Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  “Come on,” Ayala says. “Your room’s ready.”

  The entire interior is carpeted. Not even our town hall has carpet. Just some fancy rugs here and there. I glance down at my dirty shoes and dusty ankles, but Ayala smiles again, leading me off to one side. A trio of Dividian men stand there in neat bow ties. The other Ashlords sit first, letting the men slip off their shoes one at a time. The trio works fast. One scrubs away mud and polishes each riding boot. Another takes a wet rag and wipes the dust from Ashlord ankles. The third sizes up their feet and provides them with a pair of the hotel’s complimentary slippers.

  Ayala gives me a shove forward when the other two Ashlords are finished.

  “Do her next,” she orders.

  Her fellow escorts lift an eyebrow at the decision, but the Dividian rush to obey Ayala’s request. I’m helped into a high-backed chair. They remove my tattered riding boots and get them as clean as they’ve been since I first found them. Something snakes through my gut as the second man starts rubbing away at toes and ankles. There’s something wrong about being made clean, made like the Ashlords. He sees my frown when he’s done and whispers up to me.

  “The dirt’s gone, but don’t worry, I couldn’t get rid of the calluses.”

  We share a grin. The third Dividian steps forward, sliding slippers over both of my feet. I thank them all so profusely that Ayala has to pull me away.

  My heart beats in triples. Then skips beats. It’s the first time I’ve seen it all so clearly. There are two worlds, and I know exactly which one I belong in. Even if Ayala’s offering me a temporary glimpse of their world. The men bow as she leads me off through the hotel.

  The other Ashlords abandon us. She nods them off before escorting me to the third floor. “You have a corner room,” she says. “It’s quite a view.”

  She swipes something by the handle and the door whisks open without a touch. I follow her in, feeling as disoriented as I felt that morning, like the world’s started spinning just a little too fast. Ayala shuts the door behind us. As she does, the casual calm leaves her face and she steps closer. I can smell some kind of cherry tobacco on her breath.

  “I need to know,” she says. “Do you want to be in the Races or not?”

  I stare at her. “I thought—Isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “But do you want it? Qualifiers get hurt, you know? It will be hard riding, hard fighting. You’ll have to be smarter than all of them. I need to know if this is what you really want.”

  It is what I want, what I’ve wanted since I was little. Martial always terrified me. Not because he’s scary or anything ridiculous like that. Looking at him is like looking at the impossible. Farian and I could play as riders on holy days, but I never let myself believe it’d be anything more than a game. “Yes,” I finally answer. “This is what I want.”

  Ayala smiles. “Good, because you’re the one, Imelda. There have been discussions all day. The Empire Racing Board wants you to be the scholarship rider in the Races. The others will interview tomorrow, but you’ve already been chosen. You’re going to ride in the most prestigious event the Empire’s ever known. We start training tomorrow. And with my help?”

  She sets a firm hand on my shoulder.

  “I think you could actually win it.”

  Furia.

  The whole place is a clogged artery. Bodies, people, noise. Antonio’s standing out on the balcony of our hotel. Daddy’s tasked him with getting me to the start of the Races in one piece.

  We arrived a few hours earlier by carriage, which felt every kind of wrong. Sitting and bouncing around in a box? Antonio’s just being smart about it. We don’t need every news outlet outside the hotel before I can settle in. Half the waitstaff is already casting sideways glances at us.

  Besides, the carriage was practice for the city. The whole place is just one big box. Our room’s tight as a noose. The hotel’s in a confusing borough of claustrophobic streets and shops. We’re on the top floor, but you look out and all you can see are more buildings. It’s like a million people forgot the beauty of open space. Antonio saw I was restless and offered to take me out for a stroll, but I told him I’d rather sit in bed than knock knees with half the world.

  When night comes, the noise is still there. Voices echo up from the alley below. People shouting and laughing, flirting and yelling. The Reach settles its bones before dark. If there’s something that needs doing, it can be done at dawn. I lie there, turning from side to side, until Antonio knocks on my door. I glance out. It’s still the middle of the night.

  He looks in. “It’s time. Come with me.”

  We walk through empty hallways. The front desk attendant has vanished. The lights in all the common rooms are low. Only our boots make any noise. Antonio leads me to the kitchen. It’s empty, too. Great rows of plates and piles of spoons are set out to dry. He kneels in front of a brick-fire oven and lifts the latch. It leads down into the dark.

  Antonio doesn’t say a word as we descend. Every foul scent imaginable turns beneath our feet. Our movement stirs it all up, and before long I’m hacking coughs. Antonio just keeps moving through the labyrinth like he’s walked this path a hundred times. I’m still coughing when the darkness ends. Antonio climbs a ladder and I follow.

  Another hatch opens into a wine cellar. The place is bright with light. Ten men and women stand there waiting for us. They’re bunched together, whispering, but at the sight of Antonio, everyone straightens. They line up, set their jaws, and wait for him to speak.

  “Take a good long look, kid.”

  I do. There’s a little bit of everything. Six are Dividian. Four are women. One’s an Ashlord, which sits uncomfortably in my gut. He styles his hair in a faux-hawk, but he’s a little old for the look. Next to him, a pair of Longhands grin out from among the rows of shining, corked bottles. I take time to look at each face, to memorize each detail. Freckles on noses, hats on heads, and all the little nooks every face has.

  These are Daddy’s people, which makes them my people.

  “This is your extraction team.” Antonio gestures at the standing group. “If something goes wrong or if something happens, you are to trust only these ten faces. You might have some smooth talker come up to you at the pre-event galas. Or after your victory. Whatever. If their face isn’t in this room right now, you do not trust them. The only people worthy of your trust over the next few weeks are these ten faces.”

  Antonio points to the Dividian on the far right.

  “Quay,” the man says.

  And the next.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Darby.”

  “Atl.”

  He works down the row, then asks me to repeat each name. When I can’t, he has each person say their names a second time. This time I pay attention and when he asks, I can repeat them easily. But Antonio’s careful, because Daddy’s taught him how to be. He has the group say their names a third time, then shuffles the order.

  I go down the new row and nail every single one. Then Antonio turns me around. He has them all say the word freedom. Without looking, I’m supposed to identify them by their voices. I get a handful right, but Antonio turns me back around, has them say their names and listen to their voices before running me back through it again.

  The whole thing takes an hour, but by the end of it, I know their names, their voices, their faces, and their favorite foods. Antonio doesn’t explain why the last one’s necessary; he just wants to make sure this is a dossier I’ll have in my head forever, because there isn’t a scrap of paper he’d dare write any of this information down on. These are the Reach’s spies. When we’re set, he tips his dirty hat to them and we watch as they ascend a stone staircase.

  “Those are your people,” Antonio repeats to me. “I’ll leave the city when the Races begin, but they know the extraction plan. Each of them has come over to our side�
�for one reason or another—and your daddy’s set each piece spinning into motion just to make sure he gets you home safe. Arranging all this has cost money and lives. Do not forget those names. Do not forget those faces. And when you cross that finish line, don’t you dare trust anyone whose favorite food you don’t damn well know.”

  A storm wouldn’t be all that fun without a little noise.

  —Gold Man Jones, spoken three minutes before his death at the Battle of Oranges

  A polite knock wakes me up. It really is polite, too. It’s not paired with a raised voice or drunken laughter or anything. Silence follows. I roll over, squint through the half-opened window, and realize the light funneling into the room is not from the sun. I grumble out from under the covers and throw a shirt on before opening the door.

  Ayala is there. “Good morning!”

  She smiles and I like her a little less. I actually raise a hand to shield my eyes from the glow of the hallway behind her. How is she dressed already? Is she wearing makeup?

  “Huh,” I say.

  It’s not a real response. It’s not even a word, just a half-formed grunt. She continues smiling, maybe waiting for something more eloquent, but it’s so very clear I have nothing else to offer her. It takes me a few seconds to figure out that I’m blocking the doorway.

  “You’re coming in?” I nod to myself. “You’re coming in.”

  She laughs as I step aside. In the time it takes me to close the door, she already has both lamps on in the room. I guess I’m waking up now. Stumbling over to the table, I plunk down in the seat opposite her. She’s busily setting out packages and bags that I didn’t even notice she was carrying. I’m staring at them helplessly and trying to figure out how she carried them all with just two hands when my eyes find the most important thing she’s brought me.

  “Coffee!”

  She slides the cup across and starts to scold me about the heat. Too late. I’ve already disappeared behind the mug’s alabaster rim. It tastes rich, smooth. A little weaker than what Father makes, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a step in the right direction.

  Ayala waits for me to resurface. “I’ve brought a few training gifts.”

  From one of the bags, she removes a set of clothes. I see three pairs of riding pants and matching tops to go with them. At the bottom of the pile, an official Empire Racing Board jacket.

  “Looks fancy,” I manage to say.

  “Expensive,” she counters. “All the very best gear. The undergarments are a new flame-resistant line from Dominus. It might take you a few days to get used to reading your phoenix’s temp with them on, but it saves you from the wear and tear of a full day’s ride. Each of the shirts has breathable hoods to shade the sun. I’d guess you recognize the riding jacket.”

  Of course I do. It’s the same one that’s been worn for the last two decades. A simple black piece with the Empire Racing Board’s echoing horse emblem on the right breast. The joints and shoulders are made of a stretching, smoke-gray material. Protection without sacrificing flexibility. It’s the kind of outfit I’ve seen in all the pre-race advertisements. Only the models have always been Ashlord racers: Pippa, Bravos, Revel, Etzli.

  This set belongs to me.

  “Do they fit?”

  Ayala looks offended. “No, you’ll have to roll up the sleeves a few times.”

  I almost snort my coffee. Standing, I unfold one of the shirts. Ayala did her homework. The sleeves ride out perfectly. Even accounted for my shorter torso.

  “It’s a reactive fabric,” she says. “It will wick your sweat during the day and keep in the warmth at night. On the house. But the last gift is something to borrow. I’ll need it back.”

  She slides a wooden box across the table. The coffee is starting to kick in. I suppose if I have to wake up before dawn, I’d rather do it by opening very expensive and thoughtful presents. I’ll have to let Farian know that a new bar has been set for our morning adventures.

  My fingers find the edges of the wooden lid. It slides down along carved grooves and reveals something I’ve been waiting to get my hands on since arriving in Furia.

  “A switch.”

  My fingers heft the weapon into the air. I marvel at the weight and balance of it. There’s no question of the weapon’s authenticity. It is a Race-standard switch. Not the knockoffs I played with as a little girl. The baton runs about the length of elbow to fingertip. It’s polished brightly, and the wood is that clearly burned color that looks on the edge of flame. Only trees from the Burning Forest look that way. Cheaper vendors will use birch or oak and do their best to dye the material the same color. I’ve owned enough of them to know the paint peels after a few weeks. My fingers settle on the leather grip. I tilt it to get a look at the stamped V at the base of the handle. Versa’s patented sweat-resistant leather. It’s a thing of beauty.

  “Give it a try,” Ayala encourages.

  I double-squeeze the grip. Ashlord magic snakes through the material and the wooden frame retracts. A leather whip shakes out to the floor. Light catches on the little glass claws dangling dangerously from each strand. I let them dance along the floor before squeezing the grip again. There’s a zip noise as the whip returns to baton form.

  “It’s heavy….”

  It is beautiful, majestic, pristine.

  Ayala nods. “You’ll get used to the weight in training. That one belongs to my family. I wanted you to use it, though. It’s exactly what you’ll be using in the Races. I wondered if you had a style of fighting that you prefer? It will help us make the best use of our time.”

  Holding the switch makes everything feel real. I sit back down on unsteady legs and stare across at my mentor. I feel guilty for the first time. She’s here to help me, what? Win the Races?

  I might be closer than ever, but it sounds impossible all of a sudden.

  “I’m not—I don’t have a style. I’m one of the best alchemists you’ll ever meet. I’ve always had a hand for it. I’m a strong rider, but I haven’t had access to a horse for longer than an afternoon in a few years. As for fighting…” I have a hard time meeting her eye. “I don’t know. We fought as kids, I guess? We were brawlers, though. Schoolyard fights. There’s no style to it.”

  “I can work with that,” Ayala assures me. “Sometimes a blank slate is better than a broken one. We’ll run you through the basics. Stop looking so worried.”

  I nod, but the embarrassment still colors my cheeks. I set the switch down and it doesn’t look dangerous on its own. It only becomes deadly when the hand that holds it can make it a deadly thing. My mind flashes back to previous Races. I’ve spent my whole life watching them, dreaming of being one of the riders. In all the excitement of the past few days, I somehow forgot the basic truth. There are three measures for every racer.

  Alchemy. Riding. Fighting.

  I was born for the first two, but I’ve never spent much time on the third. I trace back through all the Races I’ve seen and I can’t remember too many champions who won without winning at least one fight. Some riders get out to big leads, sure. Others are clever enough to trail the group and make their move at the end. I can try to avoid duels, but what happens when I’m on the back of a horse coming down a tight stretch? Or in the dark of night with my back to my ashes, staring down an opponent? I’ll have to fight.

  I nod to Ayala. “When do we start?”

  “Now.”

  I’m not tired anymore. The adrenaline running through me tastes a lot like fear. Ayala waits while I slide into uniform. We gather the equipment and leave. The hallways are empty. The lobby boasts a lone Dividian bellhop at the front desk. He bows as Ayala breezes by him. The second she’s past, he glances up and winks at me. I smile back.

  The streets are alive still. Not bursting with the same life and noise they were when we arrived, but far from abandoned. We pass a pair of
swaying girls. Both have their dancing shoes in hand, and dust coats their ankles. It is the end of the evening for them, but the beginning of a new day for others. Delivery carts take advantage of the empty streets. A pair of Dividian boys—no older than Prosper—hustle back and forth, setting little crates on the doorsteps of towering tenement buildings before leaping back onto the still-moving vehicles. Cats scurry down alleyways. An elderly woman taps out a cigarette on the balcony above us.

  We earn a few looks. At first, I think people recognize me. Maybe they saw the video Farian posted. But then I realize that Ayala is the only Ashlord making her way through the quiet morning traffic. “Come on,” she says, leading me off the main drag.

  Streets intersect ahead. She guides us to the western edge of the city. I’ve only been through the city once, but I recognize the direction we’re heading.

  “The temples are this way.”

  She nods back but stays silent. I take my cue from her. It’s not long before the sleeker buildings give way to the more bone-thick temples. There’s a cruelty to them, almost as if they were summoned from the ground rather than built. No one in my family ever converted to the Ashlord religion. There are Dividian who have taken up worshipping their foreign gods, and I’ve never understood the decision. The gods are the reason we became their servants in the first place. They’re the power behind every Ashlord threat, the reason we keep our heads low and our dreams even lower.

  I might not worship their gods, but only a fool doesn’t know the names.

  On our right, the Fury’s temple looms. The Ashlord god of strength and bravery. Great bonfires burn in every corner of the ziggurat. Each one surrounded by waiting priests. Firelight glints off the horns of their bull masks. The men are shirtless. The women in plain shifts. There’s a healthy mix of Ashlord and Dividian in their number. No surprise that every tier is crowded with servants. The Fury has long been the most popular god in an Empire that worships war.