Shuthmili looked uneasy. “I am quite hungry.”
“But are you … I don’t know. Are you…”
“Have I lost control of myself? Is the Dragon of Qarsazh planning to manifest her revenge upon the mortal realm through me? Am I going to speak in tongues and yank out your viscera?” said Shuthmili. “I am not.” She spoiled the effect by shuddering, and adding, “At least, I have no conscious intention to do so. I should … I must return to Qaradoun as soon as possible. They have all kinds of tests. They can make me safe.”
“You don’t look corrupted,” said Csorwe.
“Nobody does,” said Shuthmili. A sad pause. “I suppose I’ll never make the Quincuriate now. And all my inscriptions are gone. Thousands of years, gone in a day. Such a waste.”
By now Csorwe understood far too well how it felt to lose what you had worked for. She had no idea what she could say to make Shuthmili feel better. She didn’t see how it could ever be better.
“You did your best,” said Csorwe eventually.
“I hope so,” she said. “It would be nice to think so. I would never have done as she asked, not willingly, if not for the Warden—if not for Malkhaya. It would have been more correct to let him die before giving in, but he’s always been quite kind to me. He feels sorry for me.”
“I probably ought to have left you to die as well, if we’re having regrets,” said Csorwe.
Shuthmili laughed, a raspy little cackle. She still hadn’t got up, and the effort of laughing knocked her back on the ground, into a puddle of bloody robes. “Well, it’s not too late,” she said. “By my estimate we’ve got about thirty seconds before I pass out again.”
“What?” said Csorwe.
“My lady Zinandour is generous,” said Shuthmili. “But she exacts steep interest. I went too far. Well, at this point too far is a fading dream. I am so much further than far. I am entirely gone away.” She laughed again, shaking like a branch in the wind, and lay down, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. “Goodnight, Csorwe.”
Csorwe crawled over to her, ignoring the ache in her shoulder. She pulled Shuthmili closer to the alchemical engine and turned up the heat.
Shuthmili had landed the ship on a cliff top, beyond the reach of the rising dead. Outside, the sky turned red, then black, as if pigment was seeping through the clouds. The hills lay beneath a blanket of frost, quiet at last in death.
Csorwe found blankets in the locker. She dimmed the ship’s lanterns and put a cushion under Shuthmili’s head. She lay down beside her, curled around her like one hand cupping another. At last, in the warm shadow of the engine, she slept.
12
Salvage
TALASSERES CHAROSSA HAD LIVED an interesting life with many periods of unconsciousness, but this was the first time he had been jolted back to reality by someone physically shaking him. This person was holding him by the collar of his jacket. He kicked out automatically, and felt his knee connect with some solid body. The person gave a grunt of pain, and dropped him.
Tal landed on a pile of rubble and lay there in triumph for some minutes, thinking That’s right, arsehole.
It was a large man whom Tal had never seen before. He wore a filthy yellow habit over work boots, and looked down at Tal as if he was considering leaving him to die.
“Got a live one, ma’am!” called the man.
Light footsteps on stone. An Oshaaru woman drifted over. Tal recognised her, with resignation, as the mad bitch from the bottom of the Monument. The bloody train of her dress hissed on the gravel like surf on sand, and she looked down at Tal with distant curiosity.
“Take him out to the ship,” she said.
If the fates had possessed any kind of grace or mercy when it came to Tal, he would’ve passed out. As it was, he remained conscious throughout the whole humiliating process, as the big bastard tied him up, hoisted him over his shoulder, and dropped him into the bottom of a cutter like he was the catch of the day.
He lay there, sore and uneasy, as the little ship hummed to life. His stomach dropped as it rose into the air, but he had other things to worry about before travel-sickness.
Just about any misery or discomfort was bearable if you had something else to concentrate on, and just for once it appeared that the universe had thrown him a bone. That woman had the Reliquary. Maybe just this once Csorwe hadn’t definitively ruined everything.
The bilges of the cutter were cold and full of splinters. Tal’s arms were bent behind his back at a painful angle, and he had no idea where he was being taken, but his imagination was already blossoming with warming visions.
He had always known he’d get a chance eventually. There was always a chance, if you were prepared to wait and didn’t have a lot of pride about surviving in the meantime, or leaping on that chance when it came along.
Even if—purely for example—you were a younger son who had failed out of the Tlaanthothei Academy for Boys. Even if you’d done some things you weren’t particularly proud of. You just had to survive long enough and eventually you’d get your opportunity.
Everyone in Tlaanthothe would prefer to see him fail, to preserve their view of the world and Tal’s place in it: Niranthe’s youngest, not very bright, lucky for him that he’s good-looking, lucky for him that she got him a place with Chancellor Sethennai, because I don’t see what he would have done on his own, such a shame what’s become of the Charossai these days …
None of them had been at the fortress during Olthaaros’ last years. They didn’t know anything about what Tal was capable of doing on his own. But they would know his value sooner or later.
He would get the Reliquary back, escape somehow, and return to Tlaanthothe. Csorwe would be furious. She would have assumed he was dead. Too bad for her. He would stumble back into the School of Transcendence—and Sethennai might have feared he was dead too, so maybe he’d be relieved to see him—and then Tal would hand over the Reliquary, and—
And, well. It wasn’t even gratitude he wanted. Nobody liked having to be grateful, Sethennai least of all. Tal didn’t care to put words to the magnitude of what he wanted from Sethennai, even in his head. It was pretty mortifying to concede that kind of power to anyone.
The cutter jolted, resounding once or twice against some rigid object. Tal tried to sit up and see. They were docked against a much larger ship that floated on a cushion of mist. The big man carted Tal on board, and as they passed he saw the name of the ship painted on the side, an Oshaarun word he didn’t recognise: Ejarwa.
There weren’t many people on board. The crew seemed to be limited to the big man, and a few others like him, all wearing perfunctory yellow habits over something sturdier. Tal was relieved to see that the crew were all alive, at least. He was sick of revenants; the living were easier to manage and mislead.
None of them paid any attention to Tal. The big bastard marched him down a gangway and into a long cabin with a row of bunks.
“Well, this is pretty forward of you, but all right,” he said to the man, who dropped him on one of the bunks. No response. “Hey, your boss seems like a fun character,” he said. “What’s the appeal there? You two fucking or what?”
The big man picked him up again, holding Tal face-to-face with him. He now saw that he wasn’t that old. Same age as Tal, or younger. This gigantic boy had a great hairless jaw and little mad eyes, like a potato.
Tal never took one bite of a bad idea without polishing off the whole chunk. He winked at the boy.
“You are not fit to look at the Lady Oranna,” said the boy, in a thick backcountry accent, like Csorwe when she was drunk. Then he punched Tal in the stomach.
Tal doubled up, all rational thought blotted out. When he recovered, the boy was gone and the door was locked.
There were no windows in the cabin, and nothing he could use as a weapon. His sword was gone, either confiscated or left in the dying world. The fibres of the ship were trembling with the faint vibration of an alchemical engine running at full power.
> In short, he was trapped on board a ship in flight, with only the Lady Oranna and her colossal goons for company. At twenty-three he was absolutely too old for this shit.
What would Sethennai say? Plan and consider, then act with precision. Or at least think a little before you wade in, Talasseres. If he was lucky, an affectionate smile, a seasoning of irony. Tal remembered the smile so vividly he felt like he’d been punched in the gut again.
All right. Oranna wanted the Reliquary, but she didn’t want him dead. She was keeping him alive, either for information or as a hostage. Tal would rather slash his wrists than spend any more time as anyone’s hostage, so he needed to get moving.
Once he was certain the enormous child wasn’t coming back, he wriggled over on his side and started working at the bindings on his wrists. The boy had tied him up with enthusiasm but not much expertise. He freed himself, extracted one of the emergency knives stowed in his boots, and crouched in the darkest corner of the cabin to wait, keeping himself entertained by thinking what he might say to Sethennai when he gave back the Reliquary.
Sorry to keep you waiting … Better late than never … I think this is yours? That last one was good; Sethennai would like that.
The next person through the door was Oranna, as Tal had hoped. This was his reasoning: the gods are bound to the earth. Their essence, like water, finds its way downward. In the sky, a wizard’s powers begin to fade and fail. Sethennai didn’t like to leave Tlaanthothe if he could avoid it. Olthaaros had always hated travelling by ship, even within the Siren’s domain. Also, Oranna was a necromancer, and as far as Tal could see, there weren’t any dead bodies lying around. She was less than five and a half feet tall and if she didn’t have magic, Tal was pretty sure he could take her.
She took one step into the cabin and stopped, noting the empty bunk. Tal propelled himself up out of the corner, ready to drive his knife into her belly.
The cabin surged with power, crackling in every nerve. In midair, Tal’s vision seared white. When he came back to himself, he was on his knees, with a throbbing pain in his temples and the taste of iron in his mouth.
Nobody had ever accused Tal of knowing when to stop. He was still holding the knife, so he went for her again. The same thing happened.
Oranna looked down at him through heavy-lidded eyes, disappointed but unsurprised.
“Your body is a grave, as all bodies are,” she said, in impeccable Tlaanthothei. “There is plenty of dead matter inside you. More than enough to choke on. It would be more sensible to stay on your knees.”
Tal’s bones ached as though something had sucked out the marrow. He didn’t want to do as he was told, but he couldn’t get up if he tried. Oh, fuck. This was going so wrong.
“We need to talk, Talasseres Charossa,” she said. Wizards always thought it was so novel and threatening when they could pull your full name out of thin air, as though they could do something to you with it.
“Yeah, why not,” he said. “My friends call me Tal.”
“I’m afraid we are not going to be friends,” she said. “However, I think we should be able to handle this without fuss. You’re working for Belthandros Sethennai, of course.”
“Who’s that?” said Tal.
Oranna sighed. “The only intelligence you are insulting is your own,” she said. “Who else could possibly have sent you?”
Tal shrugged.
“I do understand,” she said. “It’s a matter of pride. You don’t wish to give him up. But please understand that I do not have the time to navigate around your self-regard.”
“Got time to navigate around my dick,” said Tal.
Oranna did not dignify this with a response. She called for the potato boy, and a curly-haired acolyte, who brought a silver goblet, pouring smoke. Tal couldn’t see what was in the cup, only smell the strong, half-familiar bitterness.
The boy held Tal down and they put the cup to his lips. Tal grimaced, clamped his jaw shut, twisted his head away, to no avail. The silver rim of the cup bumped against his teeth, and the smoking liquid splashed his chin. His outrage drowned out all fear. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He refused to believe it.
“Drink,” said Oranna.
“Fuck you,” he said, which was a mistake. As soon as he opened his mouth the boy forced his jaw open and poured half the cup inside. He choked, spat, bit the boy’s fingers in fury, but it was impossible to avoid swallowing some of the mixture. Blood heat, overwhelmingly bitter.
Immediately, the world slowed. Tal felt himself falling, cut adrift from reality, swallowed up in darkness. It wrapped around him, severing mind from body, reason from will, thought from consciousness. Every particle of his being was dispersed, isolated, and analysed. And it hurt.
He was a professional. Getting kidnapped, beaten, stunned with magic, forced to drink poison, etcetera—that was nothing. This felt as though something had laid open his heart with a blade of ice and was picking over the pieces.
It took only a few seconds. Then he landed back in place. He was an empty shell, as if his innards had been prised out and eaten with lemon juice.
“As I said, you are here working for Belthandros Sethennai,” said Oranna, as if flicking through paperwork.
“Yes,” said Tal. He couldn’t help it. He felt another lurch into darkness, and the word dripped from his mouth like saliva.
“You and your accomplice intended to collect the Reliquary of Pentravesse,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Why did she attack me?”
“Csorwe? I don’t know, probably because she’s a fucking imbecile,” said Tal, grateful at least to be able to add remarks of his own volition.
For some reason, Csorwe’s name appeared to give her pause, but she shrugged it off.
“Shall we now assume that I know who you are?” she said.
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” said Tal, and winced as another flash of pain shot through him.
The servants picked Tal up and laid him down on one of the bunks. He tried to struggle, but he could only shiver. Oranna came to stand over him.
His vision stuttered and blurred. He saw now that she was holding the Reliquary. If he could move his arms he could reach out and take it from her. As if sensing his intentions, she stepped back, and it swam out of reach.
Tal clenched his jaw and tried to sit up, without success. “So—so you’re really pretty obsessed with Sethennai, aren’t you,” he said. If he could get her talking, maybe he could stop her asking too many questions.
“I found him briefly impressive,” said Oranna.
“Yeah, he’s an impressive motherfucker,” said Tal. “Let me tell you, though, if you’re doing this to me to get to him, you’re not going to get anywhere. He doesn’t know who I am half the time.”
“Credible,” said Oranna. “Belthandros is not known for his thoughtful and considerate nature. But, unlike the rest of his acquaintances, I have no interest in plumbing his psyche. How do you open the Reliquary?”
Was that what she wanted? He could almost laugh.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean get your goddamn oyster knife out and get shucking if you want but you’re not going to get anything from me. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the Reliquary.”
He ought to have known more than he did. He remembered Sethennai trying to lecture them about it, back in the day. Csorwe had paid actual attention, because she was always disgustingly keen, like a little dog that wants a bit of your kebab. But it had been a hot afternoon. Sethennai had put on some kind of rosewater scent and worn his collar unbuttoned. Tal hadn’t retained much information.
Residual tremors of power rippled through the cabin, smelling of hot metal. Tal’s eyes watered.
“You know I’m not lying,” he said. “Give me another sip of that shit if you don’t believe me.” Whatever it was, it was still working. He could still feel his secrets stirring in him, threatening to tip over.
She looked
almost disappointed in him. “You never wondered?”
“No,” said Tal. “I don’t wonder about anything unless someone’s paying me. I don’t understand him. He doesn’t tell me shit. I don’t know what it does or why he wants it. I do what he— I do my fucking job, you know. He points me at a problem and I deal with it.”
Tal had never been any good at trigonometry or rhetoric or any of the things you were supposed to be good at. He didn’t have magic, as his mother had hoped he might. But he was pretty good at creeping, lying, and stealing, and Sethennai seemed to value him for it.
“Ah,” said Oranna. “You don’t seem entirely stupid. What is it that he has offered you for this service?”
“What he’s offered me?” said Tal. He was on the verge of something, either laughter or tears, spilling out of him like pulp from a burst apple. “Nothing,” he said. “This is what I get. The work. And the money’s good,” he added. This wasn’t untrue, and a lot of people were incurious enough to take it without question, and given that Tal no longer received any kind of allowance from the Charossa treasury, it was something for which he was genuinely grateful.
“Is that so,” said Oranna, and tilted her head to look at him. “And that’s enough, is it?”
Tal became very aware of them all looking at him, not just Oranna’s gaze but the bland regard of the two servants to either side of her. This was one of those questions that Tal kept where it belonged, in an impregnable vault concealed from the light of day. But he could feel the bolts drawing back, all the grimy little corners of his soul unfolding themselves into a staircase. It was so blindly unfair. They weren’t going to learn anything from this.
“Yes,” he said, the words welling up all at once. “No. It’s fine. It’s all I’m going to get, so. It doesn’t matter if it’s not enough, and I’m happy with it, so it’s none of your business, and anyway—” Tal realised with distant, wondering horror that he couldn’t stop himself saying it. “And anyway, I love him and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
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