The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  No response. She tried again, more forcefully this time, and bit her lip when he stumbled. The woman next to him steadied him and gave Cailet a look of mute loathing. Frayed and dirty as she was, she still wore Mage insignia: a small silver Sword at one collar point and a Sparrow at the other. Cailet thanked St. Rilla for guiding her to a Mageborn, and a Warrior into the bargain. She pulled the woman’s gaze quickly down to her own cupped hands. Between them she kindled a tiny Globe.

  There was a brief gasp. Cailet banished the sphere and allowed the woman’s gaze to meet hers again. Her own heart lifted as hope sparked and took flame in the woman’s weary eyes. For emphasis, Cailet put a hand on her sword. After a moment it was recognized. Pale lips mouthed Gorynel Desse, and Cailet nodded.

  “Hurry up!” Lusira barked as the twenty shuffled into a large cell already inhabited by the dregs of Renig. “Damned thirsty walk from Longriding! Before St. Lirance’s strikes Fourteenth, I want half a barrel of wine down my gullet!”

  “With a well-hung lad to follow!” Cailet called out, winning a shocked glance from Taig.

  By Half-Twelfth the Council Guards were in conspicuous and obnoxious pursuit of their stated goals. The dockside Anchor and Chain bower boasted the best vintages and the prettiest boys in Renig. Cailet couldn’t judge one way or the other, having been in only one bower in her life—and that in Pinderon. Taig, who knew Renig dockside to farm gates, assured her this was the best place for their purpose: to be perceived as drunken louts who, when they departed sometime around Fifteenth, could barely walk.

  At which point they would return in stealth to Renig Jail, liberate the Mages and Rising prisoners—aware now that help had arrived—and get them out of town. Tomorrow morning Lusira would commandeer a ship for the transport of three prize subversives. They’d be sailing for Ryka by noon.

  Cailet poured half her wine into a convenient potted orange tree. They sat outside at three tables pushed together, watching the boisterous dockside life of Renig. Their dinner of sausages and potatoes had been tasty and nourishing, if rather blunt and to the point. Now they ordered jug after jug of Cantrashir red, careful to spill or otherwise dispose of twice as much as they drank.

  Cailet, Pier, and Tiron were doing so, anyway. She wasn’t so sure about the others. Col and Keler in particular seemed to be drinking quite a bit. The things Cailet now knew did not include a spell to banish drunkenness, so she had to trust that they would not exceed their capacities.

  Lusira behaved as if she had reached her limit two jugs ago. She pinched every male bottom that came in reach, called out raucous compliments to passing strangers, toasted good-looking sailors liberally, and in general brilliantly portrayed the worst sort of loud, lusty, leering female. Her looks guaranteed many offers of instant cooperation. She fended these off with a close inspection and a rude assessment of her probable satisfaction.

  The men of their party were precluded from responding—or protesting, in Elomar’s glowering case—because Lusira was their captain. Cailet had the impression Lusira was having a fine time teasing her lover. The others usually caught themselves before reacting to her more outrageous sallies, which had Cailet alternately giggling and aghast. She could never hope to emulate the performance, and so merely sat back to enjoy it while she waited out the hours until they could leave in a drunken stupor.

  It was Half-Fourteenth by the leaden bell of St. Lirance’s when a bizarre group rounded a corner, heading for the Anchor and Chain. Five sizable slaves with necks like wine barrels were dwarfed by a tall skeleton wearing a garish crimson cloak and a brown coif from which inky hair sprouted at odd angles.

  “Who’s the walking corpse in the bad wig?” Keler whispered to Cailet.

  “I don’t—oh, Saints!” she breathed, catching sight of the golden sigils stitched on either shoulder of his cloak. She had never seen him before, had only heard of him—at length, and furiously, from everyone at Ostinhold unfortunate enough to have dealings with him. “Scraller!”

  “Who? Oh, the one who used to own Taguare?”

  “There’s only one of him, Saints be praised.” She drank to get the taste from her tongue. “He’s in Renig every Equinox and stays till St. Sirrala’s.”

  “Charming,” Keler said, wrinkling his nose. “Especially his escort.”

  “Oh, he’s a legend, is Scraller. He owns half the slaves in The Waste. And when he gets tired of them, he goes to bowers and hires young boys. The youngest and prettiest he can get.”

  He smiled, amused by what he thought was her country-bred innocence. “I’m not inclined that way myself, but—”

  “You don’t understand. All he ever does is have them read him bad poetry.”

  “Poetry?” The young Mage choked on his wine.

  She grinned with satisfaction. “Very bad poetry.”

  Keler rallied. “How do you know what a pervert like that does in a bower?”

  “Told you—he’s a real legend.”

  “Well, he seems to be making his legendary way to the Anchor and Chain. Do Council Guards bow to him, or he to us?”

  The point became moot as the next table overturned, spilling wine and shattering cups onto the pavement. A bellow of insane rage was followed by the hiss of drawn steel and the screams of those Collan Rosvenir trampled on his way to murdering Scraller Pelleris.

  The parts of Cailet that were Gorsha and Alin and Adennos and Wolvar instantly flung courses of action into her conscious mind. The part of her that was a seventeen-year-old girl went into paralytic shock.

  It lasted long enough for Col to knock over two of Scraller’s bodyguards, dig one of his twin knives into a third, and impale Scraller himself to the hilt of his sword. Taig rushed the two slaves left standing. Keler joined him, kicking the struggling pair before spitting each with his sword—and his look of pure joy as he killed terrified Cailet.

  But not as much as what she saw in Collan’s face. He yanked his blade from Scraller’s twitching body only to plunge it in again. And again, and again, each thrust bringing a jerk and a groan from the dying man. The sword rose and fell, point down, dripping blood. Col’s blue eyes were fired by madness.

  Elomar grabbed him from behind. Snarling, he shook the Healer off. Cailet staggered upright, bracing herself against the table, and parted her lips to speak the Word of a spell. Lusira cried “No!”; concentration broken, realizing the stupidity and danger of magic here, Cailet subsided.

  The five slaves were dead. So was Scraller. Collan kept digging his sword into the corpse—more slowly now, panting for breath, exhausted. There was blood everywhere.

  A shrill, high-pitched whistle brought a spasm to Cailet’s whole body. The mistress of the Anchor and Chain strode into the street, her massively muscled bouncer at her side. She blew another summons from the silver whistle at her lips then glared at Lusira, hatred for the Council Guard seething in her eyes.

  Once more, this time with Taig’s help, Elo laid hands on Collan to stop him. The violence of the Minstrel’s reaction tore buttons off his tunic and ripped a sleeve from his shirt. The three began a wrestling match made all the more dangerous by Col’s sword—but he didn’t use it against Taig and Elomar. He was too intent on digging it once more into Scraller.

  “Stop it!” Taig shouted. “It’s over! He’s dead!”

  Collan froze. Taig pried the sword from his two-handed grip and laid it on the table.

  “Dead?” Col’s voice was childlike in its bewilderment.

  “Very.” Elomar guided him to a chair and helped him sit down, keeping one hand on his bared shoulder.

  He frowned at his handiwork. “Dead,” he repeated.

  “Yes. You killed him.”

  Collan thought this over. “Who was he?”

  Cailet had no time to think what this meant. Five soldiers of the Renig Watch came running—only to skid to a halt at the sight of all that carnage and all those Council Guard uniforms. />
  “What’re you waiting for?” shouted the bower mistress. “Get this vermin off my property! And don’t think I won’t send the Council a bill for cleaning up all this blood!”

  “Domna,” said one of the Watch, casting nervous glances at Taig and Collan, “they’re Council Guards. They’re immune to—”

  “They slaughtered six men without provocation!” She glanced around at the cowering patrons. “First they murder Mages, then Rising folk, and now—”

  “Scraller Pelleris,” someone said with deep appreciation.

  “And good riddance,” another added.

  “Does it matter who he was? What did he do but walk down the street?” cried the woman. “Where will it stop? Who will they kill next?” There were mumbles of anger and agreement, glances of wary resentment—but no moves on the Council Guards. “Cowards!” she spat. “Motherless sons of Fifths! Don’t come crying to me when one day soon they come for you!”

  Cailet supposed she ought to feel heartened; after all, popular loathing was a powerful weapon against the Council and its Guard. But at present she was wearing the uniform popularly loathed.

  “Am I to understand we’re no longer welcome here?” Lusira asked mildly. She stood, donned her cloak with the exaggerated care of the drunk, and faced the apprehensive Watch. “You heard the domna, clear away this vermin. Scraller, eh? Don’t you Wasters ever say the Council Guard never did anything for you!”

  Collecting the others with her eyes, she started for the street. Cailet slung Gorsha’s cloak over her arm and hopped two chairs to get to Collan.

  “Get this idiot walking,” she said loudly.

  Taig and Elomar began to pull him to his feet. He slapped them away and stood on his own. Fumbling at shirt and tunic buttons, he growled at finding most of them gone and the material splattered with blood.

  “No, don’t!” Elomar hissed—too late. Collan stripped off the tunic. Most of the shirt came with it, fully revealing the golden galazhi on his shoulder.

  “Look at that!”

  “See the mark? He’s Scraller’s!”

  “Saints, no wonder he killed him!”

  “He’s no Council Guard—he’s a slave!”

  Cailet took a step back from him, boots crunching on broken glass. “Seize him!” she ordered Taig and Elomar. “Captain! This man’s an imposter!”

  The writhing shame in Collan’s eyes was superseded by stunned betrayal. Cailet unsheathed Gorsha’s sword and pointed it at his throat.

  “Take him, I said!” she shouted at Taig and Elomar, who each grabbed an arm. “How’d you manage it, slave? Who did you kill to get that uniform?” The look Col gave her broke her heart.

  Lusira strode up, shock all over her lovely face. “What’s this you say? By Swordsworn’s Gauntlet, look at that abomination on his shoulder!” She spat on the ground. “I had my doubts about you, showing up alone with a tale of your squad being killed! Into Renig Jail, slave, with your fellows of the Rising!”

  Cailet caught and held the Minstrel’s stunned gaze. Urgently, wordlessly, she tried to make him understand. At last he did, with a blink of comprehension and a brief wry twist of his lips. He struggled as they dragged him into the street, kicked over another table, yelled his innocence. The performance continued all the way to Renig Jail, the Watch trailing along behind them.

  “Keys,” Lusira snapped at the duty constable. As the clattering collection was duly produced, she went on with a nasty smile for Collan, “Four dangerous prisoners, but only three cells. I think I’ll dump you in with the high-and-mighty Lady Sarra.”

  The constable ventured. “But—surely, Captain, a man in the same cell as a woman—alone with her—even if she is a traitor—”

  “That’s the whole point, moron! Let’s see how a Blooded First Daughter likes spending the night with a slave!”

  It had been no part of their plan to put Collan inside. Truly told, it was potential disaster. And got worse—for no sooner was Col locked into Sarra’s cell than the Chief Justice of The Waste arrived.

  Inara Lunne was closely related to the Fiella Lunne who sat on the Council for The Waste. Cailet knew Justice Lunne’s reputation very well. The terror of local Advocates she had presided over all major and most minor trials in the Shir for thirty-eight years. Her rate of convictions was unequaled on Lenfell. Her code of sentencing was simple: ten years in prison, slavery, or death. The population of Talon Gorge, a jail in the depths of The Waste where iron ore was mined, was relatively small—indication enough of the punishments she preferred. The odd thing was that she was dedicated to The Waste and saw no cruelty in her decisions, only simple logic. Those who could be of use to the Shir were imprisoned, those whose usefulness was strictly financial were sold for the Shir’s profit, and those who were no use to anyone were executed.

  At the sight of her in the constable’s office, Taig faded instantly into the background. So did Elomar. Their faces were on bounty broadsheets, and Guard uniforms might not be enough to fool an officer of the Council Courts.

  Justice Lunne spared them not even a glance. They were beneath her notice, true—but Cailet had indeed chosen her Guard Captain wisely. Men salivated over Lusira; women either despised her on sight or wanted as desperately as the men to bed her.

  Inara Lunne was for several minutes in the grip of this last emotion. Lusira took advantage of her stupefaction to say rapidly, “I’m glad you’re here, Justice. Though it’s a pity you were disturbed at this time of night.”

  “Never mind that,” said the Justice, clearing her throat. “So somebody finally had the balls to kill Scraller?”

  “A former slave, posing as a Guard whose squadron was killed. He’ll be tried at Ryka with the rest of our haul. Would you care to inspect—”

  “He’ll be tried in my court,” Justice Lunne snapped.

  “My orders are to transport all suspected adherents of the Rising to Ryka.”

  “He’s no more Rising than you! Don’t worry your pretty head about it. I’ll try him at Seventh, convict him by Eighth, and execute him at Ninth.”

  Lusira stiffened. “His offense against the Council Guard takes precedence over a local charge of murder. I must protest your usurpation of my authority.”

  “That nice red uniform of yours don’t mean shit around here. Murderers’re mine.” When Lusira frowned, the Justice quite visibly ceased to find her attractive. “Maybe the Mages, too. Fair warning, girlie—we don’t take kindly to meddlers here in The Waste.”

  “But they’re—”

  “They’re already dead,” said the Justice, flat and final. “You know it, I know it, they know it. Here or Ryka, what’s it matter?” She flicked a finger at the constable. “Line ’em all up tomorrow morning at my court, Tereiz. And make sure they’ve got Advocates. I want it done quick, but I want it done legal.”

  “Justice Lunne,” Lusira said in desperation, “the First Councillor herself will hear about this!”

  “Fine,” the older woman nodded. “Anniyas owes me a letter—and a rise in salary.”

  A nervous hour later Cailet and the others huddled in the shadows behind Renig Jail, waiting for the Watch to change.

  “I can’t help wondering,” Taig muttered, “which Saint is laughing at us.”

  Lusira shook her head. “The Saints send difficulties to teach us our abilities and limitations, not for their own amusement.”

  “Religious debate won’t get those people out of there,” Keler observed.

  “Surely we can spare a moment,” Taig said wryly, “to mourn all our lovely plans.”

  Cailet sympathized. It had sounded so . . . well, not easy, exactly, but it had fallen together very nicely. The idea had been to put their own people inside to open Collan’s way out, while at the same time letting the other prisoners know to expect an escape. Taig, Col, Elo, and Cailet would take separate groups to separate gates and see them on their way to
safety at Ostinhold or Maurgen Hundred, with—she hoped—Mages in each group who could Fold the long road.

  Now Collan himself was in jail—which might not be as bad as she feared, but which made her nervous because it wasn’t part of the plan. What business had she in making such plans, anywhow? I’m just a Waster. Three weeks ago I was at Ostinhold riding the herd!

  And now you are Mage Captal. Stop worrying, Caisha. It will come out all right in the end.

  She almost answered him aloud. Hunching into the black wool cloak that still carried his scent of wind and growing things—and an ineffable fragrance of power that she knew was only her imagination—she shut her eyes and thought, So tell me how. Tell me what to do.

  Silence.

  Didn’t you hear that Justice? Sarra and Col and all the others are going to die tomorrow!

  After a moment: Everyone dies eventually.

  Everyone but you! You’re still alive, here in my head—

  Not in your heart? You wound me, Caisha.

  Stop it, damn you! It’s not funny!

  Neither is your proclivity for sighting a goal and drawing yourself a straight line directly to it—and then panicking if some unanticipated difficulty puts a crimp in the path. Recall the Second Rule of Magic.

  Do I really deserve this lecture?

  Yes, you really do, and don’t get sarcastic with me, young woman.

  Cailet sighed to herself. All right, so I have a simplistic mind. I’ll work on it. But you have to help me, Gorsha.

  Silence.

  Either tell me what to do or go away!

  Silence.

  Gorsha?

  Cursing his Wraith that lived inside her mind—and cursing her own insanity for believing such a thing was possible—she cast a spell of Warming onto his cloak and tried to be subtle. A minute later she swore again. She’d let her anger invade the spell. The wool was so hot she was sweating.