by Den Patrick
‘You can sense it too?’
‘It’s big …’ Maxim looked over his shoulder, panicked, breathing quick and fast. ‘And old. Ancient.’ He raised one hand to the sea and pointed. ‘It’s somewhere out there.’ Kolas stood up and dropped his white staff, then tripped on his robes and fell. Kjellrunn ran to the old man and Maxim followed.
‘Help me get him on his feet,’ she said, but the blind man scrambled away from her.
‘Haerthi nam khaidra!’ shouted the old man, then again and louder.
‘He’s saying you have to close your heart,’ said Maxim, glancing out to sea. The sun dipped behind the town and a chill breeze whipped up the fine sand along the beach. The clouds in the sky had been few and wispy but now they were bloated and dark.
‘Close my heart? What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Maxim. He glanced towards the town, clearly wanting to run from the beach as fast as he could. The old man babbled something else, jabbing an accusing finger in Kjellrunn’s direction.
‘He said you have to be less angry,’ said Maxim. ‘Think of something that calms you.’ But Kjellrunn didn’t feel calm. The terrible foreboding feeling made it difficult to think. The wind blew harder and vortices of sand twisted and spun around their knees. The old man was shouting now.
‘He keeps saying you have to be less angry!’ translated Maxim in a panicked voice.
Kjellrunn ran, her feet sliding in the sand until she reached the edge of the town. She ran past Trine, who had been watching them from a shadowed doorway, and into the town. She ran all the way back to the temple until she reached the altar and slumped down in front of it. For long moments her tortured breathing was the only sound in the temple until she buried her face in her hands and began to weep.
‘What’s happening to me?’ she whispered. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Kjellrunn.’ Mistress Kamalov was kneeling beside her at the altar, shaking her awake.
‘What time is it?’
‘Close to midnight. What are you doing here? Were you asleep?’
‘Something happened at the beach. Maxim and I felt a presence in the Shimmer Sea … Frejna’s teeth! I left him there. Did he come back?’ Mistress Kamalov nodded, then sat down on the nearest low bench.
‘He’s fine. He was with the old man. Neither of them looked very happy but they’re still with us. What happened?’
‘The old man kept pointing at me, telling me I have to be less angry.’
Mistress Kamalov grimaced. ‘Small chance of that.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said Kjellrunn.
‘Is that so?’ Mistress Kamalov smiled. ‘You’re not angry about having witchsign, which you didn’t ask for?’
‘Well, I suppose—’
‘You’re not angry that the Empire used up your mother like firewood, split up your parents, and then took your brother?’
‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘You’re not angry that Romola left your family in Virag and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it?’
‘Of course, but I don’t go around shouting about it.’
‘And where does the anger go if you do not shout about it?’
Kjellrunn shrugged. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘One that still needs an answer. Come, Kjellrunn. You are bright. Sometimes, anyway. Where does the anger go?’
‘It doesn’t go anywhere.’ Hot tears sprang from the corners of her eyes. ‘It just stays inside me.’
‘Breathe, Kjellrunn,’ said the old Vigilant. There was a deep sadness in her eyes. ‘I know this is hard.’
‘The Empire took your brother too.’
‘Oh yes, we are much alike, you and I. Gifted, stubborn beyond reason.’ Mistress Kamalov smiled. ‘And incredibly angry.’
‘I’m sorry I slammed that door in your face.’
‘I have that effect on people,’ admitted Mistress Kamalov with a quiet chuckle. ‘But I am grateful for your apology all the same.’
‘That day in the woods, when the Okhrana came …’ Kjellrunn struggled to find the words, wanting desperately to explain why she feared the arcane and how she’d nearly killed Mistress Kamalov in her fury.
‘Go on,’ said Mistress Kamalov, leaning forward.
‘That day in the woods when the Okhrana came, I nearly lost control. I did lose control, and I …’
Trine emerged from the gloom, her dark hair loose. She still wore the dark vestments of Frejna’s priesthood and irritation spiked through Kjellrunn. ‘A few of the children are asking for you,’ said Trine to Mistress Kamalov, ignoring Kjellrunn entirely. ‘Bad dreams again. Something in the sea coming to get them.’
‘We will speak more in the morning, Kjellrunn.’ The renegade Vigilant stood slowly. ‘Go to your room now and get some sleep.’
Kjellrunn watched the old woman leave the temple with Trine by her side, and softly cursed the raven-haired girl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Silverdust
‘Why are we in the Voronin District?’ asked Streig, looking about him with barely concealed disgust. He carried his helm under one arm, and a stout bag hung from his shoulder. ‘Is this where Dimitri Sokolov stayed?’
The roads were narrow, and winding lanes led in all directions. The warped and rickety buildings cast a shadow over everyone, and the air was thick with the scents of dung and smoke. Traces of marinated fish competed with the stench from a tanner’s. Streig wrinkled his nose and glared at the people begging at the side of the street. The beggars had bound their feet in rags and stared at the world from pale faces, clutching at themselves with dirty hands. There was no warmth, there was no cheer. Voronin District was the most wretched place Streig had ever seen.
This is indeed where Dimitri Sokolov stayed.
‘It’s nothing more than whores and beggars.’ Streig looked around, his young face full of accusation. ‘And the smell. Can’t we find lodgings in a better district?’
Do you think these people choose to live this way?
Streig looked from the Exarch gliding beside him to the many ragged and gaunt souls that haunted the streets. They went about their lives with stooped shoulders and downcast eyes, bowed by unseen burdens.
‘Why don’t they get jobs?’ asked Streig, trying to keep his voice low despite his growing irritation. ‘Surely there is work to be had in a city this big.’ The locals stopped and turned to stare at the Exarch and his escort as they wended their way down the cobbled streets. It was apparent that there were places where the Holy Synod and the Imperial army were rarely seen, even in the capital. Smoke crowded the sky above the chimneys and an evening mist haunted every street corner. It would soon be dark.
You told me there were only farming jobs in Virolanti Province. You had to take up farming or fighting, there was nothing else.
‘That’s right,’ said Streig, scowling as a beggar approached him.
Which means there are no blacksmiths, no shop owners, no vintners or coopers or cartwrights in the whole province?
‘That’s not what I said,’ replied Streig as they turned a corner. A large building loomed ahead of them in the mist.
But it is what you implied. Tell me, was your father a soldier too?
Streig nodded.
And his father before him?
Streig nodded again.
So becoming a soldier was not so much about taking up a job but an inheritance of sorts. It is what your family have always done. The Exarch ceased walking. It is the only thing they know how to do.
‘We can do more than just fight. We’re not simple thugs.’
Streig and Silverdust stood in a small square where market stalls were being packed up for the night.
‘Are you looking for lodgings, sirs?’ said a girl of about sixteen summers from the doorway of an inn. She had lank blonde hair and a broken nose. There was a hard look about her no matter how much she smiled.
Ask her if she has always worked at the inn. Silverdust had no wish to sta
rtle the girl with a demonstration of the arcane, but telepathy was all he had. Streig asked the question, feeling foolish as he did so, stumbling over the words.
‘Why yes, I’ve worked here since I could walk.’ The girl swept her shawl around her a little tighter and held up her chin proudly. ‘My parents own it and their parents before them.’
Tell her we shall stay there, but we require a moment to converse.
Streig did as Silverdust asked and the girl scurried away, looking back over her shoulder to see if they were gaming with her. The Exarch extended a hand and beckoned a woman who stood beneath the awning of a closed shop. ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Streig, blushing furiously. The woman was older than Streig, though not old enough to be his mother. She wore her years in the lines of her face and the scar that peaked from her hairline. She hesitated with a wary look in her eye.
Ask her what she does for a job.
‘Have you lost your mind? It’s perfectly obvious what she does for a job,’ Streig hissed, stepping closer to the Exarch. ‘One moment we’re in the Imperial Court and the next you’re asking me—’
‘Can I help you?’ The woman had ventured closer, her curiosity outweighing her circumspection.
Ask her what she does for a job.
Streig made an exasperated growling sound and turned to the woman.
‘The Exarch, in his all-consuming curiosity, wishes to know what employment you are currently engaged in.’
So formal, Streig. We will make a courtier of you yet.
The woman frowned.
‘I would rather not say, if it’s all the same,’ she replied with a flash of irritation in her eyes. Silverdust held up a single coin and the woman took it from his gloved hand, uncertainty writ large across her narrow face. ‘What’s this for?’
Ask her what her mother did.
‘I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ said Streig. ‘The Exarch is in a strange mood tonight.’ The soldier turned on his heel and marched to the inn and waited on the porch, staring at his boots. Silverdust bowed to the woman and drifted across the street.
Tell me, how are the innkeeper’s daughter and the prostitute any different to you?
‘I am not a whore!’ said Streig, teeth gritted in anger.
And yet your place in this world is predestined, just as hers was. Silverdust gestured at the woman who watched them still, clutching the coin in her hand with a look of bemusement. There are few choices when one lives with poverty as a constant companion. The Exarch laid a hand on Streig’s shoulder. And all of us are just moments away from living the life of a beggar. Streig gave a laugh, though it was tired and bitter.
Look past the rags and see the person beneath, Streig. Never lose sight of the person beneath.
‘Can we go in now?’ Streig jerked his head towards the door. ‘Or are you going to sermonise a little longer?’
The Exarch opened the door. ‘Come in from the cold, Streig. Warm yourself.’
Once inside Streig procured rooms and followed Silverdust as he took the stairs upwards until they were outside again, looking over the street below from the flat rooftop.
I used to watch over Academy Square in the small hours. Mainly I would linger on the rooftops of Academy Voda or Vozdukha. I loved Vladibogdan most at night, when it was quiet and the students were at their rest.
Streig looked around and squinted at the forest of chimneys that emerged from the Voronin District. They were surrounded by the slopes and ridges of tiled roofs, by balconies of rotting wood and crumbling plaster.
‘You brought us all the way to the Voronin District so you could stand up here?’
I did. Silverdust cast his gaze at the square below. There were fewer people now, though the ghosts of the city drifted the streets freely. The spirits of the dead came and went, endlessly attempting to find that which had evaded them in life.
You have served on Vladibogdan?
‘Colder than a witch’s tit.’
I will take that as a yes. Silverdust wanted to say more but three shadows flickered at the edge of his vision. The first emerged on a sloping rooftop while another slunk around a corner in the square below. The last of them lingered on a balcony opposite the inn. The last of the three shadows bore a crossbow, though he tried to hide the weapon under his cloak. It was as Silverdust had feared. Envoy de Vries had sent Okhrana to murder him before he could give his testimony to the Imperial Court.
Leave me now, Streig. Go to your rest. And be sure to lock your door and sleep with a weapon close to hand.
‘I always do,’ said Streig with a slow smile. ‘Be sure to get some rest yourself, or whatever it is you do.’ The soldier turned away as Silverdust watched more men in black draw close across the rooftops.
The first attack came from behind, perhaps a minute after Streig had gone to his room. The man pulled himself up over the side of the building, rolling onto the flat roof and coming to his feet in one fluid, near-silent motion. The Okhrana stepped forward with his sword raised but Silverdust was already behind him. The Exarch slipped one arm around his neck and smothered the man with his free hand, though it was not a glove that met the Okhrana’s mouth and nose but a wispy limb of soot-dark smoke. The Okhrana coughed and breathed in on instinct, but it was ash not air that he inhaled. Silverdust reached out with his senses, feeling the other men’s focus, their fear, their excitement. He could feel the exertion of climbing up onto the roof. The Okhrana in his arms struggled, desperate for breath that would not come. Silverdust held him close for long convulsing seconds until the Okhrana had choked to death.
The crossbowman on the balcony opposite took his chance the moment his comrade slipped from Silverdust’s embrace. The bolt flashed in the darkness, piercing the Exarch’s vestments. The bolt passed clean through Silverdust, though he was not slowed by such mundane weapons. The Exarch summoned a bright spear of roaring flame and cast it across the square where it caught the man full in the chest. The Okhrana pitched forward and fell to the cobbles below, his corpse a pitiful blaze. Silverdust allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He had no wish to set fire to half the district in order to survive.
A moment of fleeting fear passed through the Okhrana, and Silverdust could feel it harden to anger. The next Okhrana, realising the time for stealth had passed, threw a grappling hook over the edge the building. Silverdust grasped the rope and sent a surge of white-hot arcane fire through his hand. The rope blackened, crisped, and snapped in moments. The Okhrana cried out as he fell three storeys. Silverdust could sense a brief flare of pain as the Okhrana hit the street before the man’s consciousness winked out.
Another assassin had pulled himself onto the roof and charged headlong at the Exarch, a short blade held back for the killing blow. The Okhrana lunged forward, thrusting his blade too fast for the eye to follow. The Exarch stepped aside, aided by prescience, and grabbed the man by the collar. Silverdust could feel the man’s panic, knowing he had over-committed himself, caught off balance and now at his enemy’s mercy. Silverdust threw him from the rooftop to meet his dead comrade and the burned rope below.
And yet more came for him, up over the lip of the roof and surging forward, cruel shadows in the darkness. Silverdust snatched up the grappling hook and parried a blow from one man, blade and hook sparking in the darkness. The Exarch sidestepped and headbutted another Okhrana with his featureless mask. The second man fell back, nose bloodied, with tears streaming from his eyes.
The Okhrana I knew were terrible and implacable.
Silverdust parried another blow with the grappling hook, then grabbed his attacker by the face and slammed the grappling hook into his exposed neck. The man floundered like a fish, grasping at the metal. Blood gushed from his mouth as he cried out wordlessly.
Standards have slipped, it seems.
The surviving Okhrana wiped his bleeding nose on his cuff and swung again. His eyes widened in disbelief as Silverdust slapped the blade aside with a gloved hand. The Exarch seized the man around t
he throat with a tendril of ashen darkness, lifting the man off his feet.
‘What are you?’ said the man, before Silverdust set fire to him and threw him from the roof. By now a huddle had formed in the street below, watching with sickened fascination.
‘Silverdust?’ It was Streig. He stood in his shirt and britches, mace clutched in one hand. ‘What in Hel is happening up here?’
Silverdust did not have time to reply. One final Okhrana had made the climb to the rooftop at the back of the inn. He had shielded his mind from the Exarch’s arcane senses, effectively invisible to Silverdust’s scrying. The last Okhrana was just feet away from Streig’s unprotected back, short blade raised for the killing strike. The Envoy wanted both of them dead, it seemed.
Silverdust surged forward and Streig, thinking he was under attack from his master, dived to one side. The Exarch met the Okhrana’s blade, felt it pierce his garb, then slammed into the man, catching him in both arms. Okhrana and Exarch sailed from the lip of the roof and Streig turned just in time to watch them plummet to the street below.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Steiner
Panic swept through the crowded bar. Steiner couldn’t tell how many soldiers were with the Exarch, but he knew in his bones they were outnumbered.
‘This way,’ shouted Lidija. Steiner watched as the innkeeper ushered Kristofine out of the bar and up the stairs. Marek followed through the press of bodies and a soldier stumbled through the confusion towards him. Steiner jabbed the sledgehammer at the soldier’s armoured head. A space cleared around him as the sledgehammer clanged against the soldier’s helm.
The locals stared in horror. Not a living soul here had ever seen a person take up arms against the Empire.
The soldier took a moment to steady himself, then turned as Steiner swung, hard and low. The sound of the soldier’s knee breaking was followed by howling. The soldier fell forward, rolling on the ground and clutching his shattered limb. Steiner backed out of the bar as Exarch Zima punched and shouldered his way through the mass of bodies.
Marek and Kristofine had gathered their things by the time Steiner reached the top of the stairs.