The Lantern-Lit City

by Vista McDowall

  By the end of the day, the anger subsided – leaving his limbs cold and shaky – and settled in his belly in flame-hot slumber. Jagger remembered the way Raven would hold him at night, when his temper nearly exploded from him, and calm him. In her arms he had felt the rage bubble away into nothingness, but without her cool hands pressing against his sweaty skin, it merely waited for its chance to spring up once more.

  Raven would not like this. She would want him to find a new life, to escape the death and destruction, tend a farm or start a business, something reputable that would bring honor and peace to her dead name.

  No, Jagger thought fiercely. You'd never be at rest. This is the only way, my love. Let his own soul be damned; he'd kill a thousand children so she could be truly at peace...

  ..."How long will you be gone?" Raven asked. The three of them – she, Sandu, and Jagger – sat in a quiet corner of the dining hall, drinking ale and listening to one of the lads play a mandolin with a broken string. It was a night of celebration for the Shivs: two members had returned, bringing money and reputation to the company.

  Sandu shrugged. "A quinn, perhaps a deshe if the weather is unkind. There's a mining camp up on Mount Kriener that's in need of supplies and offering my guild a pretty penny for some decent ones. Since I'm the closest peddler...they didn't exactly give me a choice in the matter."

  Raven tipped her head back to finish her drink. After wiping her mouth, she said, "Taavi thinks there's a blizzard coming. What if you get stranded up there?"

  "I'll be fine. I have more than enough in my packs to rig myself a nice little shelter."

  "That I don't doubt. But have you ever built a lean-to, or made a fire with wet wood?"

  "It can't be that hard."

  Raven turned to Jagger and said seriously, "He's going to die." She looked back at Sandu. "At least bed poor Gilly before you go. The girl's been eyeing you since the day you came sodden to our doorstep."

  "Wha-?" Sandu spluttered into his mug. Laughing, Jagger shook his head at his wife. "He's not only an idiot, he's an idiot who can't see when a lass wants to fuck him dizzy."

  "Now wait just a minute," Sandu started.

  "I'll let you handle this one," Jagger said. He grabbed Raven's and his empty mugs and lurched from the table, his head slightly fuzzy from the strong drink. Behind him, he could hear Raven's giggling and Sandu's indignant exclamations. Smiling to himself, he weaved his way to the barrels on the far side of the room and filled their mugs to the brim with Marwin's latest batch of barleybrew. It was a strong, deep amber ale with light froth and a hint of apple to it. Lately, it was all Jagger wanted to drink.

  As he returned to the table, he noticed Raven and Sandu speaking more seriously to each other, both leaning forward with the slight intensity only seen when two people are so focused on their conversation that nothing could intrude upon it. Jagger decided not to disturb them, and perched on a stool some twenty feet away, nearer the lad with the warbling voice.

  Jagger watched Raven as she spoke, noting the graceful lines of her neck, the wide gestures her hands made, the brightness of her eyes. She's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It constantly bemused him that a creature such as her, something so perfect she could have been of the fae realm, could have fallen in love with a monster like him.

  One of her hands rested on the table, her fingertips touching Sandu's wrist. She smiled sadly, and Jagger could only guess what the two had shared.

  Ever since Sandu had started making regular visits to the keep, Jagger and Raven had laughed more. Having a friend – not a fellow murderer, but a normal man – had been a balm for them. I should get him something nice, Jagger mused. Maybe a small barrel of berrymead, or a new cloak. That one's nearly ratted to nothing...

  ...Jagger's dreams had lately been full of memories. Each morning he woke with a sour taste in his mouth, as if the sweetness of such things had turned rotten in the remembering. Had Sandu been wearing the cloak Jagger had bought for him? Jagger spat. Some thanks Sandu had shown.

  You've done worse for the Shiv, a small part of him said. Betrayed and cajoled and murdered and tortured and manipulated. How is what Sandu did any worse?

  "Because he was my friend," Jagger muttered out loud. He picked up a stick, then snapped it in two and threw away the broken halves. "I trusted him. Raven trusted him. He drank with us and swapped stories by the fire. There's sacred things you just don't break. He did."

  Would you do the same thing to him if it meant saving Raven?

  "You bloody well know I would. That's not the issue here. Sandu didn't have anything but us. And he betrayed us. Traitorous Valadi bastard.."

  How do you know that he didn't go back to his family? Maybe he finally reunited with them...

  "Shut up!" Jagger yelled, his voice echoing around the empty woods. "Veck Sandu! Shit on him and his whole Gallic bloodline!" His throat felt raw, but rather than stopping, he laughed; a loud, long sound, more like that of a strangled cat than a man. "I'll kill you Crin! You're a dead man walking!"

  No reply came from the woods.

  For days Jagger marched, his sore feet driven by purpose. Find the Valadi. Find the Sarga. Make Sandu regret ever coming to Daggenhelm. He didn't know where it came from, but he had always had a knack for finding whoever he was looking for. Some of the Shivs called him a bloodhound, for once he put his mind to it, he always found his target. Maybe there's some magic in me, Jagger had once thought. Now, though, he didn't question his abilities. He only hunted.

  At each village he passed, he asked about the wandering caravans. Most stewards kept logs of the Valadi, to track their comings and goings, to see if any thievery or murder discovered in the night could be attributed to the bastards. When they asked his purpose, Jagger told them, "My daughter ran off with a troupe. I want to find her and bring her home."

  Most times it worked. Sometimes, though, the steward would glance down and see the missing pinkies. His eyes would widen, his mouth gaping open as words tried and failed to come out. Jagger was used to the way people would sidestep from him in the streets or fearfully duck into their homes as whispers of rumors swept through the town ahead of him. It used to bother him, and many long nights in Raven's arms comforted him that someone in the world was unafraid of the Heartless. In her arms he became simply Jagger, a man as any other.

  Now he wore the fear like armor, using it to twist his smile into something a knight would quail at.

  At last he came upon the Valadi. Evening had just coated the sky in dark blue tones, a cool breeze sweeping across the hills with the coming of night. Down in a dale, Jagger could see their fires as well as three large wagons and a fourth smaller one circling the outer edge of the camp. Music drifted on the wind, its melody composed of laughter and stories.

  On the hill above, Jagger found a smooth stone, still warm from the sun, and perched on it. His eyes were not as good as they once were, but he could count the silhouettes around the fires. Maybe fifteen in all, maybe two more or less. Three of the shadows made regular circuits of the camp, the watchmen for the night. Some of the shapes were much smaller, children no doubt sitting and listening wide-eyed to tales told by their elders.

  All in all, an easy mark.

  Jagger raised a hand to wipe his brow, then realized it was shaking. How long since he had last eaten? A day, perhaps two? His dogged determination had carried him farther than mere food ever could, but hunger tremors could ruin the entire plan. Besides, these caravanners would likely take candles to fall asleep. He could wait. In his pack he found some old jerky and fruit. The fruit was moldy, but he didn't care. He had eaten worse before in the high mountains of the north when the winds had been too strong for any fire to burn and raw goat was all he had. He spat out the first mouthful, then forced himself to down the rest. His stomach churned threateningly, so he quaffed his water, then sat still as a stone, waiting for the queasiness to pass.

  Dammit, he couldn't let himself starve before finding Sandu again. He
'd have to be more careful about eating. Don't forget. That's the key: don't vecking forget to eat.

  The campfires below were damped down as the Valadi went to bed. Those three silhouettes still prowled the perimeters, one of them stopping every quarter candle or so to stoke the remaining fire into a semblance of life. Jagger waited until midnight had passed and clouds drifted across the face of the moon to darken his path.

  He slipped from the rock, checked his pack to make sure nothing in it would make any sudden noises, then threw it over his shoulders. With deliberate steps, he descended the hill and strode into the forest. Autumn had already breathed into the trees, crunchy leaves fallen everywhere on the forest's muted carpet. He put each foot down with careful grace, testing the ground before allowing his full weight to bear down on a dead leaf or stick. What would normally have been a ten minute walk turned into half a candle of crouching and near-crawling. His thighs burned from the stance, his eyes straining through the dark trunks to see the camp and its guards.

  At last he heard the murmur of voices:

  "...damn cold out here. Can't we go south this winter?"

  "With the feast coming up? We'd be fools not to try and convince the earl to let us perform for his guests."

  "Damn feast."

  Their soft conversation faded as they walked away. Jagger crept to the edge of the clearing and looked more closely at the camp. The smallest wagon stood twenty feet away, but too close to the fires. If he kept to the trees, he could get within ten feet of one of the large wagons.

  Melting back into the forest, Jagger made a circuit of the clearing until his target stood between him and the fires. He could see two of the watchmen standing across the camp to his left and staring into the trees away from him. The third, though...

  If he waited too long, he'd lose this opportunity. Darting from the cover of the trees, Jagger scurried to a rear wagon wheel, his heart thumping in his chest. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his chapped lips and swallowed nervously. Even after all these years, the thrill of the job still made him anxious.

  Which was probably why he had managed to live so long.

  No outcry rose up, no cold, hard steel bit into his flesh. He let out the breath he had been holding, then secured his pack more tightly against himself and fingered one of his small knives. In the dark, in unknown territory...he could maybe take down one of the guards, two if he were lucky, before the rest of the Valadi woke and drove him away or killed him.

  He paused, realizing his stomach hadn't dropped at the thought of death. That was unusual. Maybe, after all this business with Sandu was through, he would be ready to die.

  Jagger placed one foot on the wheel's spoke and pushed himself up until he could grab the edge of the wagon frame. His limbs shook with the effort of keeping his body pressed as close to the wood as possible. One hand on the frame and one foot still on the spoke, he swung his other leg up until it found purchase on the back of the wagon. With his free hand for balance, he placed all his weight on one leg as the other lifted from the spoke and rested atop the wheel well. He stopped to regain his breath. His legs threatened to collapse from beneath him. The scars stretching across his back ached, the wound on his chest feeling as if it would burst.

  Perched precariously on the back of the wagon, Jagger could see more of the camp as well as the third guard. The man squatted near the fire, back to it. If he so much as turned his head to one side, he'd see Jagger. That'd be the end of it.

  But the man didn't turn, and Jagger quietly opened the door to the wagon and slipped inside.

  Four shapes lay against the walls in tiny bunks, two on each side. A knife appeared in Jagger's hand. He found the first sleeping form, its back to him. He peered over until he could see its face: a lad, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old. Olive skin and sandy hair, like Sandu's. His mouth had dropped open in his sleep.

  In the span of a second, Jagger gripped and held shut the boy's mouth and slit his throat. He died without a sound. Jagger crept to the next form. An older woman, perhaps nearly as old as Jagger himself. The mother, no doubt. With the same cold efficiency, Jagger killed her. Then the father, whose soft snores had filled the wagon.

  Jagger turned to the final form. This one, smaller than the rest, had a blanket pulled up over its head. Gently folding the blanket down, Jagger held the knife ready.

  His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the sleeping girl. A child, really, thirteen at the oldest. Her cheeks were still round and flushed with the rosiness of youth; her dark eyebrows were held ever so slightly together, making a wrinkle in her forehead; her pink lips were parted just enough to breathe. She reminded him of Raven when he had first met her a lifetime ago.

  The knife trembled in his hand. The girl made a muffled sound, her fingers drawing up to partially cover her face. Despite himself, Jagger could not pull away, could not bring himself to ruin the peacefulness of her dreams. Dammit, she's nothing to you. A Valadi brat. Kill her and be done with it. Yet still he lingered, hardly daring to draw breath.

  "How far is Riverfen?" The quiet voice outside broke the moment. Jagger shook himself, raising the knife.

  Then he lowered it and ducked out of the wagon. He readied three throwing knives, then stood tall. Two guards faced away from him, backs to the fire. The third stood at the edge of the camp, his trousers loose around his hips, his head tipped back in satisfaction.

  "...but if the roads get any worse–" The speaker's words were cut short, a knife sticking from his neck. His partner gaped, eyes widening. Before he could sound the alarm, Jagger's knife buried itself between his shoulder blades.

  "Mar–" The third had turned, his member hanging out, a spot of flesh in the darkness. Red dripped down the man's chest, and he stared in amazement at the steel stabbed into him. He looked up just in time for Jagger's second knife to fly into his eye.

  Jagger drew a deep breath. His turbulent mind settled itself from hurricane to calm skies. Methodically, like a butcher preparing his meats, he went into each wagon and quickly dispatched the sleeping Valadi, his hands stained black in the darkness.

  After pilfering each wagon for supplies, Jagger returned to the first wagon that held the only other living person in the camp. Jagger harnessed and saddled two of the horses using equipment he found. Then, he crawled back into the wagon and gagged the girl. Her eyes flew open, she struggled and tried to scream against the rag stuffed in her mouth. His implacable hands held her firm, dragging her from the wagon and hoisting her into the saddle. One of her feet kicked out, hitting his face.

  Jagger felt the bruise welling up. His first urge was to slap her. His second, to draw a knife and cut the tendon behind her knee. He stopped just before his blade touched her flesh, and glared up at her. "Kick me again, and you'll never use this leg again. Understood?"

  She nodded, terrified.

  "Good." Idly, Jagger wondered what he'd do with her. A problem for the morning. He mounted the second horse, took the lead for hers, and rode away from the camp, as far as he could get before dawn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seanna

  RIVERFEN AT LAST. The famed city of lanterns, with its perfect white marble palace and thousands of canals and streams, its resplendence the inspiration for poets and ballads for hundreds of years.

  And yet, Seanna found no joy in gazing at the multitude of colored lights reflected in the waterways, the smell of salt permeating her chambers in such a way that her childhood memories floated up constantly to remind her of happier times. In the interminable days since her disastrous dinner with Rask, she could think of nothing else. Any other expecting mother would, at this time, seek bright swaddling clothes or wooden toys. Prepare the baby's room. Find a nursemaid. Begin to withdraw from polite society in order to embroider pillowcases or practice lullabies.

  Seanna was determined not to do such things until she must. She would have years to love and raise her babe into a far better king than Henrik, but only months before propriety forced
her into reclusion until after the child's first birthday. In those months, she would build a societal empire for herself.

  At least her king husband often dined with his own cohorts, leaving her to herself. She had arranged to dine with River Valley nobility, few whom she knew well. A field of persons ripe for harvesting. Her words, she hoped, would be her scythe, drawing them to her.

  To her disappointment, Earl Seastone and his new wife had given their apologies and failed to attend the dinner. Seanna didn't let the feeling linger long; instead, she listened to the verbal spars between her guests.

  "Ah, my Lady Greenswell...still trying to find a new tailor?" a lord said, leaning over to look at the noblewoman's ill-fitting garb.

  "It must be difficult to smell with that monstrosity atop your lip," Lady Greenswell retorted. "Surely you must release your barber? At least," she said with a glance toward Seanna, "I don't pretend to be smaller than I am."

  There was a round of polite laughter. Seanna blushed, smiled, and took a sip of wine. May the sharpest tongue win.

  Seanna said, "Well, perhaps I can speak to the tailor you had when you were pregnant." The lady colored, flashing an angry look. It was a low jab, Seanna knew – the lady had miscarried three times and borne no children – but others laughed with her.

  When dinner was done, more snide remarks having been spat than food swallowed, Seanna excused herself, her appetite for spite satiated. She stepped into the hall, soon joined by Sir Eric and the silent handmaids that followed her everywhere. Her mind caught up in the whirl of gossip, she ignored the beautiful tile mosaics underfoot. Rumors she had heard months ago flitted in and out of memory, each one crueler than the last. She hadn't given thought to voicing them then...but now perhaps–

  "Pardon me."

  A lady, only a year or two younger than Seanna, dipped low, moving out of the queen's way. Her chin, however, remained lifted, a smirk resting in an infuriating way on her red lips. Even curtseying, she was taller than Seanna, her fashionable snood doing nothing to lessen the discrepancy. Golden curls flowed from beneath the pearls and velvet. Pink cheeks blushed in a fair face. Pale blue eyes, cool and derisive, peeked from beneath dark lashes.