Shadowborn by Alison Sinclair Page B

me.”
    Stranhorne arrived with his one-armed lieutenant. The scholarly baron now had armor over his shirt and a holstered revolver at his waist. His hair was untidy and matted—with blood, by the smell. He shook his head as his daughter opened her mouth. “Not mine.” She passed him a towel, pointed him in the direction of a washing basin and jug set on the side table. “Mother,” she said, firmly, family shorthand, maybe, for Mother would insist or Mother would be outraged or Mother would have hysterics. Somehow, knowing the late baronelle’s daughters, he couldn’t believe it would be the last.
    Laurel sketched in their conversation so far as her father scrubbed his arms and blotted the worst of the gore from his hair and leathers. Stranhorne said over his shoulder, “So, you’ve not lost it after all.”
    “Aye, it seems not. Though a man with a burned tongue might still taste spices, if they’re strong enough.”
    “All right.” Stranhorne turned. “We’ve fought off the first wave. And we need to take a moment to decide what else of our tactics we need to change—we obviously hadn’t thought through the implications of having Shadowborn come in force from the air. We’ve still got about four hours to sunrise. Strumheller, what’s your best guess on whether they’re liable to be active after?”
    “M’best guess, Stranhorne, depends on past experience, which has shown itself a poor guide in this.”
    “Take it nonetheless,” the baron ordered.
    “If they were once Darkborn, then they may be bound by th’Curse as we are.” We have the father of Tercelle’s children to falsify that hope, Balthasar thought, but did not say. “If they come by day, then they don’t want us—don’t want us to change or t’eat or any of th’other things they could do with our flesh. And if they come by day—it galls me t’say this—we can’t fight them. We can only hope to burrow deep t’survive.”
    Something in Ishmael’s face, something in Stranhorne’s, disturbed Balthasar. “And how likely is that?” Stranhorne said in a still voice.
    Ishmael hesitated. His voice sounded almost studiedly impersonal; unusual for him. “We might be able t’close some of us in your lower cellars, so that it’d be more trouble t’the Shadowborn t’dig them out than they’d care to take. Predators don’t waste energy and don’t put themselves at risk. They’re in our territory, enemy territory. But we’ve never had them come at us in such force before.”
    “Should we evacuate now?” Stranhorne asked. “If the message reached the Crosstracks, and the telegraph is running and the tracks are clear, a relief force should be at the Crosstracks by nightfall. They might even be there already.”
    “We’d likely lose more doing that than waiting for the relief force,” Ishmael said. “Unless we can be certain there’s some they want more than others, and that they can tell us apart, if most of us went on the road, most of th’Shadowborn would follow.”
    There was a silence. Then Laurel said, quietly, “There is one other option.”
    Her father and mentor waited. “You know what it is,” she said, “but you won’t say it yourselves. Ishmael says they have minds like men, and we’ve certainly discovered that they will exploit our weaknesses and attack our commanders. If they’re intelligent, we might be able to negotiate with them.”
    “Negotiate our surrender, you mean,” her father said, though not harshly. “Nothing we’ve met suggests it would be otherwise. They need not speak to communicate their intentions most eloquently. If I thought we’d gain anything by it, I’d swallow my gorge and negotiate, but nothing they’ve done suggests they have aught else in mind but slaughter and domination.”
    “Father,” she said, carefully, “would your answer be the same if they were not using magic?”
    He frowned, not at her but at the thoughts her question inspired. “Truthfully, I can’t