by J. V. Jones
Unprompted he entered the ring. Green torches circled him and it took him minutes to grow accustomed to the light. He searched out and found the figure of Yiselle No Knife, clothed in silver tissue like a queen.
“Mor Drakka,” she named him.
A line of fresh blood underscored her left eye like war paint. She spoke some words in Sull and then said, “Pick up the sword.”
Raif could see the sword on the ground before him. It lay on a circle of blue cloth to protect it from frost. The blade did not possess the blue-white brilliance of meteor steel, but it was patterned in the design known as ‘heron walks on sand’ and was beautiful in every way. His fingers twitched at the sight of it.
“Where’s Addie?”
No Knife raised an eyebrow and the new wound below her eye expelled a perfect tear of blood. She waited, allowing him time to understand that she could not be commanded, and then made a small gesture with her gloved and misformed left hand. Raif spotted movement in the crowd and tracked it. He could see Sull but not Addie. It gave him a sickening feeling in his gut.
Two Sull approached the low and broken wall of the fight circle. After a moment Raif understood they were carrying something between them . . . a stretcher. He spotted the sandy-grayness of Addie’s hair as an armed figure in a greathelm entered the ring. Raif took a step forward, desperate to see Addie’s face.
The cragsman turned toward him.
Oh gods.
Addie’s skin was gray and slick with sweat. The fat had gone from his cheeks and lips and he looked an old man. He was covered with a blanket but it had fallen down around his chest. His right arm was gone.
Slowly, Addie’s gaze rose to meet Raif’s. The gray eyes were dull with pain but comprehension still lived behind them. Raif looked into them and saw he was known. The cragsman knew all his names and the acts he had done to earn them. Addie Gunn knew Raif Sevrance and still loved him like one of his sheep. Raif’s one hope then was that Addie knew he was loved back.
Yiselle No Knife’s smile was knowing as Raif bent at the knees and took possession of the sword. He ignored her. An armed figure was moving toward him and he needed those handful of seconds to read the weight and balance of the blade. It was surprisingly heavy, as if there was tang of pig iron as its core. Were they training him up? Providing a heavier sword for each fight? He did not pursue the thought. For the first time in what seemed like months, he perceived the raven lore at his throat. Plate armor was pressing the small black piece of bird ivory into his collarbone. He was glad of it. It reminded him of who he was.
Watcher of the Dead greeted his opponent with a set of blistering strikes. Sparks flew as steel smashed steel. The Sull was wearing the same diamond-reinforced breastplate that other opponents had worn and it sprayed a glittering spectrum of light. Raif knew that if he were wise he would keep his blade away from it, but he was not wise. He was furious. The Sull were killing his friend.
The Sull’s heart was large in his sights. Every line of strike led straight to it and the sword homed along the line. The Sull’s blocks were surprising in their speed and savageness. To have your forward momentum stopped by one was like being slammed against a wall. Raif absorbed blow after blow. Diamonds filed his sword. He was beginning to see a pattern, to understand that his opponent’s blocks fell into three categories and he, Raif, could dictate which one his opponent deployed by shifting the angle of his heart-strikes. He began testing, sending out his sword but cutting each blow short. Raif saw the open space below his opponent’s two-handed forward block as an opportunity. He just had to calculate the right line, hit just below the diamond reinforcement, on an angle to reach the heart.
Let us feed.
Raif feinted forward and withdrew ahead of the Sull’s block. Stabbing his toes into the stone floor of the fight circle, he rebounded forward, sword in motion, and claimed the open space and the heart beating behind it.
The Sull’s eyes widened as air and blood pumped through the hole in his chestplate. Even before his eyes dimmed, his legs gave way and Raif was left holding the body upright with his sword. Raif threw the sword and the Sull away.
The crowd gathered around the circle were quiet and still. A hundred drawn swords glittered in the moonlight. Somewhere beyond them the drummer changed his rhythm, slowing the tempo so that each beat existed alone. Raif searched for Addie, but could not see him or the Sull who had carried him away.
Yiselle No Knife stepped into the space he searched. “Mor Drakka. Pick up your sword.”
Raif was shaking in violent bursts. He didn’t understand what she meant. The sword was in his opponent. He’d won.
Spotting movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned. Two figures armored in matte-black plate and greathelms entered the ring. One was armed with meteor steel. The other carried a six foot spear and a shield.
“Pick up your sword,” No Knife said quietly. “You do not want to fail your friend.”
Hatred for the Sull entered Watcher of the Dead’s soul.
He picked up the sword and fought.
CHAPTER 22
Morning Star
LOCAL BELIEF HELD that it was good luck to enter the city of Morning Star during the few seconds of sunrise on cloudless days in late winter and early spring when the sun first appeared in the east and before its rays had a chance to extinguish the morning star in the west. Angus Lok entered the city at such a moment but he didn’t believe in luck.
The city on the red lake glowed pink and golden in the early light. Angus entered by the West Gate, and as he was traveling without horse, pack, or serious weaponry he was waved through without examination. The Morning Guard’s interest had fallen on a group of mounted Half-Bluddsmen. In an earlier life Angus might have stepped in to aid the fierce yet nervous-looking clansmen. In this life he slid quietly away.
The Star, as the city was known to its residents, was split in two by the Eclipse River, which ran north from the lake. Entering by the West Gate placed you in the West Face of the city and to cross to the East Face meant taking a short ferry ride or crossing one of the half-dozen bridges and paying the Lord Rising a copper penny for the privilege. Angus Lok was just fine where he was. It was the poorer half of the city, peopled by fishermen, workmen, beggars, bidwives, mercenaries, men-at-arms, prostitutes and market traders. He knew this place, knew its streets and its dangers, knew where to go to get the best ale in the city and where to avoid unless you were spoiling for a fight.
The area just north of the gate was known as the Crater. A shanty-town of wood huts, tents, cabins and lean-tos had been raised in a bowl-like depression on a mound above the Eclipse. Spring was flood season and not all the streets were passable. Angus took what routes he could. Boards had been laid across the mud in some places. In other places the brown red mud flowed like lava, its surface slowly hardening to crust.
Money was Angus’ first order of business. Since Ille Glaive he’d been spending coin raised in the sale of his sword and he was down to his last coppers. Normally money wasn’t a problem. The Phage were many things and poor wasn’t one of them. Any city in the North, most large towns, some villages and even some one-room alehouses on the road: Phage gold could be had in all of them. The brotherhood held wealth in many locations. A word in the right place to the right person and a purse with enough currency to live on for a year would be dropped discreetly into your hand. The Phage hoarded Sull gold, Forsaken gold, Forsaken property, Bone Temple riches, treasure sneaked from failing kingdoms, jewels given for services rendered, and others taken when debts went unpaid. They sat on their wealth like an old, suspicious man, stashing it in different places so that no one could get everything if he died.
Morning Star was the Phage’s main staging ground in the North. There were rooms in this city that, if you were to enter them with a lamp, you’d swear you’d walked into an enchanted palace made of gold. Angus had been in those rooms—they were belowground, always belowground: you could not trust the weight of gold on w
ood planks nailed across a frame—but they were not his destination today. Phage currency came at a price. Take it and you would be tracked. Somewhere someone would stick a pin in a board and think to himself, There is Angus Lok.
Even now, careful as he had been, Angus rated his chances of evading the eye of the Phage as low. This was their city. Even if the Morning Guard had not marked him, a walk down any street might be enough. Angus knew to avoid certain places—the arms market in the west, the scribes’ quarter, river gardens, and courthouses in the east—but you could not plan for a chance encounter on an unlikely street as someone who knew or worked for the Phage was out buying fresh fish or hothouse melons for his or her family. Angus accepted this risk. There was a point in most missions where stealth had to be cast aside.
The shortest route to the money-lending quarter required crossing the silk market. Angus foresaw no problem with this and entered the colorful tents and stalls of the largest clothing market in the North. It was early and vendors were still setting out their wares. Merchants and bidwives were draping their stalls with red-and-gold ribbons, bolts of turquoise cloth, embroidered belts and boned bodices, horn-and-paper fans, fake jewels, silk purses, lace collars and straw hats. Angus felt the skin on his face tighten as he walked between the stalls. A hole opened up in his chest and it was suddenly difficult to breath. Stopping, he put a hand on a tent pole for support.
“What’s the matter, lovey? Too much of the black stuff last night?”
Angus raised his head and regarded the woman who spoke. She frowned, not unkindly.
“Need to get some food and tea in you.”
He pushed himself off from the pole and left without a word. The quickest way out of the silk market was to retrace his steps south. So that’s what he did. As the stalls thinned, he began to breathe more steadily and by the time he was clear of the market he was back to normal. Or something like it.
He had not expected ghosts.
Any man who had daughters and who traveled away from home carried directives with him at all times: Daddy, I need ribbons. Daddy, can you bring me back a dress? Father, not that I really, really want a purse, but if you were to get one make it red. Angus had been to countless markets in countless towns and cities and always—always—he’d spent time shopping for his best girls. It made him stupidly, grumpily happy. Baffling conversations with stallholders concerning the girls’ ages, sizes and tastes. Paying through the nose for goods that to him looked like pieces of tat. Swapping vaguely embarrassed looks with fellow men. Most of all, it was the pleasure of anticipating his daughters’ delight. Often he bought them something extra, some little surprise, because after they’d opened their expected packages it created unexpected delight.
And delight meant laughter and kisses and hugs.
Angus shut away the memory of his girls. He could not live and think about them. He simply could not live.
Taking the river route to the money-lending quarter, he skirted the banks of the Eclipse. Fishermen were casting nets and mudmen were digging the margins for clams. After the Eclipse left the city it flowed into a delta. Some of its waters streamed north to flood the extreme southeastern clans, some flowed east to fill Drowned Lake at Trance Vor, and one outlet, legend said, flowed northeast to the Night River and to the Heart of the Sull. Angus considered this legend as he walked. It seemed as good a place as any to rest his thoughts.
The money-lending quarter was quieter and more orderly than the Crater but it was doing just as good business. Trance Vor, Morning Star’s closest neighbor, was a rich but lawless city, unstable in many ways. Smart Vor money went west for safekeeping. The mine owners and landowners who earned it weren’t prepared to trust it to the whims of the notoriously volatile Vor Lord. Vor’s loss was Star’s gain, and Star’s banks and moneylenders were some of the richest in the North.
Angus moved swiftly through the cobbled streets. Custom suited him here. The rules were keep your head low, do not look anyone in the eye and do not acknowledge acquaintances. When he came upon a small blue door with the sign of three tears drawn upon it in white chalk, Angus glanced over his shoulder and the entered the building.
Sitting behind a desk, sliding beads on an abacus, was a beautiful ebony-skinned woman. Two mirrors positioned at angles to the room’s only window, provided her with an unobstructed view of the street. A slender rope strung on a series of loops connected her left wrist to the latch on the door. Only fools and first-timers thought they entered Morning Star banks uninvited.
The woman lowered the latch, barring the door to the outside world. Raising an eyebrow she waited for her customer to speak.
Angus knew the woman and knew that she knew him, but form had to be maintained so he spoke his name and business.
She smiled, displaying even teeth. “I remember you now, Angus. Of course. Sit. Sit. Would you care for a glass of wine. No. Of course not. I see.” Her voice was soft and aimed to charm but it was all business underneath. “Of course you realize that I can only release a portion of your funds. Your original request was that they be split between the Star and Ille Glaive.”
Angus nodded, though in truth he recalled paying extra for the privilege of being able to take his nest egg—in its entirety—from either location. This was not a place for disagreement or threats though. Break the woman’s neck and he would never gain access to the saferoom behind her desk and therefore not receive a penny of his money. The bank’s security was layered like an onion, and just as the woman watched the street, someone else watched the woman from the saferoom.
“A third, is that all right?”
He told her it was. During his twenty-five years in the Phage he had managed to set aside a small sum for his family, enough to provide modest dowries for the girls and to keep Darra and himself comfortable in their old age. Now only one future he currently imagined resulted in him growing old.
The woman tapped on the inner door with fingernails as long as needles. She was admitted into the saferoom and the door was closed behind her. In under a minute she returned. Sitting, she slid a small cloth bag across the table. “I’ll need you to sign the ledger,” she said, indicating the book and stylus that lay next to the abacus.
“I already did.” Angus took possession of his money—silver, judging by the weight of it.
The woman checked for his signature and found it. He could see her wondering what, if anything, the other dates and signatures in her ledger might betray.
He let her worry for a while before asking, “Do you know where a woman called Magdalena Crouch lives?”
Of course she shook her head. Discretion was a reflex in her line of work.
“Maggie Sea? Delayna Stoop?”
She stood, indicating the meeting was through. Angus made her wait on that also, taking his time finding a safe spot on his body for the new purse. By the time he reached the door she was impatient for him to be gone.
As he went to touch the door handle he winced. “Damn arm. They stitched it but it still isn’t right.”
The woman gave him a perfectly disinterested look. Her gaze flicked to the door.
He didn’t move. Rubbing his elbow, he said, “I think one of the stitches is about to pop. Shit. Who’s a good surgeon round here?”
Distaste crossed the woman’s lovely face. She gave him a name and address to be rid of him.
Angus let the door slam shut behind him. The surgeon’s address was to the north, so that’s where he headed. He purchased a fried fillet of trout stuffed in a hard bread roll from a street vendor and ate as he walked. Morning Star was fully awake now and its streets were jammed. A chaos of mule-drawn carts, dog carts and horse carts made it imperative to watch your feet. Angus gave way for carts but not men. He didn’t know the exact location of the surgeon’s house but the woman had mentioned Spice Gate, so he followed his nose.
As he turned from a narrow street onto a open boulevard, he got his first glimpse of the Burned Fortress. It dominated the north of the city, brid
ging the Eclipse. The river disappeared beneath it, subducted underground for four hundred feet. Some said that was how the river got its name, for the fortress literally blocked it from sight, but Angus knew the Sull had once held this river and the land surrounding it and had named the river Lun xi’Cado, Hidden by the Moon, before the fortress ever existed.
The fortress itself was not a pretty sight. It had been burned and parts of its exterior casing stone had hardened to glass. Other sections were the matte black of scorched earth, and there were some places near the base where you could still see the original tan-colored stone. History gave two versions of the burning. In one, Magrane Stang, the fifteenth Lord Rising, had set light to the fortress to harden its soft sandstone walls against the armies of Trance Vor. In the second version, Stang had set light to the fortress for no other reason than to see it burn. Angus was inclined to believe the latter. The past Lord Risings of Morning Star had not, on the whole, been sane.
Angus had no interest in the current Lord Rising or the politics of the Burned Fortress and the river gardens. They were relics of another life. The great scheming machine that was the Phage would continue rolling forward without him.
Reaching Spice Lane, he cut west away from the river. Scents of pepper, vanilla and lemon filled the air, making the day suddenly smell like Winter Festival. Angus purchased a sliver of fresh ginger and a cup of quince water from a girl with a handcart. He drank the water and returned the cup and then chewed on the ginger as he walked. It was his intention to gift the surgeon with fresh breath.
The cart girl had provided excellent directions to the surgeon’s address, and he arrived at his destination by midday. Signs of saws cutting bone and leeches attached to earlobes lined the street. Angus walked the length of the district and back. Passersby looked sickly. An unusually high portion had limps. The bank woman had named a surgeon who was not only located dead in the middle of the street, but also appeared to be middle in rank as well. His house was more modest than some, better than others, and his sign, though not old, did not look especially new.