I paused, stared into the low, ominous rumble of its growl.
Then I moved on.
The scent grew, and with it the frost of the hand against my chest. And as I closed in, moving slowly, cautiously, I realized where I’d find Bloodmark. The realization came with a hard twist in my stomach. But at the same time I think I’d known. Part of me had hoped, had thought there would be a refuge, a safe place, a home—
But he’d taken everything else.
A tension fell away from me, a tightness in my shoulders. I moved forward purposefully now, without seeing the depths of the Dredge.
Until I came to my niche.
I paused outside the entrance, knelt down a few paces away to stare into the narrow darkness.
The scent of hoarfrost was strong, overpowering. It rolled from the entrance to the niche like the heat had rolled from the white-dusty man’s door, but cold instead. The ice-rimmed hand against my chest burned so harshly it felt as if my skin would freeze, would peel away in chunks.
The sensations were so intense, I never felt Bloodmark approach.
I sensed the kick a moment before it struck, tensed for the blow as I’d done a thousand times on the Dredge, ready to absorb it and flee to a safer darkness.
But this time I wouldn’t run.
Bloodmark’s foot dug in just beneath my ribs, forced itself up into my stomach with enough strength that it lifted me, flung me to the side, twisted me onto my back. The air was thrust from my lungs, but before I could suck in another breath, Bloodmark stomped onto my chest, his heel landing squarely on the ice-rimmed hand.
I doubled over, curled up tight over the sudden, vicious pain, rolled onto my side, coughed against the burning in my lungs.
I lost my hold on the river.
The instant the darkness of true night closed around me, I felt the backlash of nausea begin in the pit of my stomach, felt the tremors of weakness begin to course down the muscles of my arms.
My eyes flew wide in fear.
“Bitch,” Bloodmark said.
I struggled to rise, heard Bloodmark’s footsteps as he moved around behind me. The tremors shuddered through my shoulders now, through my legs.
I focused on Bloodmark, on the sounds of his movements, on the pain in my gut, in my chest. I focused on breathing, each intake painful.
“You ruined everything!” Bloodmark spat, punctuating it with another kick, this time to my lower back.
Fresh pain sheeted up my side and I jerked out of the protective curl, rolled onto my back again, then over onto the other side with a barked cry, my arms tucked close to my chest.
But the pain pushed the tremors back.
Bloodmark moved in close, squatted down beside me.
“Did you find them?” he asked quietly, then laughed. “I left them for you. And for Erick.” His voice turned bitter. “He was my ticket into the Guard.”
“They would never have taken you,” I gasped, the words broken, breathless.
“Why not?”
I shifted, enough so I could look up into Bloodmark’s eyes, so dark and vicious, enough to free the arm tucked closest to the ground.
“Because,” I muttered, so softly Bloodmark leaned down closer to hear, leaned close enough I could see the black smear of the birthmark next to his eye. I smiled—a slow, satisfied smile. “Because you’re gutterscum. Just like me.”
I shoved my dagger up along his neck, drawing a thin line beneath his chin before the blade punched up under his jawbone. Blood splashed my hand, hot and slick, and then Bloodmark jerked back, a strange, gurgling croak coming from his open mouth. The dagger slid free, followed by another wash of blood, and Bloodmark’s hand clamped to his throat, to his jaw. He staggered backward, struck the mud-brick of the collapsing wall beside my niche, and skidded down it until he sat against the heels of his feet.
My hand, the one that held the dagger, slumped to the ground. Tremors were rippling through me now and I could no longer hold it up. I let my head rest against the dirt-smeared cobblestones of the narrow, let the tension in my shoulders release, but I didn’t take my eyes off Bloodmark.
He stared at me with horrified, hate-filled eyes. His jaw worked as he tried to speak, but nothing came out except a sickening wheeze of air and a speckle of blood. Blood coated the hand clutched to his throat as well.
I thought of the first man I’d killed, of his hand clutching the cut across his own throat. I thought of the White Fire.
Bloodmark’s eyes widened and his body began to slip. The hand at his throat fell away. As it did he lost his balance.
He slumped to one side, falling across the opening to my niche, his body landing with a low, rustling thud.
His blood-soaked hand flopped out toward me, as if he were reaching for me.
I stared into his dead eyes and then the tremors took me.
The world faded, and I closed my eyes. I felt the spasms shudder through my body, felt the pain from Bloodmark’s kicks pierce through my chest, but it was all distant, removed. I drew myself away, too exhausted for anything to matter, too beaten down to care. I thought of nothing, simply stared into the darkness behind my eyes and waited.
It took longer than I expected. I’d stayed beneath the river far longer than I ever had before, had pushed myself harder than I ever had before.
When the worst of the spasms finally passed, I rolled onto my stomach and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, thinking of Mari, of Erick. You heard Bloodmark. She killed him. That makes her a mark. Nausea rippled through me and I vomited onto the cobbles. Hanging my head, I waited for this to pass as well, then climbed weakly to my feet.
It was still night, still dark. But dawn had begun to touch the eastern sky.
I stood over Bloodmark, wavering slightly, still weak.
He’d stolen everything from me.
Erick.
The white-dusty man.
My niche.
He’d taken it all.
And I’d killed him for it. Murdered him.
I turned and stared up into the night sky, thought of the Mistress, of the Skewed Throne . . . of Erick.
A searing pain slid through me, as thin as a dagger ’s slice, but deeper. Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I pressed my lips together hard, felt them tremble.
I could never go back to Erick now, could never look him in the eye, could never face his disappointment. Not after Bloodmark. I hadn’t killed him to save myself, or Erick, or anyone else. I’d killed him because I’d wanted to. Because he’d deserved it, whether the Mistress knew that or not.
Erick would never understand that. Not if he thought Mari was a mark. Not if he couldn’t see that she wasn’t, even after she’d killed Rec.
There was nothing left for me here. Nothing at all.
So I turned and left the Dredge, moved toward the only other place I knew.
To the bridge leading across the River.
To Amenkor.
The real Amenkor.
Part II
Amenkor
Chapter 7
A MENKOR.
The real Amenkor.
I stumbled to my knees in the half-light of dawn and vomited into the corner at the base of a stone-brick wall. My stomach cramped and I heaved again, muscles tightening in pain, but nothing came. There was nothing left in my stomach. Nothing but a horrible sickness.
When the spasms ended, I spat and crawled along the length of the alley to a barrel set near its end. I hunched back against the barrel, arms tight across my chest, as shudders ran through me. Reaction to the use of the river had never been this bad. But then, I’d never used it so heavily before, never kept myself submerged for so long. I’d never needed to use it so heavily.
I shuddered again, this time because of the image of Bloodmark choking on his own blood, and the sight of the Skewed Throne carved into the white-dusty man’s chest.
I pulled myself hard against the barrel, eyes squeezed tight. I had no defense against the pain. The river
, the run to Amenkor along the Dredge, the tension of waiting for the right moment to slip past the guards and cross the bridge and the real River, they’d all taken their toll. There was only weariness, an exhaustion that had settled into my muscles, into my bones. A weariness that dragged at me like a relentless tide.
I leaned my head against the stone-brick wall deep inside Amenkor and let the tide claim me.
A whip cracked, the snap startling me awake with a lurch.
“Hee-ah!” someone cried, and the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobbles receded.
I blinked into raw sunlight, eyes blurred, then shifted.
A boy stood before me.
I froze, muscles tensing.
The boy—no more than six years old, dressed in hand-stitched, fitted breeches, a vest, a white shirt; clothing far too fine for the slums or the Dredge—watched me with intent brown eyes. His hands were clutched behind his back, and he rocked back and forth, onto his heels and then his toes. A strange flattened hat covered shiny blond hair.
“Who are you?” he asked in a clear, precise voice. There was no malice, no fear in his round face. Nothing but curiosity.
I drew breath, my chest, my lungs, burning with the effort. But before I could answer—not even knowing what I would say—a woman stepped into view.
“Perci, what in the White Heavens are you—Oh!” The woman gasped, stepped back unconsciously, one hand reaching for Perci, the other reaching for the clasp on the dress near her throat. Her shocked face quickly hardened into something I knew, something I recognized:
Disdain tainted with fear. Mostly disdain.
My eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. My hand slid to the dagger tucked at my side. She wore a blue-dyed dress, fitted at the waist, with sleeves reaching to her wrists. Sandals with many straps covered washed feet. Simple clothes, not as fancy as Perci’s. But there were no stains, no ragged edges, no wear marks. The clothes looked fresh, like puddles of water immediately after a storm, before scum slicked the surface.
My gaze returned to her eyes.
Some of the disdain slipped away, the fear edging forward.
“Come, Perci.” The hand on Perci’s shoulder tightened and she began to draw him toward the mouth of the alley, toward the bright sunlight.
Perci resisted, his face squeezing into a frown of defiance, but when the woman’s hand tightened further, he let himself be dragged away. I slid into a crouch behind the barrel as they moved, relaxing only when they’d vanished into the flow of people at the edge of the alley.
The people.
My hand tightened on the dagger and I drew farther back behind the barrel. A fresh wave of nausea swept through me, more fear and dread than sickness from the use of the river.
On the street, men and women moved among carts pulled by horses. Most carried satchels and small bundles tied with twine. A few carried baskets, bread sticking out of raised lids. All wore unstained clothing in strange, bright colors—blues, dark reds, a width of bright yellow. The men wore breeches, boots, white shirts, vests, wide belts with pouches openly displayed. The women wore dresses with long sleeves and sandals, long hair tied back with thin leather straps, some with hats or folded scarves over their hair. They moved without rushing, with heads high, eyes forward. Tall.
They moved without fear.
A pair of black horses clattered into view, tied to . . . a cart. Except it wasn’t a cart. It was a little enclosed room, a small door in its side. Through the window cut into the door, I could see a man with a thin, angular face.
When he turned toward me, I ducked behind the barrel.
The sight of the horse-drawn room, of the clothes, of the colors, felt like a kick to the gut. What had I done? This was not the Dredge. This was Amenkor. The real Amenkor. I didn’t belong here, didn’t know the streets, the alleys, or narrows. I didn’t know the people, their patterns and reactions. They didn’t dress the same, didn’t even seem to move the same, the ebb and flow of the street subtly different, more sedate, less frantic.
A strong urge to retreat seized me, clamped onto my throat and held on tight. Run, flee, cower in the nether regions of the Dredge.
But as soon as the urge took hold, it was crushed by despair.
I couldn’t go back to the slums. Not now. Not ever. Erick would be looking for me. The first place he’d look would be my niche.
Where he’d find Bloodmark. Erick would know that I’d killed him.
Guilt stabbed hard into my stomach. And shame as I imagined Erick kneeling over Bloodmark’s body, checking out the wound, scanning the body for marks. But he wouldn’t need confirmation of who had driven the dagger into Bloodmark’s neck. He’d know as soon as he saw the body.
No, I couldn’t go back to the slums. I’d killed so many for Erick, for the Mistress, but Bloodmark had been different. I’d killed him for myself. For the white-dusty man and his wife.
But mostly for myself.
I drew in two long, deep breaths to steady myself, felt the shame fade, replaced with regret. Not regret that I’d killed Bloodmark, but that somehow in the process I’d lost Erick as well.
I suddenly thought of that last vision of Erick at Cobbler ’s Fountain, of seeing him for the first time beneath the river, his essence a strange mixture of gray and red. No one had ever appeared both colors before. Those that were harmless or presented no immediate danger were always gray; those that weren’t were red.
So what did the mixture mean? Could Erick somehow be both? Harmless and dangerous at the same time?
Or was it not that simple?
I thought about Erick outside the iron gate, stalking Jobriah, the first mark I’d led him to. He’d been dangerous that day, enough that I’d shied away from him. I’d seen that same black look in his eyes many times since then. And every time I’d shuddered, pulled back and away.
But I could still feel his arms around me as he held me and I told him about the ex-guardsman trying to rape me, of how I’d stolen the dagger and killed the bastard as the White Fire swept through the city. I’d settled closer to Erick then, had been comforted by him.
Was it possible for someone to be both?
I shook myself, thrust the unanswered questions away. Harmless or dangerous, red or gray, it didn’t matter anymore. Erick was gone, lost, stolen from me. Just like the Dredge.
I shifted forward, stared down the length of the alley to the bustle of the street, to the ebb and flow of strangers in fine clothing and clean skin.
Who are you? Perci had asked.
I glanced down at my hands. Bloodmark’s blood had dried into the creases of the palm, had caked between my fingers. I closed my hands into fists and felt flakes fall away, felt the dried blood like grit between my skin.
“I’m gutterscum,” I murmured to myself.
The sensation of having been kicked hard remained, deep inside, the ache like a stone in my gut. I drew in a deep breath through my nose, snorted back snot and phlegm and swallowed it, coughing slightly.
I couldn’t return to the slums, but I couldn’t remain here either. I was too different. I’d be noticed the instant I entered the street. I needed to get cleaned up, wash the slums from my face, from my clothes.
I stood, slowly, with effort, feeling aches throughout my body, but mostly in my chest and stomach from where Bloodmark had kicked me. Back pressed against the stone-brick wall for support, I lifted my dirt-, blood-, and vomit-smeared shirt. A livid bruise in the shape of a foot lay in the center of my chest, black and purplish-blue, edged in a horrid yellow. Another bruise rose along my side.
I saw Bloodmark’s foot stomping down out of the night, winced as I dropped the shirt back into place. I glanced down the alley again in both directions, frowned.
Something else was different here. Something I’d noticed the night I’d followed Erick to the bridge. Something that reinforced the fact that I was no longer on the Dredge with more power than the people on the street, or their clothes, or the strange room on wheels.
&nbs
p; The alley had edges, seemed somehow more defined, more there. There were sharp corners at its mouth, clear recesses for windows, for doors, and none of the windows were boarded up. The cobbles that covered the ground were mostly intact; the path for the runnel of water down its center mostly straight.
Beyond the Dredge, the alleys and narrows were worn, rounded, used. The shit and piss and lichen that stained the stone and mud-brick were permanent. The slush of rotten garbage that slicked the niches, collected in the crevices and corners, only shifted. It was never removed.
And on the Dredge, there were no barrels. None completely intact anyway.
I turned to the barrel, leaned down over its opening. It was just over half full of rainwater. I stared down at the ripples on the water, at the face reflected there.
The hair was flat, slicked with mud, matted with splatters of blood. It hung in thin tendrils, like rat tails, shorn short and uneven, nothing reaching farther than the chin. It framed a thin face, mouth pressed tight into a thin line, most of the skin smudged with more dirt, more blood, all dried and flaked like the blood on my hands. What skin wasn’t covered with grit—with the Dredge—was sallow, almost gray. And the eyes . . .
I flinched.
The eyes were hollow, wasted, crusted with dried tears. And in the muddy depths—
I stood a long moment, looked deep into the water, into those eyes.
Then I plunged my hands down into the water and scrubbed the blood away, scrubbed until my skin felt raw, until my ragged fingernails left marks. Then, before the water could settle and the reflection could return, I dipped my head into the barrel.
Water closed over my face and I shut my eyes, remembering Cobbler’s Fountain, feeling again the terror of that six-year-old girl as she tripped, as the water enveloped her, closed up and over her head. . . .
The Skewed Throne Page 13