Trial of Stone

by Andy Peloquin

He climbed higher until he reached a more comfortable perch. Though he couldn’t see from his new position, he could listen in on the conversation within the room.

  “We had a deal!” Snarth’s voice held a high-pitched, plaintive whine. “I gave you what you asked for. You agreed I’d get a place in the Syndicate, but not as a low-level street ruffler, but a proper Crewman.”

  “We did have a deal.” The voice that answered held a gruff note, deep with gravel and disdain. “But what you’ve brought me isn’t enough. If you want in, you need to do better.”

  “What more do you want from me, Annat?” Snarth sounded ready to cry. “I just know how he runs all of us in the streets. He doesn’t let any of us see where his fortune is stored or what he writes in that book of his. But you can just ask him about it when you take him down. Torture it out of him if you have to.”

  “Sounds like you’re expecting to be rewarded for making us do all the hard work,” replied the man, Annat. “If you want what you ask for, you’ll have to do better.”

  Evren’s mind raced. He’s talking about Killian. He was fairly certain Snarth was working for this Syndicate, either as a plant in Killian’s Mumblers or a defector. Either way, he planned to betray Killian to these people.

  Anger surged within Evren. He had no true love for Killian—the man had helped him get his current position within Suroth’s household likely out of self-interest—and he owed the blacksmith nothing. Yet Evren had suffered too many betrayals in his life, both in the temple and on the streets. The thought of such treachery set his blood boiling.

  “Tell you what,” Annat continued, his words softening to a haggling tone, “you want in as a Crewman, you get your hands on Killian’s book. Or, at the very least, find out where he keeps it.”

  “He’s too careful,” Snarth whined. “He never lets anyone—”

  “The Syndicate don’t give two shites of a horse’s arse for your excuses.” Annat’s voice rose to a snarl. “Your place in our ranks must be earned. We are poised to take power over this city. The Pharus will soon lie dead, and in the chaos that ensues, we will claim the Artisan’s Tier for our own. But we cannot have that accursed blacksmith and his Mumblers roaming the streets. That book of secrets holds the key to Killian’s power in this city. Until you get it and deliver it to us, you are not worthy to call yourself one of us.”

  “But—”

  Evren didn’t hear the rest of Snarth’s protest. His stomach lurched as the stone beneath his right hand crumbled free of the sandstone cliff. Acting on instinct, he released his grip on the falling rocks and reached for another handhold. Even as he regained his balance, his eyes flew wide as the stones clattered atop the rubble and debris littering the alleyway. Right atop the discarded remains of a cracked metal pot. To Evren’s ears, the noise was deafening.

  “What was that?” Annat’s voice came from within the room, filled with suspicion.

  Without hesitation, Evren began climbing down the cliff face as fast as he could. He’d just reached the ground when he heard Annat’s angry shout from overhead.

  “Spy! Get him!”

  Adrenaline surged in Evren’s veins as he sprinted toward the mouth of the alley. His only hope of escape lay in reaching the street before—

  Two thugs appeared around the corner and raced into the alleyway, their eyes fixed on him. Evren caught the glint of steel as they began drawing their belt daggers.

  He had a single heartbeat to decide his course of action—draw his jambiya or try to bull-rush them. If he got bogged down in a knife fight, he might not get out before Annat and anyone else within the building arrived to reinforce the guards.

  Evren leapt up onto an overturned wooden crate and shoved off with all the strength in his legs, hurtling through the air toward the man. His right fist drew back for a flying punch aimed at the thug to his left. Not the smartest blow in a brawl, but the best choice for taking down an enemy quick and dirty.

  His fist crashed into the man’s jaw with teeth-shattering force. Evren’s knuckles, hardened by years of bare-handed fighting, protested at the collision with the jawbone but didn’t break. The thug’s head snapped around and he stumbled backward, sagging into unconsciousness.

  The second guard had managed to draw his dagger and swiped at Evren, but Evren’s momentum carried him past faster than the thug had anticipated. He tensed in expectation of pain yet none came. Instead, he heard a quiet rip as the strike tore cloth.

  Then he was past the guard and racing east on the Way of Chains, toward Auctioneer’s Square. He had to get up to the higher tiers, hopefully high enough that the thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him.

  Angry shouts echoed behind him but he didn’t dare look back. The thugs in the alley, caught up in the rush of battle, wouldn’t remember his face. Annat, Snarth, and any others pursuing him would only see his retreating back. His dull street clothing blended into the shouting throng in front of the auctioneer’s blocks and would make it easy to hide among the crowds on the Cultivator’s and Artisan’s Tiers. His headband gave him easy access to the uppermost tiers, and he could be back in the uniform of Suroth’s servants as soon as he returned to the Arch-Guardian’s mansion. Once he lost his pursuers, their chances of actually hunting him down bordered on slim to none.

  Yet escape wouldn’t prove as easy as he’d hoped. The shouts and cries from the men behind him matched his pace. He was fast, but they knew the city better than he. Worse, he couldn’t skirt the crowds—he’d stand out far too much—so he’d be forced to slither through the crush of people in Auctioneer’s Square. He’d have to move slower, be more cautious who he shoved aside for fear of drawing attention.

  I have to find another way! The back streets of the Slave’s Tier tended to be fairly empty at this time of day. He could use those to evade the crowds.

  He ducked out of sight into an alleyway and glanced over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit. Ice ran down his spine as he caught sight of Annat striding down the Way of Chains, flanked by a dozen bull-necked thugs.

  “Spread out,” Annat snarled. “I want him found and brought to me now!”

  Heart pounding, Evren glanced around for any avenue of escape. He had no choice but to flee deeper into the back alleyways as Annat’s thugs surged down the side streets. His gut tightened as he caught sight of more men cutting off the way ahead and behind him. He’d be in serious trouble if he allowed himself to be boxed in.

  He shot a glance at the towering sandstone cliff. The only way out is up.

  The cliff face rose eighty feet—fifty to the level of the Cultivator’s Tier and another thirty for the height of the tier’s wall—but the stone buildings of the Slave’s Tier stood just fifteen or twenty feet tall. If he could just get up the cliff and onto the rooftops, he could hide out until his pursuers passed or gave up the search. He might even be able to find a way of escape that way. The Hunter had used the rooftops of Voramis as his own personal highway—Evren might be able to do the same.

  He glanced at the street and, finding his pursuers momentarily distracted searching nearby homes, raced toward the cliff face. Hand over hand, he climbed as quickly as he could. The rough stone gave him plenty of holds but tended to crumble beneath his weight. He had to pick a careful path else risk getting stuck with no way up, down, or to the side. It took him a full two minutes to make the climb.

  His heart clenched as his fingers closed around the stone lip of the roof and he pulled himself up. The thatching creaked and rustled beneath his feet, sagging precariously, but to his relief it held. He tested with his feet until he found a section that seemed sturdier, supported by the roof beams, and raced up the gentle stope toward the ridge. He hauled himself over and down the other side just as a pair of thugs turned into the alleyway he’d just vacated.

  Climbing down the roof proved easy work, and the stone wall provided him with solid footing to make the leap to the next roof over. Yet as he scrambled over the second house, he found himself confronted by an alleywa
y.

  The gap was less than six feet wide, a jump he could make any day. Yet two of Annat’s thugs stood below, kicking through debris and muttering curses. Evren waiting, heart hammering, until they left and counted to thirty before making the leap.

  Two more roofs, then another alley, this one wider than the first. He barely made the eight-foot jump and had to throw himself flat onto the thatching to avoid falling backward. His mouth was dry, his palms sweaty as he continued his rooftop trek.

  The next alleyway was narrow, but the roof on the far side had crumbled away, revealing the sways and spars that held up the thatching.

  Keeper’s teeth! Jaw clenched in frustration, Evren paused to consider his course of action. He could see the roof beams, warped by sun and rain yet solid enough to hold his weight. If he didn’t get his leap just right, he would crash through roof.

  The caution saved his life.

  Just as he prepared to make the leap, two figures appeared at the mouth of the alley and set about searching it. Evren threw himself flat on the rooftop, heart hammering. Bloody hell, that was too close. If he’d attempted the jump, they would have spotted him for sure.

  The thatch was hot and bristly against his face, yet it had the sweet smell of grass and hay. He glanced up at the bright sun. It had to be the first or second hour after noon—the trek to the Artisan’s Tier had taken the better part of two hours, and he’d followed Snarth down here to the Slave’s Tier for more than an hour. If he didn’t lose his pursuers soon, he wouldn’t have time to get to Killian’s before racing back to Suroth’s mansion.

  Whatever Samall and Kuhar had planned for Lady Briana was happening tonight, and Evren had to return as soon as possible to at least try to warn the bodyguards. But he felt Killian deserved a warning as well. More as a professional courtesy than any genuine concern, truth be told. If he got to Killian in time, the blacksmith would owe him.

  He had enough time, barely. If only these damned thugs would hurry up and get out of here! They seemed far more interested in kicking through the litter covering the alley than looking up at the rooftops. I need to get out of here now, else I won’t have time to warn Killian and get back to Suroth’s mansion.

  Time dragged on for what felt like an eternity, but was likely no more than three or four minutes, before the thugs concluded their search. Evren breathed a silent sigh of relief as they hurried away. He waited another minute to be certain they’d gone before standing from his hiding place. Without hesitation, he made the leap.

  He landed hard on the beam, but to his horror he found the nails holding it in place had rusted away. The beam swayed and creaked beneath his weight. Evren had to throw himself to another section of roof just before the wood crumbled beneath him. His gut clenched as he watched the patch of grass and reed thatch sag inward and collapse into the house. Thankfully, the attic stood empty. Heart in his throat, he listened for any indication that he’d been overheard. When no cries or shouts echoed from the streets below, he continued his trek across the rooftops of the Slave’s Tier.

  He made far slower progress than he’d like. Though Auctioneer’s Square stood just a few hundred yards from Death Row, he had to pause to check the streets for his pursuers before leaping over the alleys. By the time he decided he’d covered enough ground to evade the thugs, he’d lost at least an hour.

  Clambering down the wall, he slipped down the alleyway toward the side streets. Relief flooded him. No sign of the thugs. He raced down the street and ducked into the press of people on the Way of Chains. The throng would give him ample cover. He’d spent years slipping through thick crowds unseen. This time, instead of picking pockets and lifting purses, he only had to concentrate on escaping his pursuers.

  He had just broken free of the crowd and headed toward Death Row when he felt a sense of danger prickling at the back of his neck. His heart sank as he caught sight of four hard-faced, thick-necked men guarding the road up to the Cultivator’s Tier and freedom.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kodyn couldn’t believe it. He’d been prepared for a secret code, like the Illusionist’s script used to encode the map of Lord Auslan’s vaults his mother had stolen from Duke Phonnis.

  But not empty paper. He turned the scroll over in his hands, held it up to the light. Nothing. The same rolled-up papyrus utterly devoid of even a single line or character.

  Keeper’s teeth! Anger surged within him.

  Aisha frowned, confusion on her face. “You think Ennolar made a mistake?”

  “Maybe.” Kodyn scowled down at the map. “Either that or he deceived us.”

  His mind raced. If he’s afraid of the Black Widow, he could have given Aisha this fake to buy time enough for him to get out of Shalandra.

  That didn’t fit. The Secret Keeper had had all night to flee if that had been his plan all along. He wouldn’t have waited in Shalandra just to hand over a fake to Aisha.

  He stared down at the blank scroll in his hands. So what the hell is this thing?

  Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out the Secret Keeper’s actions or the meaning of the blank map.

  The Black Widow might know, he decided. At the very least, she will know what to do with Ennolar. If he did betray us or her by giving us this fake, she’ll have a plan on how to get the information I need—even if it means hunting down a fleeing Secret Keeper.

  Kodyn controlled his anger long enough to roll the scroll up and slide it back into its tube, but he shoved the lid on so hard he nearly broke it. He drew in a deep breath in an effort to tamp down his anger.

  “I need to visit the Black Widow,” he told Aisha and Briana. “Not only about this map.” He showed them the purse Suroth had given him. “The Arch-Guardian said that this would convince the Black Widow to help us in our efforts to bring down the Necroseti responsible for Briana’s abduction.”

  Both young women studied the purse, curiosity written in every line of their faces. Kodyn couldn’t help sharing their interest. He hadn’t opened the strings to look inside, and he only felt that impossibly round, smooth object within. The thought that something so small could hold such value only added to his desire to know what Suroth was sending to the Black Widow.

  “Go,” Aisha told him. “I’ll stay with Briana. We’ll be safe here.”

  Kodyn studied the Ghandian. Aisha’s face was paler than usual, a sharp contrast to the shadows in her eyes and the tightness around her mouth. Yet if she wanted him to think nothing was wrong, he trusted her enough to honor her wishes.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He’d wait until he spoke with the Black Widow before deciding what his next step would be. He had three weeks to figure out how to get into the Serenii vault, but he had to balance the need to complete his Undertaking with his desire to keep Briana safe.

  One thing at a time.

  He left Aisha and Briana in the rooftop garden and descended to the second-floor room he’d been given beside Briana’s private quarters. The room’s luxuries far surpassed the few comforts he’d had in House Hawk. There, he’d had a simple wooden bed with a straw-filled mattress suspended by ropes, a chest to hold his valuables, a desk and chair, and armoire for his Hawk clothing and equipment. Here, the double-sized bed was covered in plush pillows, a velvet-covered comforter, and a mattress stuffed with soft goose feathers. The table, chair, and furniture were made of oak, teak, and ebony, the hardware gold-plated metal, with ornate etchings of gold and platinum. There was even a soft, deep shag rug to cover the white Praamian ceramic tiles.

  He strode to the armoire and pulled the heavy doors open. Pulling out simple servant’s clothing left for him at Briana’s orders, he stripped off his armor and unbuckled his long sword. He dressed quickly and, donning the green-and-gold headband that marked him as a Dhukari’s servant, he strode out of the front gate with the determined stride of a man on a mission. His clothing hid enough of his favorite daggers for him to feel safe, but he carried a wooden basket as cover for whatever errand he was pretend
ing to be on. No one would question him—a servant headed to the Artisan’s Tier to shop for his master.

  As he strode toward Death Row, his eyes scanned the crowds until he found what he sought. A boy, no more than ten or eleven, clad in simple servant’s clothing, wearing a braided gold and white headband, but with a black iron bracelet on his right wrist.

  Kodyn sidled up to the boy. “Tell the Black Widow the Praamian wishes to speak with her. I’ll be waiting by the blacksmiths’ road in the Artisan’s Tier in an hour and a half.”

  The boy didn’t so much as glance at him. Kodyn continued on his way but watched the lad out of the corner of his eyes. He’d gone nearly fifty paces before the boy stirred from his position and scampered away. He lost sight of the small boy instantly, but continued on down Death Row, confident that his message would reach the Black Widow soon enough.

  The guards at the gate to the Defender’s Tier waved him through without a second glance. The Indomitables patrolling the Alqati level seemed uninterested in a Dhukari’s servant, even a foreigner, and the soldiers guarding the entrance to the Artisan’s Tier paid him little heed.

  Good to see I chose the right disguise for this mission.

  A glance at the sun told him he’d used up an hour of the time he’d allotted to reach the blacksmiths’ road on the Artisan’s Tier. He quickened his pace—he’d have to hurry if he wanted to reach the meeting place in time to—

  “You there!”

  Kodyn’s blood turned to ice and it took all of his self-control not to freeze or reach for a dagger. He continued on his way, refusing to look over his shoulder. A backward glance was the surefire mark of a guilty thief.

  “Get up!” The gruff voice roared behind him again.

  Relief bathed Kodyn as he realized the shout wasn’t aimed at him. Now he allowed himself to turn and seek the source of the voice.

  A four-man Indomitable patrol stood on the eastern edge of Death Row, glowering down at a pathetic figure huddled on the ground. The man was wasted by age, hunger, and the strange blue blisters that dotted his hands, face, and sunburned skin. Emaciated ribs and gaunt, bony shoulders showed beneath the tatters of the man’s robes. A thin strip of filthy, dust-stained black rope encircled his head, marking him as one of Shalandra’s wretched caste.