A Wind out of Indigo: The Winds of Halflight, #1

Ill Met by Fog

The ancient city of Finlochen may have been as damp as a frog's behind, with moss growing on every stone, streets pretending to be mountain streams, and fog that never lifted, but it was safe. Which was why Alice Standish hadn't noticed she'd been followed ever since she left the city market.

When she realized the tick tick tick that followed her through the smothering fog wasn't the plink of water dripping off eaves, she stopped and listened. The dense, clinging fog muffled most sounds, but that clicking was the sound of hobnailed boots, the kind that no one wore on these wet stone streets—not unless they wanted a broken neck. Alice's own rubber-soled shoes made no sound except for a soft squelching.

Easy now, she admonished herself. Who could follow anyone in this bedamned mist?

It was probably a newcomer stumbling around, lost in the mists. Finlochen was difficult to navigate even in the brief periods when the fog lifted. Built between two sharp mountain spurs, it was a maze of bridges, tunnels, and houses built on top of houses built on top of culverts. Even the locals got lost every now and then.

Right. Just a befuddled newcomer. She took a tighter grip on her shopping—the net bag with her dinner in one hand, the kobbie cage in the other, and the leather portfolio clamped under one elbow—and started back up the mossy steps.

The tick tick tick continued to follow her, punctuating every step she took. Not hesitant at all, it was. The sound had certainty. Confidence, even.

She climbed faster. The boots kept up.

How far was she from her rental house? It had a stout door and good locks, and if she reached it first, she could barricade herself in. If he tried to break in the door, she could climb out her attic window onto her neighbor's roof. From there, the city was hers to disappear into.

She passed a under a sodium street lamp. Its yellow glow penetrated the fog and revealed the antique shop that sold bits and pieces of pre-Silence curiosities. Alice breathed a curse. She was nowhere near her house. Whoever owned those hobnailed boots would catch her before she reached her stout, ironwood door.

But how was the owner of those hobnailed boots following her through this bedamned fog? She puzzled over it until soft chatter from the cage she carried made her huff at her own stupidity. She held up the cage and studied the pair of dwarf emerald kobbies she'd bought in the market. They sat on their perch, their tails entwined, and studied her back with bright, curious eyes. A moment of silence, then they broke into their chatter again.

Just following you two, aren't they?

She scuffled her feet and dropped both the net bag and the cage with a bit of a thump. The tiny kobbies erupted into scolding, and she said, a bit loudly for the benefit of her follower,

Just a moment, kobbies, caught my toe there. Let me pick up my dinner.

Instead of picking up her squashed pork pie or chasing the apple that bounced down the steps, she ghosted on her rubber-soled shoes toward the shop front. It was closed, but there was one of those pre-Silence statues in front of it, all smiling and fat and benign. Some old god from the stars, but she thought it wouldn't mind if she used it to escape a mugging or worse. Pulling her long skirts out of the way, she put the toe of her shoe into its raised hand and climbed up to the shop's awning.

Cold water had pooled in it, but she curled up in it anyway, letting it soak the fine wool of her skirts while keeping the leather portfolio dry. The awning sagged between its poles, but supported her.

The kobbies still chattered indignantly. She'd seen them in the market and bought them on impulse. There hadn't been much frivolity in her life, and even now she lived simply, but she'd known the moment she heard their happy chatter they would be perfect for her new house.

Her fingers closed around the portfolio with its all-important deed. She could lose her dinner, lose the kobbies, but she couldn't lose this. Property ownership was so confused after the war that it had taken an order from Ned himself to cut through the red tape and get her the deed.

The ticking stopped. The kobbies' chatter turned curious. Alice tensed. An ordinary person might exclaim in surprise at finding rare emerald kobbies abandoned in the street, but a pursuer might say...

Chirp?

A timid, questioning chirp?

Snorting with laughter at her own foolishness, she sat up. Fighting her wet skirts, which were trying to strangle her legs, she swung down from the awning. The wild kobbie, nearly a foot tall, with claws meant for climbing ironwood trees, waited for her, its ears laid forward ingratiatingly, its tail clutched in its tiny, human-like hands.

A bruised apple sat next to the cage.

Alice, moving slowly, knelt and offered the wild kobbie the apple it had returned to her. Its faceted, golden eyes brightened with hope. The scientists said the kobbies couldn't eat the fruits and vegetables humans had brought from the stars, but no one had ever told the kobbies that. Even the dwarf ones thought sesame seeds were a treat, and they never seemed to take ill.

Besides, it was supposed to be good luck to feed them.

The kobbie let go of its tail and took her offering. Holding the apple, it bowed. She bowed. It darted back into the fog, its claws ticking on the stone of the streets.

Tucking the leather portfolio back under her arm, she gathered up the kobbie cage and her dinner in its wax-paper wrapping. Her wet skirts slapped against her legs as she started back up the steps. She'd have to put it in her drying closet or the wet wool would go all mildewed.

She stifled a sigh. Finlochen did have a brief sunny season, when the wind out of the desert grew strong enough to push the dampness back, but it was a brief season, a squib of a season, not worth the spans of unpleasant dampness that flanked it.

Dreaming of her new house in Middle Mesa, warm, golden Middle Mesa where the unmoving sun was never covered by clouds, she paid no attention to the return of the hobnailed boots.

A large, solid figure loomed out of the fog. Stumbling back a step, her, "hey, look out there," died a quick death as she stared at black leather sewn with strips of wolver fur, manacles dangling from a studded belt, and worst of all, the crown branded on one stubbled cheek.

A bounty hunter. She couldn't breathe.

That her? came a rough voice from the fog, and it broke her paralysis. She turned to run, but hands like timber clamps grabbed her. She twisted and kicked, but the bounty hunter knew his business. Within seconds, she was immobilized, her wrist locked high up her back, a heavy arm braced across the nape of her neck.

Breathing fast, Alice fought against the fear that rose up like bile. She wasn't in any real danger. She been freed years ago, she could prove it, Graf Standish had no rights to her...

A second bounty hunter appeared out of the fog. Grabbing her chin, he twisted it one way, then another. He let his hand drop.

Oh aye, it's her.

He gave her an unpleasant, snaggle-toothed and stained smile. Well, little jacoby. Time for you to go home. Graf Standish wants to see you.

* * *

Paralyzed with old terrors, her brain didn't start working again until they turned onto Canker Street. The cloud of ammonia rising from the round grates set in the cobblestones stung her eyes and an injudicious whiff cleared her thoughts.

What were bounty hunters doing in Finlochen? All the jobs here were controlled by guilds, even down to the street sweepers. Any jacoby that fled here would starve to death, assuming the guildfolk didn't cheerfully turn them in for the reward.

Most jacobies, escaped slaves, knew that and ran for the dusk of the lowlands and the factories there. So Finlochen wasn't the usual hunting ground for men like this. But Graf Standish putting a bounty on her didn't make sense either. He knew better.

I'm no jacoby, she said, a bit high-pitched, but managing a fair amount of righteous anger.

The bounty hunter behind her said, Have the scar, don't you?

She did. They had ripped her coat open, pulled back her shirt and shift, and exposed her bare shoulder to the damp air of Finlochen. The old, faded brand had stretched almost all out of recognition, but it was still the sign of Standish.

And no proof of manumission, said the one in front. He stopped under a sodium streetlamp and peered up at the street sign, comparing it to a sheet of paper he carried.

No, the old Graf Standish had never given her papers. Probably because a bloody head rolling on the flagstones wasn't much for manumitting slaves.

No need for papers, said Alice. I was freed by the king's own hand. Well, the king's two hands, because Ned wielded a bastard sword in close combat. Graf Standish's heir, the current graf, had prudently decided to free the rest of his slaves and hire freedmen instead. She was fairly certain he hadn't put a bounty on her return.

Gey hard to prove, said the one behind her.

Not a bit of it, said Alice, watching how the one in front kept consulting that piece of paper. Written directions, or a map? A message to the palace is all it takes.

Then you haven't a worry, have you?

The one in front folded up the paper, and with a strong sense of someone just choosing a direction at random, lead them into a tunnel that dipped under a furniture factory. A drainage ditch ran down the center, and the hum of diamond saws and rasps biting into ironwood came through the walls.

There wasn't a city magistrate who didn't know who she was—one of the king's old companions, a member of the band that had followed him, starved with him, and fought alongside him in his long struggle to retake the throne. Any magistrate foolish enough to bind her back into slavery would be lucky to keep his head. Did the bounty hunters know that?

They emerged from the tunnel onto another flat, cobblestoned street. A high-pitched, excited bark came out of the fog, warning them just before they were run over by a timber wagon. Its massive wheels creaked by only a few feet from them, then disappeared into the fog again.

Unseen, the drayman's dog continued its serious business of warning all within the massive wagon's path. Faint barks from other wagon dogs answered.

Now she knew where they were: Timber Square, nowhere near the Magistrate's courts.

 The bounty hunter behind her thumped her shoulder. Get a move on, little jacoby. Walk nice, and we won't truss you up like a harvest ham.

She started walking again, but this time, she watched the pavement. The grooves cut into it by the timber wagons told her every time they passed one of the streets that emptied into the square. In the distance, one of the giant, diesel-powered saws started up, its whine sounding like it came from everywhere and nowhere in the fog.

They passed two streets, then three. They turned on the fourth, the cobblestones becoming wooden planks that echoed under their feet. The fog swirled more here, thinning in spots just enough to show how the wooden street jutted out from the steep side of a ravine that dripped with moisture and ferns.

Ledge Street. They weren't headed for a magistrate, they were taking her out of Finlochen. Her thoughts cooled and cleared even further. Why wasn't important any longer. She had to get away from them before they left the city, its fog, and all its splendid places to hide.

She knew just the spot to do it.

Ledge Street hugged the walls of the ravine, above a row of houses that followed the gentler slope below. About halfway along, right at where a clump of mountain laurel grew out of the hillside, there was a certain narrow, flat roof. All it would take was two steps to reach the edge of the street, a four-foot jump, and she'd be completely out of sight. If they tried to follow, the chances were they'd hit the peaked roofs on either side.

One eye on the lead bounty hunter, one eye on the ravine, she grumbled in a steady, monotonous stream about their stupidity and how a magistrate would set them right. Confident, smug in their power, they relaxed their guard and let the distance between them widen.

For a while, there was only the thud of their footsteps, the jangle of their manacles, and the tremor of her own rough breathing that she couldn't get under control.

The peaked roofs below the edge of the street gradually emerged from the whiteness. Alice frowned. Was the fog lightening?

Hear that? said the bounty hunter behind her. The old beggar's finally moving.

The old beggar? Alice stopped frowning at the grey shapes of rooftops and strained to listen. She caught a faint, rustling noise, as though a tentative wind moved among the trees at the top of the ravine.

She took a sharp breath. That noise meant only one thing: the dragon, the hot dry wind from the deserts of Day, was finally blowing. Within hours, it would banish the fog and all of Finlochen would be bathed in hot, golden light.

No. Not now.

Of all the spans she'd spent praying for dry weather, fighting the mold in her books and the damp itchiness of her clothes, it had to happen now?

She watched the thick fog swirl. Patches of translucence formed and faded. The worm, the cool, damp wind from Night that brought the fog, was old and slow, and reluctant to give up its grip.

Hang on, she told the wind from the marshes of Night. Hang on just a bit more. Don't let that dragon upstart dethrone you!

There. There was the laurel bush she'd been watching for. This was her spot, this was her chance. The fog had lightened, but there was still enough to cover her escape.

She darted to the side of the wooden street and jumped for the roof so temptingly close.

An iron bar slammed across her chest, and she was knocked backward.

Sprawled on the wooden slats of the street, she gasped for breath while the bounty hunter lowered the arm he'd used to check her. How had he moved so fast?

His partner sighed, unhooking the manacles from his belt. We warned you.

Of course, said his partner, dragging her upright, we would have found some other excuse. You see, we were told to truss you up, whether you cooperated or not. But I like to give jacobies a fighting chance, aye? He patted her shoulder in rough approval. And you took it.

What? Who wanted her in chains? She tried to ask, but the gag was the first thing that went in. Then in short order, she was shackled and tossed over a burly shoulder. Her blood pounding in her head, her stomach jolting every step, she clung to one last hope—that someone she knew would see her and get a message to Ned.

But even as the fog slowly lifted and she was carried across Finlochen, she saw no one she knew. Despairing and struggling to breathe around the shoulder jammed into her diaphragm, she finally heard a bit of hope: voices, and the clatter of horses.

Horses?

Mules were much more popular in the wet stone streets of Finlochen. Suddenly suspicious, she checked the stones of the street. Not cobblestones—the bounty hunters were hauling her across a wide plaza of granite pavers, a pale stone with shiny flecks that came straight from the quarries of Holt Farthing.

There was only one place they could be. Only one place they were taking her. One person who could order her bound, gagged, and shackled.

Suspicion became certainty, certainty turned into fury. The two bounty hunters were taking her to the palace. The king's residence. To Ned.

Of Lenses and Landless Soldiers

The Tapestry Hall was a cold, echoing, formal place, all marble and massive hangings and tall windows that showed a grand sight of High Mesa in the dry season. Now it had indigo silk tacked over the windows, casting the hall into blue-violet dimness.

Instead of highland bureaucrats hustling about, lowland courtiers glided to and fro in a languid parade. They wore dark silk that gleamed liquidly in folds and gathers and glinted with silver embroidery. Their voices were murmurs, their steps almost soundless.

Alice could feel them looking at her as the bounty hunters dragged her by, even though their gaze was sideways, sly, hidden by the men's dark spectacles and the women's veils. Transplants from the dim, thick-aired lowlands, they couldn't handle daylight, but they had all the slyness of courtiers everywhere.

The two bounty hunters dumped her on a marble bench. Still shackled and gagged, she struggled upright. They flanked her, shoulders propped against a priceless tapestry showing a fanciful map of the winds, like they were prepared to wait forever.

For what? For who? And what was the point of displaying her so prominent-like, all trussed up and humiliated? It was a message, but for who?

She shifted her shoulders, held at an awkward angle by the manacles. One of the bounty hunters said lazily, You're not going to try anything here, are you? This lot will just laugh at you.

True, but she had just spotted the bright wool of a highlander among the dark silk. It was one of Ned's accountants, one of the small army he employed to try and find what happened to the Treasury in the last days of the war.

He caught her eye. She tilted her head inquiringly. He flushed, lowered his head, and hurried on, his rubber-soled shoes slapping loudly against the marble floor.

The courtiers tittered.

So. Whatever this was about, Ned knew.

Was he behind it? She didn't think so. He was a twisty bastard who would only appear to give his word, but he was loyal to those who were loyal to him. And Alice had been with him since he was little more than a ragged bandit. He would never deliberately terrify her with bounty hunters.

That left the new queen.

His wife.

The Tapestry Hall was her territory, all those slithering, dark-clad courtiers, her people.

If she hadn't been gagged, she would have sworn long and hard, using the riper curses she'd learned following Ned on campaign. So that was what this was all about. Ned's new wife thought Alice still slept with the bedamned man and this was her way of warning her off.

She rolled her shoulders again, trying to relieve the tension from the shackles. What a fool. Admittedly the woman only been Queen of Day for three spans, not enough time to learn how things worked here, but you'd think she'd at least get the name of her rival right.

So there was the end to it. Alice would explain that she had nothing more to do with Ned, the queen, being a queen, would maybe understand—but for certain wouldn't apologize—and Alice would be on her way again. With a lot of bruises and a spoiled supper and lost emerald kobbies as her payment for a rich woman's pride.

As for Ned, she could see why he was staying clear. He needed the money and goods from Indigo too much to upset his new wife, so he'd be keeping his head down and pretending he knew nothing.

She flushed with anger but tamped it down. She'd followed Ned since she was sixteen and knew a fair amount about warfare. There would be a long wait now, designed to soften her up with a sizable dose of humiliation and discomfort—sort of a long-range attack with bombards. Then, suitably beaten down, she would be dragged before her rival and threatened unless she promised to leave Finlochen and the king forever.

Alice's mouth twitched behind the gag. Mayhap she should promise to retire to a certain rose-covered cottage in Middle Mesa, one flanked by an apple orchard and a sweetwater stream? Play it right, she might even get a travel purse out of this. She didn't have much in the way of ready money—mainly because the Summerlands were dirt poor. Ned had been grateful all she asked for was land, because that he could grant.

She'd asked for it so long ago...

* * *

The cottage was bare, looted and spoiled by the last army to come through, but the roses that climbed its walls were in bloom, their scent spilling through broken windows. Some past owner had also carved fanciful designs into the cross beam and touched them up with pretty colors. Despite the desolation, the cottage had a friendly air to it.

Ned lay on his bedroll, his arm over his eyes, his rifle and sword by his side within easy reach. Alice sat cross-legged next to him, trying to drill a hole into a tortulle shell without shattering it.

Two of the plates on Ned's breastplate had fine lines spread over them like spider webs, lucky shots by the Usurper's men. Tortulle shell could stop a bullet once, but not twice. She had to replace those two plates before he went into battle again.

Ned, she said. I have an idea.

She got a snore in answer. Giving him an exasperated look, she kicked him gently. "Ned."

With a snort and a hmmph, he pretended to wake up. What is it, pig-girl?

Pig-girl wasn't an insult when Ned said it. After all, that was how they met, Alice standing in the middle of pigs she herded for Graf Standish, Ned—the dead king's son, on the run and starving—just staring at her like he'd been hit with a pole axe.

Ned, when you're king, give me this cottage. I'd like fine to live here.

He stiffened. Lowered his arm. Fixed her with a bright, blue stare. Planning on leaving me, Alice?

She put down the tortulle shell. What was he doing, turning that look on her? She kicked him again, not so gently.

You'll leave me before I leave you, and you know it. When you do, I want this cottage.

The suspicious look faded. Why do you think I'll leave you?

She sighed and said patiently, "Because you'll be king, Ned. I'm no fool. You'll have to marry a woman with money and influence. Lots of money and influence. Mayhap a banker's daughter from Escalon, or even the Indigo King's daughter. And when you do, she won't put up with me. And I, she pointed the drill at him for emphasis, won't put up with her."

Prudently, Ned closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but she wasn't done with him.

So I want this cottage, Ned. Promise.

He didn't give promises easily, preferring to slide by and let people imagine they heard a firm commitment. But this time, his eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips, he promised.

If I ever leave you, pig-girl, you can have this cottage.

You could tell he thought it was a safe promise, that he'd never have to pay up. But in the end, just as she predicted, he left her to marry the wealthy Queen of Indigo. And she was left with her cottage.

* * *

A sharp gasp disrupted her memories. She blinked to see a small, round figure, bundled in layers of gray and black silk, staring at her. At least, Alice thought she was being stared at. It was hard to tell with all the veiling. The lowland woman could have been facing the other way.

Dreadful. Just dreadful, the bundle said, in accents a little louder, a little less refined than the other lowlanders. She whirled around, her veils flapping, and trotted off. A few minutes later, the bundle returned, this time hauling a tall graf through the crowds. A good-looking one, too, with dark hair. He was pale-skinned like all the rest, but even smoked spectacles couldn't hide a finely drawn profile that was saved from delicacy by a nose that had been broken in the past and a decided firmness to his jaw.

Like the other lowlander aristocrats, he was dressed in a dark suit, but one of simpler cut and fabric, and he wore a round-necked shirt under his jacket without the elaborate cravats the others sported.

Likely landless, Alice thought. He would have the rank, but none of the influence or money of other courtiers.

See? See? the bundle demanded. "Do something about it."

The lowland graf frowned down at Alice. Madam Macpherson, how do you know she's not a criminal?

The bundle—Madam Macpherson—blew out her veils with an explosive snort. Then she'd be taken to the old Counting House. She's obviously respectable, and while I don't know who's up to what, this is wrong.

He patted her hand where it clutched his sleeve. Let's ask her.

Without acknowledging the bounty hunters at all, he leaned over Alice and undid her gag, dropping it disdainfully on the floor with a flick of his white fingers. Alice saw that he wore a massive ruby on one finger, with an odd, sinuous shape carved into it.

He studied her. So, he asked gravely, are you dangerous?

She flushed a little at the close scrutiny, knowing what a mess she had to look with her hair falling down, battered and bruised from her struggles. This close, she could see his eyes behind the smoky lenses, and they were cool and thoughtful.

I killed a mouse t'other day. She might be manacled and flanked by bounty hunters, but she could match him, coolness for coolness.

I see no mice nearby. Can I trust you not to go on a rampage?

Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully. For now, she conceded.

His mouth quirked. Key, he told the bounty hunter.

There was something about the way he said it, flat, uninflected, but