Wisteria wondered if she ought to have blown the whistle twice rather than meekly step into this little boat. For that matter, she would have given much to know if anyone had been able to follow her this far. She did not look around, because she did not want her captors to think she expected help.

On the one hand, other than having her hands bound and an uncomfortable ride under a smelly tarp, she was fine. A jolly boat like this one could not navigate open seas, so they must be rowing for some other dock, cave, or boathouse, or a ship anchored out in the harbor. That last would have alarmed her more had the tide not been coming in and a strong wind not blowing from the northeast. No ship could attempt to sail until the tide went out this evening, and even then the harbor would be inescapable until the wind changed. If she had been followed this far, it should be easy enough for them to see where she’d been taken.

And if she wasn’t being followed any more, blowing repeatedly on the whistle would not make a difference anyway.

Moreover, she thought, there’s no sensible reason for them to go to all the trouble to kidnap me specifically if all they want is human cargo to haul to some distant corner of Paradise where slavery is legal. My parents would pay orders of magnitude more for me in ransom than any stranger would for possession.

What bothered her more – and this had not struck her until they reached the wharf – was that Lord Nikola arguably would fetch more money from some unscrupulous foreign power than from his own impoverished family. “May we talk about something?” she asked.

“Yer in no position to be askin’ any questions, sweetheart,” the burly Crit said.

“It doesn’t have to be about all of this, I just find this silence unnerving. Did you feel the Blessing of Newlant last night?” Wisteria said, more or less at random.

“Shut it, sweetheart.”

Wisteria sniffled and dabbed at her eyes, and Red said, “Give the poor girl a break, Crit. ’Course we felt it, miss.”

Wisteria wished she knew how to look grateful. Maybe I should use lavender more often. No one ever takes pity on my distress normally. “It’s my favorite part of Ascension,” she said, looking to Red. “That sense of the Savior’s presence. Lord Nikola was part of it, did you know? He was at the Palace to help with the Blessing. He looked so radiant afterwards.” She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish here: perhaps to make some kind of human connection with the men, to make herself and Lord Nikola people in their eyes and not just inconveniently animate objects.

“Huh. Guess he would be,” Red said. “Being Blessed and all.”

Crit snorted. “Yeah, well, if he’d use that Blessing a li’l more we’d be done with this by now.”

Wisteria turned to him, perplexed. “Whatever do you mean? He uses his Blessing more than any other Blessed I know of. He scarcely does anything else.”

Crit didn’t answer her. The boat was silent for a moment except for the sound of the oars being pulled by the four men. At length, Red said, “What’s that about, Crit?”

“Shut it, Red.”

“Are you taking him to treat someone?” Wisteria asked. “Why not just petition?”

“Hah! I hate to break it to you, girlie, but yer sweetie ain’t as generous an’ all-givin’ as ya think he is.”

Wisteria wondered why he was responding to her and not his own fellow. She chose her next words with care. “You know that no Blessed can cure every ailment, do you not?”

Another snort. “I know that’s what they want you to think.”

“Sir?”

“Le’s jus’ say that everyone knows yer ailment’s a lot more treatable if yer rich and talk fancy and got a ‘Lord’ afore yer name. Code or no Code.”

“I’ve heard that’s the case with some Blessed, but it’s not true of Lord Nikola,” Wisteria said.

“Got ya wrapped around his finger, does he? Jus’ cause he’s a smooth talker don’ make ’im a good man, girlie.”

“No, I mean that I’ve done statistical analysis of his caseload. His treatment rates are not affected by—” Wisteria paused to sneeze, wishing her handkerchief were less sodden at this point and not about to ask her captors for a fresh one, or even to try to exchange it for one of her others. After blowing her nose, she finished with, “the perceived ability of the injured to pay.”

A couple of men paused at their oars to look at her. Red asked, “How’s that?”

Wisteria started to explain. “I’ve had third-party observers take note of his petitioners and compared their demographics to those of the surrounding area. Their socio-economic status does not—”

Crit shifted to grab her face with one thick-fingered hand and squeezed her cheeks between thumb on one side and fingers on the other, palm over her mouth. “Which that’s enough outta ya, girlie. Keep it shut or I’ll gag you. And same for you, Red! Just row.”

---

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Nik’s fingers were on fire while the rest of his body was cold, damp, bruised and soiled. His mouth tasted of vomit and the corners were raw from the gag. His throat ached from his muffled screaming earlier. Being alone was better than Brogan ripping off his three remaining fingernails, but not a lot better. Tied to the chair in the now-empty cabin, there was nothing to do or think about except for his pain and discomfort, and imagine what Brogan would do next. Sleep was impossible, kept at bay by the burning pain in his hands.

He didn’t believe that Brogan could capture Miss Vasilver. She wouldn’t be wandering alone outside at night, or even during the daytime: she was a gentlewoman, she’d always have an attendant.

An attendant who could be overpowered, granted, but by now someone would have noticed he was missing. Once they realized he’d been kidnapped, Miss Vasilver would take special precautions to ensure her own safety. She was a practical, sensible individual, unlike him. She’d be fine. He believed that. He had to believe that. There was nothing else he could do.

Even if I could get free, there’s no where I could go. I’m trapped on a ship in the middle of the harbor. Assuming they haven’t sailed yet. What am I going to do, steal a six-man boat and row myself back? Alone, with my hands like this? Or swim? He didn’t want to think about how salt water would feel on his hands. I’d freeze to death or drown first.

Death…

…if I could get free, I could kill myself.

He’d sworn to the Savior long ago not to kill himself. But the Savior was gone now, and Nik did not dare reach for him again. Everything in him drew back from even the thought, from that awful storm of emotion, from the horror of what he’d provoked his own god to do. I never felt him angry before. I did not think him capable of anger. What have I done?

Death would be better. An end to the torture. If he were dead, Brogan could not use him as an excuse to hurt anyone else, either. Nik tested his bonds, flexing and tugging at unyielding cords. He didn’t try to use brute strength; he had little left, and less endurance. He pulled, trying to rub them so they’d fray. He paused often to rest, panting and whimpering at the stabs of new pain just shifting his hands caused. But the cords did not wear, nor the knots give.

The chair, however—

The front joint on the right arm, where the arm joined the lower frame, creaked, just a little, under pressure. He focused on that part, pulling and rubbing the cords against the joint, trying to weaken it enough to break it apart. Time passed, a weary miserable interval. No one came to feed him or give him water, adding thirst and hunger to his list of miseries. I’ll die of dehydration eventually. That’s something. The chair teased him with its little creaks and groans, but did not yield.

It was light outside, perhaps after noon, when Brogan returned. Nik stopped moving then, stopped doing anything save shiver and sweat in terror. Brogan had a grim cheer about him as he went through the same preparations he’d done the night before; he took coals from the stove and put them in the pot, added the needles and pliers to heat, and set the whole on the table, too close to Nik. “Gotta get ready for our company.” Brogan grinned mirthlessly at Nikola. The captain dropped his gloved palm to rest over Nik’s damaged fingertips then, and ground down while Nik threw his head back and whined in helpless agony. “Just think how little Miss Vasilver will enjoy this visit.” He pressed harder, wriggling his hand, then left the cabin.

Nik screwed his eyes shut against tears of pain, a surge of anger rising against the horror and fear, and alongside it determination. I will not let this happen. After taking a few deep breaths, he renewed his work at loosening the arm of the chair.

§

For some minutes, Justin endured the most nerve-wracking slow-motion chase. After a couple of blocks of an initial spurt of speed, Anthser slowed to a stroll, uncertain of the exact location of the whistle (he said) and unwilling to rush to it even if he had been. “It was only one, so she doesn’t want us trying to rescue her. We have to trust her.” Then he’d hear another (single) whistle and trot in a different direction for a while before stopping and listening.

After several blocks of this, Justin convinced him to take to the rooftops where they’d have some chance of seeing what Anthser was (supposedly) hearing. “We can hang back on the rooftops. No one’s going to look up for pursuers.” Another several blocks, and Anthser was convinced the occasional whistle was coming from a covered cart. One man was pushing it and a second pulling, while a third walked alongside. They shadowed it for over a mile through the city, staying back on the rooftops. Justin caught glimpses of their target now and again with the spyglass, Anthser listening for the whistles. Whenever they lost sight of it, Justin was infuriated: “Your concern for being spotted is going to get her killed if they take her from that cart while we can’t see her, and she’s no longer able to signal us.”

As they neared the harbor, Justin had a different sickening idea: that the ruffians had taken the whistle from Wisteria when they first got to her, and stashed some complicit street urchin inside the cart while having Wisteria herself taken in a different direction. He had no idea what to do if that proved the case.

He half-expected the men to take the cart into one of the warehouses along the docks, but instead they wheeled it out onto a dock. “What are they going to do, drown her?” Justin hissed, one hand clutching at the scruff of Anthser’s neck.

“Why would they do that?” Navigating by rooftop had become difficult a few blocks earlier and they’d descended to street level, skulking along at a distance. Anthser drew out of sight behind a building for a minute when the men they were following looked around. When he risked another glimpse, the cart was abandoned on the dock and four men were rowing away in a small row boat, Wisteria’s dark-haired form seated among them. Anthser’s ears flicked back. “…crap.”

Justin tightened his grip on Anthser’s fur. “Did she whistle twice?”

“No.” He flicked his ears up again. “Once. I…uh…how do we follow that without being seen?”

Justin brought the spyglass to his eye and read the name on the stern of the small vessel: Little Lassie. If they made a run for it now – well, Anthser could swim. They could get to the boat. Not before the men could threaten Wisteria’s life. Not to mention Nikola’s. I hate this plan. Justin looked around. Like the rest of Gracehaven, or Newlant for that matter, little work was being done here on the day after Ascension, but the docks were not deserted. “We’re hiring a boat.” He pointed to a couple of men on an adjoining dock. “That way.”

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Ultimately, the Vasilvers provided three greatcats and three footmen to ride them. Justin offered the one of his greatcats that was on site, but Anthser rejected the individual as too clumsy and more likely to create trouble than solve it. Justin had not realized that greatcats could be clumsy, himself. But Anthser was the only one among them with any practical training in handling criminals and it would be folly to disregard his expertise.

Anthser did agree, to Justin’s surprise, to let Justin ride him to the site. Comfrey Manor was not far out of the way and it gave them an excuse to look as if they were going a different way from Miss Vasilver. At Anthser’s speed, it took only minutes to stop there and retrieve Justin’s finest large-game hunting bow and his dueling sword. The Vasilvers were able to provide him with a spyglass, a riding seat, and an overcoat borrowed from one of their employees in order to be a little less conspicuous than his own flashy one. The other greatcats and their riders had instructions never to get within line of sight of Miss Vasilver, because Anthser did not trust any of them not to put her or Lord Nikola in danger by doing something stupid. If Anthser saw anything that made him want them to move in, he’d roar. Otherwise, they’d be guided by Miss Vasilver’s cues. Some part of Justin, a part that wasn’t thinking find them and kill them all, rankled at taking orders from a woman and a greatcat commoner. I ought to be in charge. I ought to have a better plan.

But I don’t.

From his perch clinging to the seat on Anthser’s back, Justin could feel the tension in the greatcat’s body, a stiffness that made his gait jarring. Justin was used to the stress of competition, to giving his best performance under pressure. These stakes were far higher than any he’d ever played for before, but the same skills applied and his posture was easy in the seat, flowing with each stride and jump as Anthser navigated side streets like a wild thing, leaping onto buildings and running across rooftops. Anthser’s own competitive instincts or perhaps his training kicked in, because he lost the tense edginess that had impeded him at the start.

They were about halfway to 8th and Valence when Anthser’s ears flattened back and he doubled back.

“What?” Justin hissed. “If we forgot something it’s—”

“Whistle,” Anthser growled, jumping from a rooftop to a balcony, then bouncing to a lower one before dropping to the street.

“Once or twice?”

“Once.”

Blood and death, Justin thought, and hung on.

§

One block from Vasilver Manor, it occurred to Wisteria that it would be logical from a criminal perspective to meet her en route to the rendezvous rather than at it. So she had the whistle in her hand, concealed in a handkerchief. Her eyes were already watering from the scent of the perfume; she hated lavender. But it was good from another perspective: tears would make her look more appropriately distraught.

Perhaps even as distraught as she was. Wisteria was terrified and horrified. She kept thinking about the night before, how she’d wondered where Lord Nikola was, how she’d wanted to send a messenger to check on him but had not done so. Because it was inappropriate. Because young unmarried women did not send messages to men uninvited. What if I had? If we’d known twelve hours ago that he was missing, would we have been able to find him before now? She hated what she was doing but could think of no alternative that did not put Lord Nikola in even greater danger. No help for it.

Wisteria took an indirect path from Vasilver Manor to the meeting spot in an effort to avoid a possible ambush. Even so, she was suspicious of the bundled forms of three men with a handcart approaching behind her, and quickened her stride. It was a cold winter’s day, so hoods and scarves were not out of place – she wore a hat and scarf herself – but under the circumstances it was impossible not to be wary.

Thus, she was unsurprised when they too moved faster to draw up next to her. One of them, a stout broad-shouldered fellow, said, “Well done, sweetheart, ya spotted us. Now walk into that alley there with me and there’s no one as has ta get hurt.”

It would be just my luck to get accosted by random criminals on my way to meet specific ones, Wisteria thought, a flash of annoyance mixing with her fears. “Are you the ones holding my lord?” she asked, right before sneezing.

He took her arm and steered her to the indicated alleyway. “Yer in no position to ask questions, Miss Vasilver.”

Not random criminals, at least. She made a token resistance, lagging as she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and the whistle while she had her mouth covered. “If you’re not his abductors, you’re going to have to wait your turn, I’ve got other ruffians waiting on me.”

One of the other men pushing the cart laughed. “Hah,” the speaker said. “We got his gold-haired majesty all right. Now quit stallin’ an’ move!”

Wisteria complied. Out of sight of the street and with the cart further screening them, the man checked the pockets of her coat, took the coat from her, checked the pockets of her daysuit, found the perfume phial and took possession of it, along with her reticule. He didn’t try to take or examine her clutched handkerchief: she made a point of dabbing at her streaming eyes and nose with it during the search. She bore it, asking only about Lord Nikola. “Where is he? What do you want from us?”

He only laughed. “Dontcha worry, sweetheart, ya’ll be seein’ him soon enough. Anyone follow you?”

“No.”

“Ya tell anyone ’bout this?”

“No. Your note said not to. Have you hurt him?”

“Nothin’ that won’t mend. Least not with a little help,” he said. Wisteria felt ill.

He pinned her hands together behind her back and she felt a length of cord against them. She finally made a real protest. “Please, sir.” She glanced over her shoulder, blinking against the stream of authentic if lavender-induced tears. “Show some pity! I’ve done everything you said.”

Her interlocutor only grunted. Perhaps one of the other men had the rudiments of a conscience, because one in a too-small and tattered overcoat said, “C’mon, Crit, she’s just a girl. What’s she gonna do?”    

Crit grunted again. “Shut yer yap, Red.”

“Please.” Wisteria wriggled her hands ineffectually. “At least in front so I can still blow my own nose, sir.”

The broad-shouldered man sighed but turned her about and tied her hands before her. “Get in the cart.”

Wisteria looked at the cart. It had low walls on all four sides and no seat, like a farmer’s handcart. Or a fisherman’s, judging by the smell of the tarp over it. “What?”

“Get in,” Crit repeated, shoving her shoulder. Red pulled the tarp back.

Wisteria clambered in awkwardly, mindful of her handkerchief and whistle. “If it’s money you want, we’ll pay,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Which as we’ll get our money, sweetheart, dontcha fret. Ya’ll be on yer way with yer sweetie soon enough, there’s just one thing as we need from ’im first. Now, ya gonna be quiet or am I’s gonna gag ya?”

Wisteria closed her mouth, nodded, and lay down in the smelly cart without further objection. As soon as they were moving, she blew the whistle again. I hope this is as loud to the greatcats as they said it was. It was tempting to blow twice. Maybe with a handful of greatcats menacing them, these men would confess the location of Lord Nikola.

And maybe if there was any delay, they had accomplices who would move or kill him. I’m not in immediate danger, and they said they were taking me to him. So. The plan’s working.

…I hate this plan.

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