That she would be used twice . . . just as they were all trying to use him in ways they wouldn’t say aloud.
But I know.
They were unaware, ignorant. Immediately, Caldan lowered his head, ashamed of his thought. They lacked knowledge; that was all.
“The warlocks will want me to do their bidding.” A small admission. Let her puzzle this one out.
“We all do their bidding.”
Caldan studied Florian. Her lightly freckled face was pale against the dawn light, her red braided hair spattered with black, as were her supple leather clothes. She carried her short spear in one hand. It too was smeared with jukari blood.
Caldan smiled and shook his head. “But you are led by Kristof. I am a sorcerer, as well. With my Touched blood, what will I be capable of? They won’t relinquish their leash.”
Silence. Then, “You will have two masters.”
“Never a good situation. Fraught with room for misunderstanding.” Let her stew on his words. She needed to see that the warlocks’ desires might not align with her own. But did she? What was he trying to accomplish here? What was the point of sowing dissent, if he wanted nothing to do with the warlocks or the Touched?
Because they should know the truth.
The thought hit him like a runaway horse. What use was the truth if it got you killed? If there was so much as a hint that he knew the truth, the warlocks would kill him, and anyone associated with him. Including Miranda. The potency of the Touched blood had been hidden from the world for centuries, and the emperor and his warlocks would ensure it remained hidden. At any cost.
He had no proof, and yet he was completely sure on that point.
What was a little more blood spilled to keep such a valuable truth hidden? How many others had died to keep the warlocks’ secret?
Once again, it all came down to blood.
CHAPTER 10
Felice walked through the shadowy streets. She wasn’t familiar with this section of Anasoma, but that wasn’t surprising. The city was so large, not many could boast familiarity with all its streets and alleyways.
Perhaps that is especially true of those who supposedly ruled over it, she thought with a self-mocking twist.
Trailing a few steps behind her was one of Rebecci’s hired hands, a short, squat man with shoulders as broad as an ox’s. He carried no weapon that she could see, only hands the size of shovels that looked as if they could crush rock. His brown eyes, gleaming with intelligence he tried hard to hide, scanned their surroundings as they made their way to their destination—an address scrawled on a stained piece of paper handed to her by a fishwife down at the docks. It still had a fish scale stuck to it at the end of a sticky trail of . . . something from the insides of a fish.
She tried to engage the man in conversation again but wasn’t holding her breath that he’d respond. He hadn’t so far. There was something not quite right about him. Maybe she should try baiting him. She was about to ask him a question, one in a tone that implied he was slow of wit. Then Felice sighed, thinking better of it.
“I respect your wish not to speak to me,” she said. “Whatever your reasons are. But I’d appreciate it if I knew your name. Otherwise, I might have to start calling you Big Ox.”
The man glanced at her, then away.
“No?” she asked with amusement. “Fair enough.”
She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. They’d begun to ascend a steep incline, and her lungs were burning. Bloody fever, she cursed inwardly. The sickness that had laid her out had gone, along with its lingering cough, but any exertion, and she gasped like a fish out of water. More fish! It was on her brain, no doubt because it was in her nostrils.
They passed a group of men and women congregating at a crossroads. All were hollow-eyed and hungry-looking, turning to stare at Felice and her companion as they walked past. She could sense their distrust of all people not native to Slag Hill, could almost smell their contempt . . . and jealousy.
Felice nodded to them, then kept her head down. Slag Hill had a bad reputation, even among the worst districts of Anasoma. And that was before the city had been besieged by the Indryallans’ wall of fire. What the men and women were doing at this time of night, she didn’t want to know. She wanted to avoid trouble—hence Big Ox.
Sweat poured from her brow and trickled down her face. She waited until they were a few dozen paces past the crossroads and stopped, opening the top of her shirt to let cool air in. They were almost to the crest of the slope, and to her right was a break in the buildings where an alley led down toward the sea cliffs. Through the gap, the sea was black and unfathomable. What lay beneath, she couldn’t guess.
Just like with Kelhak.
“Pignuts,” she whispered to herself. She was out of options. Which was why she was here in Slag Hill.
“Did you say something?” asked Big Ox. His voice sounded like she imagined a mountain’s would, if one could talk.
Felice figured he was nervous, or he wouldn’t have spoken.
Slag Hill had descended toward chaos once the Quivers patrolling the streets disappeared. The replacement Indryallan patrols hadn’t done much to stabilize the neighborhood, sporadic as they were.
She shook her head. “It was nothing. Just talking to myself. It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation.”
Big Ox grunted, sounding amused and annoyed at the same time.
Felice looked up at the rest of the climb and winced. Not for the first time, she regretted embarking on this course of action, but she had no choice.
Keep telling yourself that.
She took a breath and continued up the steep incline.
“Gentle, they call me.”
Felice almost stopped. Big Ox’s words surprised her.
“Are ‘they’ being ironic?”
She walked another few steps before Gentle responded.
“No.”
She waited for more but was left disappointed. So now she had a bodyguard who was known for being gentle? Or were they referring to the effect he had on those around him? She certainly wouldn’t want to tangle with him. She flicked a quick glance back over her shoulder at the big man. Except in certain situations.
Felice snorted. Keep your mind on the task, she reminded herself.
When they finally reached the top of the hill, the buildings stopped abruptly at a run-down wall of crumbling stone breached by a twisted, rusting gate. Weeds sprouted atop the wall, which was also covered in bird droppings. The gate looked to have been unused for centuries. Luckily, it was open, as vines as thick as her wrist intertwined between the bars. Through the opening was the graveyard of Slag Hill. Their meeting place.
Around the graveyard, the buildings were squalid and falling apart. It didn’t look like squatters had taken up residence, as if living this close to the graveyard was something even a fool wouldn’t do. She was beginning to wonder what she was doing here as well.
Oh, right . . . I’m worse than a fool. I’m the fool who’s following the orders of a fool.
Rebecci had arranged the meeting but had palmed it off to Felice, saying she had business to attend to.
A shiver ran down her spine as she passed through the opening in the wall. Spread out in front of her were tombs and gravestones, older than most of the districts in Anasoma. When the commoners spoke about local legends, those that were creepy or sinister often originated here. Even tales told to frighten children most often had Slag Hill in them, if only to set the scene.
Felice turned and addressed Gentle. “I have to check. Do you remember the terms of this meeting? You mustn’t carry—”
“No pig iron, no crafted items, no trinkets, and nothing that illuminates.”
Felice nodded. She was right that Gentle’s huge exterior hid a sharp intelligence.
“The man I’m meeting was quite specific.”
She expected Gentle to comment, but he didn’t, and she sighed with relief. She was venturing into unknown
territory and didn’t want to explain herself. Not that she needed to, to this big ox, but . . . maybe she’d be able to come up with something to convince herself she was doing the right thing.
Ahead loomed a large tree. As they approached, she could see it was all but dead. A few leaves clung to branches, and the trunk leaned so far one way, she thought it would fall any day now. Someone had placed a few timber props underneath it in an effort to save the tree. One of them lay broken on the ground, snapped in two.
Felice skirted the tree and began counting her steps. At thirty, she turned to the east and counted fifty more. They were close to the edge of the cliffs, and the wind picked up, buffeting their clothes. She faced away from the gale and sidled closer to a marble tomb, atop which sat a weathered statue with both arms missing. Constant sea winds had worn the stone, so all that looked out was a sightless face with a nub of a nose and a gash for a mouth.
The faint sound of waves crashing reached her ears, brought all the way up the cliff by the wind. In the years to come, the cliff would also erode, taking the tomb with it.
Wait at the armless tomb, the message had said. It made sense now. At least one part of the instructions did.
Gentle made a circle around the tomb, then positioned himself behind her.
After the long walk, the cold wind cut Felice to the bone. Her warmth leached from her body, as if she’d traveled from the desert to the snow in a brief minute. She rubbed her arms and shivered. She had no idea how long they’d have to wait; perhaps she should—
Felice froze. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She could hear Gentle shift his weight behind her. Something had . . . changed. In the blink of an eye, the atmosphere had somehow turned . . . bleak. It was as if the night became denser, darker, and sound was muffled.
She slowly turned her head and looked around.
There was nothing . . .
Beside the armless tomb, a shadow stirred. Something was there, where she would have sworn nothing had been moments ago. And Gentle had walked right past that spot.
It was too dark to make anything out, but the shadow grew until it towered over both her and Gentle. Felice swallowed, fear gripping her insides and twisting her stomach.
The shadow was tall and spindly. It looked like an oversize statue covered in strips of rag.
Gentle moved to her side and went to step in front of her, but she held out an arm and stopped him.
A soft hissing voice reached her ears, making Felice wish she was anywhere but here, and preferably snuggled up in a warm bed.
“Did you . . . abide by the terms?” the thing whispered. Words so soft they felt carried by the wind; if it had been calm, she wouldn’t have heard them. Whatever it was, it felt ancient. And it was far removed from the assassin she thought she was meeting. Its words came out broken, as if it struggled to form them.
Felice shoved her shaking hands in her pants pockets. She squinted at the shape, but try as she might, she couldn’t make any details out. At least she knew why whoever or whatever it was didn’t want any light sources near, the better to maintain its disguise.
“Yes” was all she managed.
“No pig iron?”
Felice shook her head. “We have none.”
“No craftings?”
“None.”
“No trinkets?”
“No.”
“No sources of light?”
“Again, no.”
The mound moved back slightly, as if it had been leaning forward intently. “Say the name . . . and I’ll name the price.”
Felice steeled herself. It was too late to pull out of this now. “He’s a sorcerer.”
“Say the name.”
“Kelhak. And there are two conditions. Myself and a . . . friend . . . need to be there when it’s done. After he’s dead, she needs to do something.”
A sound like an exhalation escaped from the assassin. “Ah, ah, intriguing. Aligning maybe . . . death . . . maybe . . . must be done . . .”
Gentle’s feet scuffed on dirt as he shifted his weight. He was nervous, and Felice didn’t blame him. She waited until the assassin stopped talking to himself. She had to hand it to him: he’d worked hard on coming across as disturbing and sinister. But underneath the mummery, he was just a man with a knife. And that was all she needed. Albeit one who wasn’t afraid of sorcerers.
“The price?” she reminded gently.
“Three trinkets. Three for what was . . . three for Kelhak.”
Gentle gasped.
Felice cursed inwardly. Where was she going to get three trinkets? All the information she had was that he only ever asked for ducats.
“I thought you took payment in ducats? I hadn’t heard you wanted trinkets.”
“Not here. Not now. In payment . . . I do.”
She tugged an earring and sighed. “I accept. I’ll need a few days to gather the payment.”
“A bargain sealed, then. Payment only when task is complete. You and your friend meet me here three nights hence.”
“Agreed.”
“Tell me, Felicienne . . . do you know why this place is called Slag Hill?”
She hadn’t told anyone outside of Rebecci’s circle her name. And all communication with the assassin’s network had been anonymous so far. Felice’s throat tightened. “This is where the old ironworks was located, before the sorcerers came up with a better way of smelting the metal. The old manufactories were shut down. I’d always thought it had something to do with that.”
There was a pause. The only sound came from the wind gusting about them.
“No . . . before this city was another city. Ancient sorcerers created jukari here . . . among others.”
Despite herself, Felice was intrigued. Knowledge was power, and she was never one to pass up learning something. “Vormag?”
“Among others.”
Could she trust his information? And why was he telling her this?
“After the Shattering, the city was destroyed. Reduced to molten slag . . . killing almost everything here.”
Almost? Some jukari escaped, then. They were confined to the Desolate Lands now. Still . . . she’d learned something, if it was true.
“Thank you,” she said graciously. “I welcome all knowledge.”
The assassin stirred, sounding like stones rattling down a hill.
“Knows . . . doesn’t know . . . should she? . . . dangerous . . . yes, maybe . . .”
Felice drew herself up. Their business was done for now. And the sooner she left this place, the better. “If you’ve finished talking to yourself, we’ll take our leave.”
“Talking to myself is the only way I can have an intelligent conversation,” the assassin said.
Was he mocking her? Had he heard what she’d said earlier? The realization he may have been following them all this time sent a chill along her spine.
With a creak, the assassin rose up until he was a few heads taller than Gentle. A whimper reached her ears, and Felice realized it came from her. A strong hand clasped her arm. Gentle.
“Be careful,” the assassin whispered, “what you welcome, Felicienne.”
“Enough of this mummery,” growled Gentle. “Show yourself, assassin.” He shoved Felice behind him, and light erupted, banishing shadows, as he drew out a sorcerous globe.
“Gentle, no!” Felice said.
There was a rustle of cloth as the assassin slammed into Gentle. Bones broke with an audible snap. The globe sailed over the cliffside like a falling star. Gentle sagged to his knees, one arm hanging limply by his side. The assassin withdrew into the darkness, back to his original position, then remained still.
Gentle keeled over, lifeless. Blood oozed from a wound in his chest, right where his heart would be.
Felice stumbled to her knees and pressed her hand against his chest to stop the bleeding. His eyes stared ahead, unfocused, unseeing. Felice felt hot tears trail down her cheeks.
“I warned you,” the assassin said. “We ha
ve struck a deal. Honor it.”
As the assassin finished speaking, there was a crack behind Felice, as if a frozen tree split in two. Her heart jumped at the sound. She twisted to look. Nothing.
Heart thumping in her chest, Felice jerked her head back to the assassin.
He was gone.
A shadow moved by the cliff edge.
“Pignuts,” she said, looking down at Gentle. He was dead. There was nothing she could do.
Felice stood and wiped her bloody hands on her trousers. She wondered if she had the strength to go on.
Stumbling to the cliff, she used her boot to scuff at the edge. There was an overturned stone, some scrape marks.
He came—and left—over the edge.
Felice leaned as far out as she dared. A hundred yards below, the ocean crashed onto boulders. The wind rushed in her ears, blowing her hair straight up. It was so strong, it felt like a hand pushing her back.
She looked at Gentle, told him she was sorry.
What had Rebecci gotten her into?
“IT’S AN HERBAL mixture that will relieve the pain and swelling of the limb,” Gerhard said, adding another spoonful of a dark green powder to a clear glass. The hot water inside turned a yellowy-green tinge as he stirred. “Only a few more ingredients, and we’ll be ready.”
Gerhard wore his pale hair swept back over his head and greased into place. He dressed like a sorcerer: dark robes, with craftings plainly visible, but the soles of his boots were worn almost through, and the elbows of his sleeves had been patched.
Here is a man who cares little for outward appearances, thought Aidan. He watched as Gerhard added a few drops of yellow liquid. Poppyseed oil, most likely, along with a dried leaf crushed between the palms of his hands and brushed into the cup.
Once Aidan’s story had filtered up the hierarchy—helped along by the writ he carried—he had been questioned by a number of high-ranking Quivers and given privileges many couldn’t afford. Gerhard was one: an expensive physiker.
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