The Lantern-Lit City

by Vista McDowall

  "Tell me what I want to know," he growled, "and I let you live."

  "You'll be vecking executed, you bastard." False bravado. Admirable, but stupid.

  "Apparently I've died already."

  "I won't tell you anything," Blike spat. Jagger hauled him up a little, pulling at his scalp. He yelped.

  "You were at Daggenhelm," Jagger said, his voice cracking a little. "Is that right?"

  "What does it matter to you, Skal?"

  Jagger pressed the knife lazily into his skin, a few errant bits of blood trickling down. In an easy manner, he said, "Ever heard of the Bloodied Giant? Eightfingers? The Heartless?"

  "He's dead. We didn't let a single vecking Shiv past us."

  "Ha. Really now? Cause I'm the Bloodied Giant." Jagger felt the soldier's neck move as he swallowed nervously. "You thought you were so brave, didn't you? Murdered hundreds of people in the middle of the night, in their sleep? Very brave."

  "You're Jagger Cross," Blike whispered, his eyes rolling up in a terrified attempt to glimpse his attacker. Can't be having that. Jagger pulled his hair erratically left to right, making him yelp again.

  "The same. So you'll know exactly how merciful I am. You tell me what I want to know, and you'll go free. Might be lacking a finger or two, maybe an ear, but you'll live. If you keep your mouth shut in an effort at 'dignity' or 'honor,' I promise that you will die slowly, painfully, and lacking any honor. You'll scream like a little girl, you'll wet yourself, you'll beg me to stop and promise me that you'll suck my cock for a chance at life. You'd even let me sodomize you if it meant the pain could stop. But it won't, not until Autorus comes to drag you yelling and crying into the afterlife. Now, Blike – that is your name, isn't it? – you're goin'ta tell me how the Realm's Protectors found Daggenhelm. Who told you? Who did you pay to find it?"

  "I don't know!" the soldier squealed.

  "Not a good answer," Jagger said. He sliced his knife down the side of Blike's head. An ear bounced with bloody splatters to the ground. Blike howled in pain.

  "Who told the Realm's Protectors about the Shivs' location?" Jagger asked, deceptively calm. Inside, he longed to gut this man now, drag his intestines into a drawing on the ground, but he needed information.

  "Some peddler, a young man I think, I didn't see him clearly!" the soldier sobbed.

  "Name!" Jagger hissed.

  "Sandu Crin, I think. He worked there, he sold you to us for–"

  The soldier's words were cut short as his blood sprayed down his body, a red cascade from the vicious slash across his throat. Jagger had nearly reached the man's spine. Huh.

  Now he knew. Jagger shoved the man's body away from him and wobbled to his feet, thoughts spinning through his furious mind. Sandu? No. No, it's a lie, Sandu would never...Sandu was my friend! Sandu died in the attack, he must have...

  Jagger remembered, though, that Sandu had left a mere deshe before the massacre, saying he'd be back once his business was completed. He had never returned.

  That bastard. I'll make him eat his own guts.

  Jagger's anger overpowered him. Grasping Blike's head, he bashed it, again and again and again, against a pile of old bricks, smashing it, yelling incoherently, until his strength was spent, the battered face unrecognizable.

  Jagger mumbled to himself, "I'll hunt Sandu down. I'll kill him, I'll break him, I'll destroy every bastard that ever looked favorably on him. I'll make him pay for it, Raven, I promise."

  Chapter Six

  Gwen

  HER MAROON-COLORED DRESS rustled softly against itself as Gwen folded it carefully. Such an ordinary action, yet her hands trembled. This shouldn't be happening. For a moment she paused, gathering herself. She had worn this dress at last autumn's Hymn Day festival, when the men started paying attention to her and her brother jokingly protected her from their guiles. Her brother Wullum had told her, "Little Gwen, stay a child one more year; adulthood comes far too quickly!" Gwen smiled at the memory and moved to place the dress in her traveling trunk. It was already crowded with more dresses, shifts, bodices, under-linens, and jewelry. She hesitated, holding the dress in one hand while sorting through the packed trunk with the other, before shaking out the red fabric and laying it back down on the bed. There wouldn't be much room for fancy clothes on the road.

  The next half-candle Gwen spent laying out the remainder of her dresses, occasionally exchanging one from her wardrobe for one in the trunk. Only so much could fit, and she wouldn't be able to change her mind later. Not much time remained, but still she dawdled. It's for my own good, she reminded herself. Wullum wouldn't have me leave unless need required it. I have to leave Lordstown, and never come back.

  Never was a very long time.

  Wullum and his advisers told Gwen she would be safer in a foreign land, away from the Trials here in Demarren. But she didn't quite believe them: what could be safer than being with her brother, the Liegelord of the kingdom?

  And if she left, she would be completely alone. Though she might feel lonely here sometimes, she knew the faces of her servants and the Demar courtiers. Everyone would be a stranger no matter where she went.

  Before the servants came to take her trunk, Gwen called her favorite, most loyal attendant. "Rinar, you must do something for me. When I am gone, look underneath my bed. There's a loose slab of stone. I want you to take everything you find there and burn it. You must do this before the Inquisitors make it into the palace. Do this for me, and my brother may have a chance at life."

  Rinar nodded. "It will be done, Your Highness."

  "Thank you." Gwen watched the last of her luggage be taken out, then sat at her mirror, picked up a brush, and played with her dark hair. It calmed her, running her fingers through the silky strands and curling them around and around her thumb. Her mother had always said, "A woman's hair is her pride, my Gwen. When you are older, you will understand the way a man looks at you when your hair shows – just so – your heritage." And her mother, the gods bless her grave, had been a rare beauty.

  "Gwen?" Wullum stood in the archway to her rooms. He was every bit a Liegelord, with golden rings on his fingers and tattoos on his dark, bald head. In the warm summer, he dressed only in a long, white, open-faced robe over loose breeches, his feet bare. "I've come to make my farewells."

  Gwen nodded, the realization that this may be the last time she would ever see her brother settling on her, clouding her head like wine. When he held out his arms, she stepped into his familiar embrace. He smelled of chocolate and sweet fruit, his robe soft against her bare arms; the comfort she gained from holding him cracked by the fear of leaving, and anger that he was the one to make her go. Though she was seventeen and almost a woman grown, she felt like a child again, desperate not to let go of her older brother.

  "No words, my bird?" he asked, his cheek buried in her braided hair. She shook her head against his chest. She didn't know what to say. Goodbye was too short, too empty, yet anything else seemed too long.

  "Then I'll talk for both of us. Stay wary, even once you've left our shores. Spies and assassins are as fleas in this world, it seems. Never let a man take advantage of your innocence, and never let women prey upon your fears. It won't be a pleasant journey, I'm afraid. A merchant, Master Hamon, has a way out of the city for you; he'll take you to the port by land. The rivers are infested with Inquisitors checking every ship. Once at sea, the ship's captain has been given instructions to take you wherever you please."

  "But why?" Gwen blurted out.

  "The Inquisition will not take long to come into the palace, sweet bird. When word of your escape has traveled to the Skals, they'll use it as proof of our guilt."

  "They won't get past the soldiers," Gwen said with a certainty she didn't feel. Her violet eyes darted to the window, as if she expected to see enemies creeping in at that very moment.

  Wullum smiled sadly. "I'm afraid they will. There's too many of them, with too many fearful rustics on their side. Once they've come into the palace, they'll tor
ture me to learn where you've gone. If I don't know the answer, then I can't betray you. Don't you see, Gwen? You'll be safe."

  "Come with me," Gwen pleaded, clutching at his robes. "They can't torture you if you're with me! Don't let them do this."

  "If there's a way to halt the Trials, then I'll find it here. What would the people say if their Liegelord fled the country on the hearsay of fear-mongers? I must stay, whether it be folly or courage. You are a princess of Demarren and will obey me, so I order you to find a new home and live happily. When the Inquisition's leaders have been executed for crimes against us, then you may return an innocent woman."

  "As you command, my liege," Gwen said to her knees.

  Her brother's strong arms tightened around her, then he left, almost running, as if he were trying to conceal a grief it would be unmanly to reveal. Gwen stood, an emptiness filling her, and watched him go. Soon after the last traces of his scent dissipated, she shook herself and went to change for the road. Instead of her usual silks and satins, she wore a simple linen dress, torn in places and stained with dried mud, and simple boots of rough leather. A cowl wrapped around her head and hid her dark brown face, replacing the opaque veil she normally pinned to her hair. She looked the same as any peasant.

  Before her brother's trusted steward, Falil, bundled her away to an uncertain future, Gwen looked one last time at her rooms. Here she had played as a little girl with her dolls and her pets. Here she had bled for the first time and been comforted by her mother, who was delighted by Gwen becoming a woman. Here old Ebarren had found her soon after she chanted imaginary words and caused her doll to float untethered across the room.

  Maybe I should confess, Gwen thought desperately as Falil tugged at her arm. If I confess to having magic, perhaps the Trials will end and they will leave my brother alone.

  But even as she thought it, she knew that her confession would only hasten hers and Wullum's executions. Magic, no matter who practiced it, was forbidden in Demarren, and now an Inquisition had been built to root out the wizards and witches and bring them to justice. The accused were tortured until they confessed and then hanged publicly. Not even members of the royal court were immune: Udrina, Wullum's adviser, had been dragged from her home twelve days before.

  Falil led Gwen through the servants' low, dark, twisting passages. They darted from hall to stair as if the very walls could betray them to the Inquisition. Putting a finger to his lips, Falil peered out from a concealed doorway. Then he took her hand and led her across an empty room and into another set of hidden warrens. More than one cobweb caught in Gwen's clothes.

  "Have the lead Inquisitors been named?" Gwen asked. When the Inquisition began, accusations came from the mouths of children who claimed that magic had been used to hurt them. But as the Trials grew, Wullum confided in Gwen that there must be leaders behind it, urging the children to name those closest to the Liegelord.

  "Your Highness, with all due respect, you shouldn't think of such things now. These matters are best left to–"

  "I need to know whose names to give to the gods, as protection for Wullum," Gwen pleaded.

  The steward glanced back at her and said, "It is as our liegelord suspected, Your Highness. Councillors Rolf Rahskken and Olfrick Kron have joined with the Faith to lead the Inquisitors. Both have been expelled from the high council."

  Skallish traitors. Of course. Wullum had complained for years that the native Skals were continually resisting his rule: they claimed that he and his Demar kin had no place on their island. The great First Liegelord, Hasifer Zaman, had taken his beleaguered people from their native land and traveled north on the sea for months until they landed on this beautiful yet harsh island. Disparate Skallish tribes dwelled here, but they were too divided to withstand the invading force. Liegelord Hasifer established his people here, but now his hard work was threatened by Skallish traitors. Few of the accused were the pale-skinned Skals.

  Her breath coming harder, Gwen didn't ask any more questions. She and Falil wound down through the palace until they reached a small courtyard where deliveries and supplies came in. Sooner than she would have liked, Gwen found herself lying among sacks of potatoes and beets in the back of a horse-drawn cart. She could see the sun setting beyond the wall until the merchant covered her and his cargo with a heavy cloth.

  "Don't move, don't make a sound," the merchant said softly. "Hide under the sacks as best you can." He gave her a small smile, which she returned. He had a round, jolly face, and the light skin and hair of a Skal. A better Skal than those traitors.

  Gwen did as he said and shifted the sacks until she had made a small nest, then drew a lighter sack over herself. Only a small sliver of light made it through the layers of rough cloth. She heard the merchant, Hamon, cluck to his horse, and the cart shifted beneath her. A few minutes later, the smooth stones of the courtyard turned to the rough cobbles of Long Way.

  From her hiding place, Gwen could hear the cries of people in the street. "Hang the witches!" "Kill them!" The shouts faded as the cart traveled further from the palace toward the city's high halls. Gwen bumped and jostled with the produce, biting her cheek to keep from crying out. Her hands grew tight from clinging to the sacks, her back sore from crouching. The sliver of light faded, and Gwen closed her eyes. She couldn't see anything even if she tried.

  The quarter-candle journey from the palace to the city wall stretched out interminably, though Gwen couldn't tell if Hamon drove the cart slowly or if she was imagining it. It felt an eternity since she had been swaddled among the vegetables.

  Gwen wished Wullum were with her, or, even better, she could be home asleep with no Trials to worry her. If the Inquisition succeeded, and the Skals took her brother's throne, she would no longer be a princess – just a scared little girl.

  At last, the cart stopped, and she heard a man's voice, "Just made it in time, Hamon. We were about to close the gates. Usual load, then?"

  "Yea, just vegetables and wares. Not a good economy in the city, what with the Trials and all."

  "Aye, it's a shame alright. Go on through."

  Gwen let loose the breath she held as the cart jolted forward once more, the merchant whistling a jaunty tune as he goaded the horse to a canter. Some time later, he stopped and brought Gwen up to sit with him. He chatted away with an air of pretend nonchalance, but she didn't listen. Her eyes closed, she leaned against the backboard, homesick already. Strange, how she had never missed Lordstown on all her travels away from it, but now that she couldn't return...

  Hamon hummed a merry tune and watched the road with a steady eye, his hands sure on the reins. Gwen turned her face away from him, only sniffling a little as she began to cry. She felt a nudge on her arm as he held a handkerchief out to her.

  "To dry your pretty eyes, Highness," Hamon said with a wink. "I'm sure you'll return before too long."

  "Thank you," Gwen mumbled.

  "Don't mention it. Settle in, then. It'll be a few days to the harbor."

  A quinn later, Gwen stood, unsure, on the road next to a long dock. The harbor teemed with life: crewmen scurried about their ships, sods lay drunkenly amidst nets and crates, and ladies held their kerchiefs aloft to wave goodbye to their loves. Smoke and meat perfumed the air, with a touch of sweat and more than a hint of salt and fish, while the slip of waves lapping wood underlaid the heavy fall of men working their hammers. Gwen sweated under her linens. She hadn't bathed the entire journey, and must smell as poorly as everyone else here.

  "Perhaps a letter has come for me, saying I can return?" Gwen asked Hamon hopefully.

  "I think not, Your Highness," he said.

  Taking her arm, Hamon led Gwen along the dock, past Skallish longships, Dedarian galleys, and Dotsch holks to an Empire-fashioned cog with a single tall mast. Gwen saw no other passengers.

  A serious-looking Demar man stood bellowing orders on the dock, one hand on his hip and the other stroking his chin. In the middle of shouting to his crew, he glanced their way. "Put the
trade goods below, Carsey, it should've been done candles ago! And secure the riggings, Blewsley. Lawson you better not be touchin' the sour afore we set off! First watch for you, lad!" Satisfied that the crew were behaving, he turned fully to Gwen and Hamon and made a sweeping bow. "Maid Zaman, a pleasure it is. I'm Gaulin, the first mate. Captain Longwood is inside; he's waiting for you. If you'll follow?"

  Gwen hesitated, turning to Hamon. He gave a small shrug. "It's out of my hands at this point, Your Highness. These are good, honorable men. They'll keep you safe."

  "Thank you, Master Hamon," Gwen said. "The gods bless you, for everything you've done."

  "Gods' mercy on your journey," Hamon said before donning his hat and hurrying away. Gwen didn't blame him; he had a family to return to.

  The captain greeted her in his sparsely decorated quarters. Sitting at his desk, his elbows on the maps in front of him, he said, "Our orders are to carry you wherever you please, Your Highness. Once there, we have letters of introduction for you. You'll be welcomed anywhere in D'Ehsen."

  Welcome anywhere but home. Gwen almost turned around, thinking that an adviser would magically appear at her shoulder, but there was no one there but Gaulin. She didn't know much of the wider world except for stories of great cities and beautiful lands: Con Salur, the city of cliffs and seat of the benevolent king of Dotschar; the vast Empire, stretching from D'Ehsen across the water into the far west; Dedaria, Rengu Forest, Skålland...so many distant, foreign lands, each as intangible as the rest. Then Gwen remembered a tale her mother had told her of the most beautiful city of all: Riverfen, the city lit by hundreds of lanterns in fantastic shapes, glowing gems that lit even the poorest of streets and held magical fire that never went out; a city ruled by a renowned earl who seated even the lowest of beggars at his own table on feasting days.

  Her guilty heart knew another reason why she wished to go to Dotschar: there, magic was allowed. Curates learned healing spells, and each court employed its own array of wizards and mages. Perhaps there she could find someone like her. With fear pumping her heart, and miraculously no stutter, Gwen said, "Take me to Riverfen."