Ashes of the Sun

by Django Wexler

  “Do you believe that, about the boy who froze solid?” Beq said when he’d left the table.

  “Probably not,” Maya said.

  “I wouldn’t want to be stuck with Plagueluck for a cognomen, I know that.” Beq twisted the dials on her spectacles, returning her eyes to a more normal size, and blinked. “It’s different for centarchs, I know. The Council assigns your names.”

  Maya nodded, her throat suddenly dry. For a moment they sat in silence.

  “Am I doing something weird?” Beq said. “Sometimes that happens.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You just seem to be alternating between staring at the ceiling and your boots instead of looking at me, so I thought I might have done something weird.” Beq shrugged. “They say the more time you spend around arcanists, the stranger you get, so I must be pretty strange by now.”

  “No, it’s… nerves, I suppose.” Maya took a deep breath and looked straight at Beq, trying to ignore the way her curls framed her round face and the spectacular blue of her eyes. Self-control, Maya. Come on. “You’ve been with the arcanists a long time, then?”

  “Since I was four, I think.” Beq looked thoughtful. “That’s what they tell me, anyway. Since I can remember. I grew up here at the Forge.”

  “My mentor picked me up at around that age.” Automatically, Maya’s hand went to the hard lump of the Thing in her chest. “I’ve been with her ever since.”

  “That’s young, for a centarch.”

  Maya nodded and found time stretching like taffy into another awkward silence. Say something. But what? “Ever since I saw you naked I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you” lacks… tact.

  “All set,” Varo said, rescuing her. He came back to the table and picked up the big catalog. “I’d better give this back, too. Wouldn’t want them to lose their prank piece.”

  “Thank you.” Maya looked between him and Beq. “I’ll try not to be…”

  “A typical centarch?” Varo grinned. “That would be a nice change of pace.”

  They set out the next morning.

  Maya stepped forward, through the rippling mercury curtain, and in the space of a breath crossed most of the width of the Republic. She emerged from the Gate with her panoply raised, one hand on her haken and deiat coiled around her like a snake.

  Jaedia had taught her to be cautious at these moments of transition, but it was more than that. Every previous time she’d gone through a Gate, she’d been at Jaedia’s side. To be without her mentor made her feel raw, every sensation heightened, as though something had scraped away her skin and dug cotton out of her ears.

  The Gate to which they’d traveled was set into a rocky hillside, obscured from casual view by a screen of tall bushes. Maya pushed her way through the brush and found herself in a sun-dappled forest, the blue sky visible in patches overhead through the leafy canopy. The breeze raised gooseflesh along her bare arms, and the air seemed to be alive with birdsong.

  Tanax pushed his way through the bushes behind her, swearing as they tangled in the straps of his pack. Varo slipped out after him, quiet as a ghost, and then Beq. The arcanist was even more heavily burdened than the rest of them, but she still moved lightly. Tanax was already scowling, pulling himself free of the bushes and brushing the leaves from his clothes. He turned in a slow circle, as though expecting to see an obvious direction to proceed. Nothing seemed to present itself, and he frowned.

  “Scout-Trainee Varo,” he said. “Which way to Litnin?”

  Varo checked the crystalline compass hanging from the straps of his pack and oriented himself. He made a chopping gesture.

  “That’s north,” he said, “unless this thing has gone completely haywire.” His expression went thoughtful. “That happened to a friend of mine, in fact. He kept following that compass until he wandered into the ocean and the sharks got him.”

  “You must not have very many friends left,” Maya said.

  “It’s a lonely life, being a scout,” Varo deadpanned.

  “Litnin is to the northeast, if I recall,” Tanax said, turning. “Follow me.”

  “Ah…” Varo gestured at right angles to Tanax’s heading. “Perhaps we should descend to the flat ground near the river first. That would make for easier going.”

  The look Tanax gave the scout could have frozen him on the spot. “Why don’t you lead the way, then?”

  “Of course, Agathios.” Varo managed to catch Maya’s attention and raise an eyebrow, and Maya had to suppress a giggle. “If someone’s going to get eaten, it might as well be me.”

  He hitched his pack up and pushed through the underbrush, moving with an ease that spoke of long practice. Beq, behind him, sounded like a vulpi pup tearing through a pile of autumn leaves. Tanax stalked after them, swatting irritably at branches in his path. Maya permitted herself a sigh before following.

  Why, she thought, do I have a bad feeling about this?

  Chapter 6

  The Moorcat Merchant Combine was one of the wealthiest houses in the Republic, rivaling the most powerful nobles in its reach and power. Some said the Moorcats were richer than the Senate itself, while others confidently asserted they had bought the Senate long ago. Conspiracy theories aside, the reality of their influence was obvious enough. While most merchant houses had to make do with buildings in the West Central district, uncomfortably close to the stench of ordinary commerce, the Moorcats were permitted an expansive complex on the East Rim, within a stone’s throw of the Spike and surrounded by the sprawling mansions of Republic nobility.

  Their land was fenced off, the exterior watched by Auxiliaries and the interior by Moorcat house guards. The chapter house itself was near the back of the estate, surrounded by carefully faked woodlands. It was a magnificent structure, sporting an enormous central dome topped with a gilded statue of Galbio the Moorcat, legendary founder of the organization. Up close, Gyre found the statue unimpressive—the gold was clearly a thin alloy coating, and the details of Galbio’s features looked cheap and hastily carved.

  I suppose you don’t get to be a continent-spanning merchant combine by wasting money on a statue nobody is ever going to get a good look at. He settled against the stone base of the ugly thing. The dome was large enough that it wasn’t steeply sloped, but the lead roofing provided awkward footing. It was nearly midnight, and the stars were blotted out by thick clouds.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. It was only a quarter of an hour before he spotted a lithe figure pull itself up onto the edge of the dome and scramble lightly up toward the statue. Gyre had chewed some nighteye before he’d set out for the evening, and in the weird grayish vision the alchemical stuff provided, Kit’s features were easy to make out. She wore something close to his own working clothes, well-tailored dark silk with a few reinforcing panels of black-dyed leather, and she bore a pair of long knives on one hip and a blaster pistol in a worn holster on the other.

  For his own part, Gyre had brought his full kit, long and short blades in their sheaths, half mask covering his missing eye, the pockets of his dark hooded coat filled with alchemical surprises from Lynnia’s supply closet. He crossed his arms, looking down at Kit as she straightened up and sauntered the last few meters. She’d taken nighteye as well, her pupils hugely swollen until her eyes were nearly all black.

  “Hello, Halfmask,” she said. “I like the look. Very mysterious.”

  “Doomseeker,” Gyre said.

  She winced. “Call me Kit, if you don’t mind. I try not to spread my cognomen around.”

  “Kit, then. Can I ask why you wanted to meet here? Another test?” He’d had to elude several patrols just to cross the grounds, not to mention a dangerous climb up the side of the chapter house timed to elude the men and dogs on patrol. I hate plaguing dogs.

  “Something of that nature. Although, fair’s fair. I got here too, didn’t I?” She half turned and gestured. “Besides, I like the view.”

  With trees screening the neighboring estates, th
ere was really only one thing to see. The Spike lived up to its name, two hundred meters of unmetal as slender and featureless as a needle. It was a relic of the war, a Chosen fortress that had served as a base for their purges of the tunnels. The Gate was inside, connecting Deepfire directly to the Forge and the heart of the Republic, ensuring that it remained under the Twilight Order’s influence in spite of being well outside its nominal borders. In later days, the dux’s palace had been constructed around it, a manor even more luxurious than the Moorcat chapter house, surrounded by walls, Auxiliary barracks, and intricate arcana defenses.

  “I can’t say that I care for it,” Gyre muttered.

  “Always good to appreciate what you’re up against,” Kit said. She glanced back at Gyre. “That is what you’re up against, isn’t it, Halfmask? The Order?”

  “If we’re asking questions, I have a few. Starting with your cognomen.”

  “Oh?”

  “Doomseeker has been a legend since before I came to Deepfire,” Gyre said. “I asked around, and people have told stories about him for at least fifty years. You’re, what, nineteen? Twenty?”

  “That’s a rude thing to ask.” Kit gave a saucy wriggle. “Maybe I’m just very well preserved.” She grinned. “Maybe I found the elixir of youth down in the Tomb, and I’m really a hundred and ten.”

  “You’re not Doomseeker,” Gyre said. “Which raises the question of why I’m even talking to you.”

  “Now, let’s not run away with ourselves.” Kit spread her arms. “I’ll admit that I’m not the first Doomseeker. How does that sound?”

  “Does that mean you never found the Tomb?”

  “That’s an awfully personal question,” Kit said. “Let me maintain some air of mystery.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Gyre said.

  She put on a pout. “But I haven’t even gotten to my proposal.”

  Gyre turned away.

  “Fifty thousand thalers,” Kit said. “And the chance to kick the dux in the teeth as hard as he’s ever been kicked.” She cocked her head. “Not literally, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t get anywhere near his mouth,” Gyre said. “They don’t call him Raskos Rottentooth for nothing.”

  “Ah,” Kit said. “You’re listening, then?”

  “For the moment.” Gyre turned back to her, eye narrowed. “Fifty thousand thalers?”

  “Fifty thousand,” Kit said.

  That was an astonishing sum of money, enough to buy a sizable chunk of the building they were standing on. Gyre paused.

  “Why do you have that kind of money?”

  “My business,” she said. “Or, rather, my client’s.”

  “You have a client.” Gyre frowned. “Who?”

  “Also their business.”

  “And?”

  “Raskos has acquired an item from the deep tunnels,” Kit said. “He’s currently negotiating to sell it, but he doesn’t have the faintest idea what it is he’s got. I want you to take it from him.”

  “That’s it?” Gyre’s frown deepened.

  “Don’t make it sound so easy. The item is locked in a stasis web, so we’re going to have to acquire a destabilizer to open it. Then we need to get the thing itself.” She shrugged. “Most of the mercenaries and scavengers in Deepfire won’t go up against the dux, not directly. But I knew there was at least one group willing to take him on. You and your crew are a little bit infamous, Halfmask.”

  “It’s not my crew. And for fifty thousand thalers, I imagine most mercenaries would overcome their reservations,” Gyre said.

  “Maybe. But they’re not the best. You are.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Gyre looked into her too-wide pupils, and she stared steadily back at him. In the distance, the lights of the city twinkled, and the red glow of the Pit reflected faintly off the low clouds.

  “No,” Gyre said.

  “No what?”

  “No, I’m not doing it.” He shook his head. “The whole thing stinks. For all I know, you’re working for the dux and this is a setup.”

  “If I was trying to trap you, I could have done it back at the Smoking Wreckage,” Kit said.

  “Still too risky,” Gyre said. “I don’t need the money, and there’s other ways I can get to Raskos.” That wasn’t true, of course, but…

  “Then why come to meet with me at all?” Kit said. She leaned closer. “Why come a second time, hmm? Just my personal charm at work?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Birdshit.” She smiled delightedly. “I was right. It’s the Tomb you want, isn’t it?”

  “I thought we’d established you’d never been there.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Kit straightened up. “So what would it take, Halfmask? You want an artifact from the last city of the ghouls? Something no one has ever seen before?”

  She’s lying. She’s been lying to me all along. But Gyre couldn’t keep his pulse from racing.

  “I want you to take me there,” he said.

  “Oh.” Kit blinked. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” she said. “Didn’t they tell you no one ever comes back from the Tomb?”

  “You did. If you’re telling the truth.”

  “The truth is… complicated. But that complexity doesn’t apply to you, I can tell you that much.”

  “Nevertheless. That’s what I want.”

  Kit rocked back and forth on her heels, lost in thought. “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “And they call me Doomseeker.” She sighed. “If that’s what you want, I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t blame me afterward.”

  It was Gyre’s turn to be taken aback. “Just like that?”

  “What, do you want to go downstairs and have the Moorcats draw up a contract?” Kit shrugged. “It seems simple enough. You help me get what I want from Raskos, and I’ll take you to the Tomb. I assume you’ll still need the fifty thousand to get the rest of your merry band on board.”

  “Definitely.” Gyre shook his head. “What proof do I have that you’ve even been to the Tomb?”

  “None that I can offer,” Kit said. “On the other hand, once I tell you what we’re going to steal, there’s nothing to stop you from taking it for yourself and leaving me out in the cold. So we’re going to have to trust each other, won’t we?”

  Very slowly, Gyre nodded.

  “Like I said, it’s not my crew,” he said. “I can’t guarantee that the others will be on board.”

  “Just get me a meeting,” Kit said, her grin returning. “I’m sure I can bring them around.”

  Gyre led Kit on a roundabout route through the city, skirting the north end of the Pit and heading west. They passed the Smokehouse district, with its endless rows of chimneys drooling black streamers that blotted out the stars, and stayed to one side of the road to avoid the continuous rumble of wagons. Beyond were the tunnels, the road running straight into the cracked, crumbling side of the mountain through a massive, irregular archway. The gate was closed, but a quick detour through a side passage brought them to the other side.

  Relatively close to the surface, the tunnels resembled ordinary streets, except that the overarching stone meant none of the buildings had roofs. There were shops and cafés, stables and wagonyards. Since the typical ghoul tunnel was much wider than it was tall, these businesses had apartments behind them, with storefronts separated by narrow, anonymous doorways giving access. There were quite a few people about, even at this late hour, and the pair of them attracted no particular attention. Gyre chewed the neutralizer for his nighteye as he walked, letting his vision return to normal to avoid being blinded by the streetlights and smoke. A thick haze filled the air, and soot blackened the tunnel ceiling.

  Kit stared around openly, drawing sour looks from the troops of tunnelborn in drab coveralls as they trudged past. Gyre nudged her to one side of the street and kept his voice low.

 
“You haven’t spent much time in Deepfire, I take it?”

  “Almost none,” Kit said. “I was born in Grace. After that I’ve been—all over, really, but I haven’t spent more than a night here before now.” She shook her head. “I knew people lived in the tunnels, but I thought it would be more…” She shrugged. “Improvised.”

  “There’s some of that farther out,” Gyre said. “These tunnels are close enough to the Pit that they’re always warm enough to live in. Deeper into the mountain, it depends on the time of year, the air currents. People crowd wherever they can manage.”

  “What are they all doing here?”

  “Trying to survive.” Gyre started walking again, and Kit fell in beside him, at least trying to look less like a tourist. “In the chaos after the end of the war, people from the mountains gathered around the Legion base here for protection. Once there was money to be made, though, the Republic moved in and pushed everyone else down into the tunnels.”

  “Why don’t they leave?”

  “And go where? The Republic border is closed if you’re not a citizen, and the Splinter Kings are as likely to sell you into slavery as let you come stay.”

  “Nobody rules out in the mountains,” Kit said.

  “Nobody keeps you safe from plaguespawn, either.”

  “I suppose not,” Kit mused. She glanced at Gyre. “And that’s what you’re fighting for, is it? The rights of these tunnel people?”

  “They call themselves tunnelborn. And, yes. The dux and his Auxies only care about the manufactories and the merchant combines. Nobody else will protect the people down here.”

  “Hmm,” Kit said. She gave him a curious look, as though she didn’t quite believe him.

  He shrugged and pointed to a narrower alley. “Through here.”

  Gyre led them past a junction where a pair of fiddlers were entertaining a crowd by the light of a bonfire, and along another street filled with printers’ shops. They were all locked up at this hour, though the occasional light in a window showed where someone was hard at work on tomorrow’s edition.