by L. W. Jacobs
“That wouldn’t get you far in a true fight,” Uhallen observed, as the revenant slashed back toward her.
Marea tensed, mind still racing. She knew nothing of these attacks, how they were done—but she knew something of revenants.
Like how to grab them.
Revenant shooting in Marea summoned her shamanic arm in all its visceral detail. Summoned it and blocked the revenant flying for her. The force of it pushed her backward a pace.
“Good,” Uhallen said. “This is where it gets interesting. Push it back at me.”
“What?” Marea said. He’d said revenants were not physical, that it was only a metaphor, but the force bearing down on her sure felt real. “There’s no way. You’re too strong.”
“That’s the thing with shamanism,” the shaman said, pausing to ash his cigar like they were two old friends over dreamtea, “it isn’t about strength. In a battle between brawlers, say, or timeslips, the one with the strongest resonance tends to win. In a shamanic battle, resonance is only half the equation. The other is belief—and that is a resource you are in control of.”
“So what,” Marea said, sweat starting to bead on her brow as she held the revenant off. “I just believe the ghost back at you?” As she said it the push behind the revenant increased. She was forced a step backward, closer to the low railing and the five-story drop beyond it.
“In a manner of speaking.” Uhallen still stood in the same place, arms at his sides, and yet his push was like a riptide in monsoon season. “You believe the conditions are different. Believe the push is not as strong, believe the revenant cannot harm you, believe the revenant will be crushed between the two of you—whatever feels most plausible.”
“And then it—happens?” Marea asked, forced back another step. Three more until she was up against the railing.
“Yes,” Uhallen said, “if your belief is stronger than mine, and the uai behind it is not pathetically weak.”
“But you’re a shaman,” Marea gritted, feet losing traction on the worn floor as she leaned into her shamanic arm. “You have a huge uai stream and lots of practice at doing this.”
“Do I?” Uhallen asked, only the voice wasn’t his—Marea glanced over to see Feynrick.
“Piss of a witch doctor you’ll make,” the Yatiman laughed, “if ye can’t even beat ol’Feynrick.”
Marea knew it was still Uhallen, knew he was changing his voice and appearance like Harides had, but it was so good, so lifelike, that she couldn’t help taking him as Feynrick.
And Feynrick was a lot of things, but he was no shaman.
Suddenly the push got easier. The vermillion revenant with all its promise of pain stopped advancing, and then she started pushing it back toward the Yatiman.
“Cur’s teats, woman,” Feynrick-Uhallen said, “ye don’t mean to stick that thing on me, do ye?”
“Cur’s teats I do,” Marea growled, ignoring the voice somewhere in her head that cried this was still Uhallen, that it had to be. This was another kind of test, to see if she could change her belief enough to make the advantage matter, and by the Descending God she would, even if it meant believing in something that shouldn’t be true.
Because Feynrick was someone she could stick a revenant on. The man couldn’t even see revenants, for scat’s sake. Marea pushed, and suddenly the vermillion revenant was in full rout, barreling back toward Feynrick.
“Bravo!” Uhallen called, appearing suddenly where Feynrick had been and dismissing the revenant with a flick of his wrist. “That is exactly how it’s done.”
“You staged that,” Marea said, flushed with victory but feeling cheated. “Dropped your push off.”
“I did not,” Uhallen said, raising eyebrows. “That was never my full strength, but I changed not a drop of what I was putting into it. What changed was your belief.”
Currents. “But I—knew it was still you,” Marea said, trying to sort out exactly what had happened. “How does that work?”
“Belief is not rational,” Uhallen said. “And rationality cannot explain all that happens in or outside our minds. You can believe in something you know to be untrue. Or disbelieve in your knowledge enough to do so—it amounts to the same thing.”
Marea frowned, trying to wrap her head around it. “I—guess that makes sense?”
“No,” Uhallen smiled, a wide toothy thing that increased the unevenness of his eyes. “It doesn’t, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what works, whether or not we understand it. Now. Prepare yourself.”
A silvery-gray revenant rose from the floor, massive where the last one had been tatters, slick and alive where the last one had been half-starved.
Marea was ready for it. She imagined the thing rough-skinned, for one, so she could get ahold of it, and light as a feather despite its bulk, for a second. She reached out and grabbed it, then pushed toward Uhallen.
“Good,” Uhallen said. “A little more challenge, then.”
His push doubled, and doubled again. It was like a tidal wave, unstoppable, sweeping Marea across the sunlit floor.
“It’s only unstoppable if you think it is!” Uhallen called, silvery mass still bearing down on her with its promise of mind-breaking pain.
No, she thought. Not Uhallen. She couldn’t even see the man behind the hulking revenant. He could be anyone. She could make him anyone.
And for reasons she couldn’t name, as the revenant shoved her back toward the edge of the tower, Marea imagined him as Avery. Not all-powerful Harides-hiding-as-Avery, but simple Avery—a ninespear, yes, but not a shaman. A journeyman, with some knowledge and a little bit of power.
And that scat-staining self-satisfied smile he was always giving her.
The tidal wave slowed then changed course, pushing back in a most satisfying way toward Avery. The muscular youth stepped out from behind its bulk, shaking curls from his eyes. Confused eyes. “Em?” he asked, voice uncertain. “What are you doing?”
She stopped. “I—”
The revenant changed course again, slamming back into her shamanic grip, pushing her across the floor like a sailboat in a gale wind.
“Not always a good idea to choose someone you care about,” Avery said. “Emotions can be tricky in combat. Let me help.”
In an instant Avery’s thick build grew lankier, his medium height taller, his skin lightening as scars drew themselves up his cheek and around his neck.
“Tai?” Marea asked, still bent against the push of the ghost.
“Yeah, Tai Kulga?” the apparition said, stiff Achuri accent perfect. He held a glowing spear in his hands. “You know, the one who killed your parents? Wouldn’t you like to get a little revenge for that?”
She didn’t, actually. She’d come to a deeper understanding of why Tai was working with the rebels who’d killed her parents. Still, she could use this apparition—she didn’t wish Tai particular harm, but spear or not the man was no shaman, and she was here to put a revenant on someone.
So Marea believed, and shoved, and again the silver-black hulk changed course, pushing back toward her foe until it was nearly on him.
Then both dissolved in a cloud of sage smoke. “Interesting,” Uhallen said, emerging from the cloud. “I thought your feelings might be simpler toward Mr. Kulga. But then, battle always brings out the truth.”
“Will they all be able to do that?” Marea asked, flush with victory but feeling wrung out. Why had she imagined Avery, of all people?
“Any quick-witted shaman will, yes,” Uhallen said, “but disbelief is as powerful as belief, and you have the facts on your side in such cases. You have seen who they were before they changed. Hold to that, and to what they do. Appearances can lie. Actions rarely do.”
Marea took a moment to absorb that. If she had paid more attention to what Avery had been doing on their journey to Aran—teaching her in private, withholding information from Tai and Ella, never wavering from his goals despite professing love to her—maybe she would have seen through it. Saved T
ai his arm and Nauro his life.
“You cannot hold yourself to such things,” Uhallen said, tapping the ash from his cigar. “Especially if you gain the uai to outlive a normal human lifespan. The past will destroy you. You know more now, would act differently. Focus on what you have in front of you.”
“Thank you,” Marea said, suddenly feeling real gratitude for this man who was, no doubt, using her for his own ends, but going out of his way to help her in the process.
Uhallen shrugged, looking uncomfortable, and dug in his coat. “Cigar?”
“Ah—no, thank you,” Marea said, sure she would vomit after the first puff. Her cousin had. “Is this what I need, then? Won’t shamans be ready for this kind of attack too?”
Uhallen tucked the cigar away. “Many of them will. Think of it as another weapon in your arsenal. Not the most powerful I will teach you, but it has its uses.”
“Like on people who aren’t shamans?”
“Exactly. You are progressing quickly—few initiates can manipulate revenants as well as you did today.”
“Well I’m not exactly a beginner,” Marea said, thinking of all the things she’d seen since Ayugen. “But I need to learn to take their revenants, right? To thrall them, you call it? Get their power? Or else there’s no point.”
“In time,” Uhallen said, holding up a hand. “For now, other matters call me. And I have a task for you.”
“Rip a bunch of revenants out and throw them at people?” Marea asked, thinking of yesterday’s homework.
“Well yes, you should practice,” Uhallen said. “But I mean a real task.”
Marea’s stomach dropped. “A… target? Am I ready for that?”
“Ready enough,” the shaman said. “Time presses. And you are a fatewalker. That should be enough for this first one.”
“Who is he?” Marea asked, guard coming up. This would be the point where he tried to coerce her into something deeper. No attachments, no commitments, she reminded herself. Get your power and get out.
Then again, Rena didn’t look like she had much time. She needed power quick.
“An initiate with the Neverblades,” Uhallen said. “One of the city’s more aggressive cells. He appears to be trying to track me down.”
“What did he do wrong?”
Uhallen drew on his cigar. “You don’t trust me.”
“You know my history with shamans,” Marea said levelly. “I’ve already killed one innocent person. I’m not doing it again.”
He exhaled. “The man was a cutter, in the days before Aymila’s rush. He killed three shamans to thrall their power, one a close friend of mine. He also maintains a string of Stilts brothels that are… unpleasant, at best.”
“And the men he killed, they were innocent?” It certainly wasn’t a given with shamans.
“No one is innocent. But they had not killed for power, if that’s what you mean. Believe it or not, few shamans did, before Tai released Aymila’s power. It was against our code.”
Marea bit her lip. She wasn’t looking forward to killing again, but if this man was who Uhallen said he was, the world would be better off without him.
If. Much as she hated it, it came down to trusting him. And while Uhallen had taught her useful things and seemed genuine in his mission, he was essentially a stranger.
Then again, she’d thought she’d known Avery, and look how that had turned out. Was life just a giant scatstorm where you never knew what you were doing?
Probably. But she knew she’d killed Eyadin, and his daughter was dying for it, and this was something she could do to fix it. Maybe the only thing.
“Will he have revenants we can thrall?”
“He may,” Uhallen said. “If not, this will be something of a favor to me, so I will be sure you get some power from it. Enough to ease your friend’s pain, at least.”
Marea took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay,” she said. “Who am I killing?”
16
Marea’s fingers tugged at the loose ends of a braid, again. She forced them to sit still in her lap, again.
Apparently even junior petty officers at House Mattoy had better things to do than meet with House Fetterwel. She’d been sitting in their tomblike waiting area for close to two hours, the attendant having acknowledged her and since then given her nothing but the standard line, “Mr. Mattoy knows you are here and I’m sure he’ll be out as soon as he’s able.”
Maybe her uncle was right. Maybe Mattoy was dead set on never working with them, whether or not the money made sense. She was just resolving to leave when a girl about her age peeked around the corner in the black and purple uniform of Mattoy. “Marea Fetterwel? Junior Petty Officer Mattoy’s ready for you.”
Is he always this petty? Marea almost asked. She held her tongue instead, standing and smoothing her skirts and following the girl down a long stone passage lit in narrow shafts of light coming from panels of glass in the ceiling. Much nicer than House Fetterwel, even if her family’s House was on Widow’s Hill and Mattoy was in the cheaper West Cove district. None of that mattered once you were inside.
None of it mattered at all, really, not compared to shamans and archrevenants and the other world she’d glimpsed travelling with Ella. But that was their world, and in this one if she wanted a place in her House now that her family was gone she needed to earn it. Which meant proving herself as more than cattle to be married off.
Which meant sealing this deal with Mattoy.
Junior Petty Officer Daleb Mattoy’s wide, fleshy face looked like a child’s, but the mess of documents on his desk spoke of at least some competence in the family’s business. “Madame Fetterwel,” he said formally, bending one knee to brush lips against her knuckles. “Mattoy thanks you for reaching out. What can I do for you?”
She’d included the bulk of her proposal in the unacknowledged riverpost she’d sent yesterday, but Marea smiled sweetly and took a seat. “As you know, our families have been involved profitably for several decades now. I’ve come in hopes of continuing that relationship.”
This was nonsense fluff, but etiquette required it.
“And what in particular,” Daleb Mattoy asked, a spill of acne showing beneath his powder, “were you thinking?
“An amendment to the mortgage deal struck a few months back between our Houses.”
“Ah.” Daleb shuffled some papers around on his desk, plucking out a slim sheaf. “Yes. The—Avensley properties. Are you interested in buying them back?”
They’ll sell them at twice what they’re worth just to spite us, she could hear her uncle saying. Along with Gren Mattoy’s braying laugh when she’d tried talking to him directly.
“Not today,” she said, resettling her skirt. “In reviewing the contracts, I noticed the structures were unaccounted for in the overall valuation of the land.”
“The—structures?” Daleb asked. Had he even looked at the documents before she came in?
“Yes. We had three lodging houses for our timbermen, as well as a warming house deeper in the woods, and several minor structures along the barge landing.”
“Accounted for in the overall settlement, surely,” Daleb said, eyes scanning the documents. Nope, he hadn’t. Young Daleb was in for a surprise, then.
Marea had read the documents. Carefully. Her uncle had been sloppy and so had Mattoy, but that was to her advantage now.
“You’ll see they aren’t listed,” she said, making her sweet smile again. For fun, she unfocused her eyes and surveyed his revenant—an inky blob sticking from his neatly cut hair. How would he react if she pulled it out? Or attacked with a new one? “It seemed expeditious to settle on a price, unless you’re willing to repatriate the surrounds of the buildings.”
“Oh no,” Daleb said, face flushing as he realized the kind of disputes that would cause. With repatriation came right to occupy, and Councilate law was hazy on just how much timber could be cut and earth mined as part of occupation. It would give them a much stronger position to b
argain from in reducing the cost of the mortgage. “We have what, five buildings total?”
“Seven,” Marea said, “including the barge landing outbuildings.”
“Two thousand moons,” Daleb said.
Marea gave another smile, this one more polite than sweet. “They are worth at least ten. Or we could send a valuator south to ascertain for certain?”
A single bead of sweat formed on Daleb’s forehead. She had not been entirely guileless in choosing this particular Junior Petty Officer to meet with—he’d been the one to draw up and finalize the contracts, after what had likely just been a verbal agreement between uncle Brennon and Gren Mattoy. Any mistakes in it were on him.
And sending a Councilate-certified valuator to remote woods outside Avensley, a five month trip at best, would cost far more than those buildings were worth.
“Five thousand, then,” Daleb said. “Let us meet in the middle.”
Marea suppressed her smile entirely this time. She had the upper hand here. Time to use it. “Fetterwel does not construct buildings for a season, Officer Mattoy. I assure you we put much more than ten thousand worth of labor and materials into those structures. I am offering you a reasonable number. Unless you would like to apply the buildings’ worth as a discount to the overall mortgage settlement amount?”
That was a slippery slope if he started down it. Marea dearly hoped he did. Another bead of sweat appeared on his brow.
A cool voice sounded in her inner ear. Marea. The target is on the move. I need you in West Cove, near the Councileum.
“Stains,” Marea cursed. Daleb’s head snapped up, and she blushed. “I—I’m sorry, Officer Mattoy. I’ve forgotten a previous engagement I simply cannot break.”
The fear in his eyes said he read this as another ploy in their negotiations. “Please, Madame Fetterwel, take a few more minutes to settle this properly.”
The way Uhallen sounded, she didn’t have a few more minutes. And getting the uai she needed to heal Rena was still more important to her than this long-shot negotiation, even if she was winning at the moment. Her House would survive without her. Rena would not.