin, though she expected he had been put away quietly. Not even the city guard had come by the Wee Kirke. That made her worry even more, but it also gave her direction. She wasn’t a threat to their plans. Anger boiled inside of her. Not a threat? She’d lived in Sol long enough to know how a city garrison worked. There would be a guard change not long after dusk. That was when they moved prisoners to the main jail. If anyone had been captured at the gate, they would be brought there then. And the only way to find that out would be to watch and follow. Ticastasy was good at both.
Finding the street empty, she tugged at the metal window brace. It unfastened with a faint creak, and she pushed the window open. The chilled night air blew past her cheeks and she inhaled through her nose. Stuffing the small iron room key deeper into her pockets, she hopped up on the sill and slid her legs over the edge. She jumped the little distance from the corner of the roof to the ground and scanned each end of the street. It was empty. Lifting the hood of her cloak over her hair, she walked to the rear of the inn.
Landmoor was quiet, except for the fragments of song that drifted by on the breeze. Would they be drinking themselves into oblivion if they knew an army camped a few miles into the forest? The smooth cobblestone felt hard compared with the soft dirt and grass she had trampled walking through the fog. She shook her head, remembering the day Quickfellow had come.
The day her life had gone upside-down.
After reaching the end of the inn, she turned and hurried until she found the northern wall of the city. It was huge and towering, and she brushed her hand against the cool stone. She followed the wall to the west, hidden in a slice of its shadow. Her keen ears picked out the steady footsteps of the soldiers patrolling the top of it.
She walked slowly, avoiding the tall patches of weeds that popped through the edge of cobbles. She was not sure how well the sentries could hear and didn’t want to risk the stalks whisking against her boots. A few buildings sagged against the wall and she had to skirt around them, but she kept going west until she reached the huge northern gatehouse. Wisps of mist crept from the south streets, and she quickened her step. The Valairus fog would help her hide, but she hoped she didn’t get lost in it. Mist thickened around her, roaming the gutters first, swirling around her ankles until it was part of her. Those from the Shoreland were intimate with it. She greeted it like a friend.
She reached the junction of the north gate. Tugging her cloak close, she stood at the crossroads of the gatehouse and watched. Torches glared from the wall sconces. The portcullis was still closed, and so were the inner doors. The fortress was clamped shut, just as it happened in Sol every night.
Ticastasy waited, shivering in the night air. Before an hour had passed, she saw the barrack doors open in the rear. In the light of the doorframe, she saw the same Bandit officer glance outside and then motion for the guards. Emerging from within, she watched twelve soldiers wearing the colors of Dos-Aralon escort Sturnin Goff away. His armor had been stripped from him and he wore a stained tunic and trousers. His hands were locked together in irons, and chains around his ankles dragged and scraped against the stone. There was a determined and angry look in his eyes, but he followed in the midst of the soldiers and disappeared down a street to the west.