“Good.” Marcus turned to Janus. “Sir. Four fires at once has to be enemy action. It could be cover for some kind of insurrection—”
To his astonishment, the colonel was smiling. Not his usual smile, tight-lipped and gone in an instant, but a wild, almost mad grin.
“Go on ahead, Lieutenant. The captain and I will follow presently.”
Fitz’s eyes flicked from Janus to Marcus, who gave an infinitesimal nod. He saluted and herded the gawking rankers with their smoking muskets out into the corridor. Once they were out of sight, Janus spun to face Marcus.
“Don’t you see, Captain? It’s still here.”
“I don’t understand. What’s still here?”
“The Names. When we found the vault empty I thought they must have been removed from the city months ago. With all of the Desol to hide them in, it would have taken years to ferret them out. But this . . .”
Marcus frowned. “What makes you think they weren’t?”
“The fire. Enemy action, you said, and very perceptively. But why would the Redeemers burn the city?”
“To try to get us, I would assume . . .” Marcus trailed off as Janus waved his hand.
“No, no. They must know we’re camped inside the walls. A fire would be inconvenient, but certainly not devastating. A lone fanatic might try such a thing, but four fires at once? No.”
“Then what?”
“Cover. You said it yourself. It keeps us penned up inside the walls while they remove the treasure from the city.” Janus’ mad smile was fading, and his brow furrowed.
“But . . .” Marcus tried to follow this chain of logic, certain that there must be some flaw. “What makes you think this is related to your ancient treasure in the first place?”
Janus raised one eyebrow. “I should think you would have guessed that as well, Captain. After all, it was you who spared my life from their assassin.”
“I might have,” Marcus said. “But—”
“Tell me, do you think an ordinary man could move so quickly, or strike with such force? Could an ordinary man have caught a pistol ball in flight?” He spun and pointed to the cracked stone doorframe. “Do you know of any normal man who could fracture rock with his bare hands?”
“I don’t know what I saw,” Marcus replied, hedging.
“You know,” Janus said, with a quick smile, “but you’re not prepared to believe the evidence of your senses. I believe mine, Captain, and what they tell me is that the treasure of the Demon King is real. Now we must move quickly to retrieve it, as His Majesty has instructed. And,” he added, as an afterthought, “to keep it out of the hands of the Last Duke.”
WINTER
Winter woke before dawn with a pounding pain in the back of her head, a mouth that tasted of sewer water, and a need to visit the privy that would brook no delay.
Bobby lay against her, head resting on Winter’s shoulder. Feor was in the opposite corner, neatly curled up in a catlike ball on a pile of cushions.
Winter extricated herself from Bobby, who murmured a little and didn’t wake, and found that one of her legs had gone to sleep. She quietly slapped the flesh to try to work some life back into it, then limped out into the corridor. The Khandarai practice of large communal chamber pots had caused some serious embarrassment for Winter in the past. Fortunately, at this early hour, no one was about to watch her. Afterward, greatly relieved, she groped her way back through the semidarkness to the little room she’d shared with the two younger girls.
She had dreamed, after all, but her dreams had been strange, disjointed things. Jane had been there, of course, but so had Captain d’Ivoire, and Sergeant Davis, and others she couldn’t quite remember. Whatever it had been, it was fading quickly.
Her plan to use her own revelation to distract Bobby from brooding on what had happened to her had worked a bit too well. The younger girls had taken to drink with cautious enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before all talk of magic and Mrs. Wilmore’s was forgotten, at least for the moment. Winter had never been a world-class drunkard herself, in spite of her bravado. There was always the danger that, in an inebriated state, she would do something that would compromise her secret. It was oddly liberating to be in the company of people who already knew, and after the initial tide of melancholy had receded she found herself enjoying the experience.
It was considerably less enjoyable now, of course. She rubbed vainly at her eyes and wondered if there was anywhere to get a cup of cold water or, more usefully, a pail of it. Pushing back through the rag curtain into the little room, she found that Bobby had slumped the other way, snoring serenely against one wall, while Feor—
Feor was on her feet. Her eyes were open, but queer, as though she were staring at something far beyond the walls of the tavern. She swept her gaze across Winter but didn’t seem to see her.
“Feor?” Winter whispered, not wanting to wake Bobby. “Is something wrong?”
Feor’s lips worked silently. Winter stepped into the room to take her shoulder, but as soon as the doorway was clear the Khandarai girl bolted, brushing aside Winter’s outstretched arm and dashing through the flapping rag curtain into the hallway. Winter stood for a moment in shock, listening to her retreating footsteps, then spat a curse.
“Bobby!” she shouted. “Bobby, wake up!”
The corporal’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with a yawn. “Sir? Did I—”
“Come on,” Winter snapped. “Feor’s gone. We’ve got to catch up to her before she gets into trouble.”
“Yessir!”
Bobby jumped to her feet, military reflex overcoming hangover fuzziness, and followed Winter down the corridor. Winter heard stirring in the other rooms, and a few angry shouts, but paid them no mind. The common room was dark and empty, with no sign of Feor, and Winter dashed across it and out into the predawn street.
Thankfully, the Khandarai girl had not turned off into one of the many twisting alleys that webbed the lower city. Even this early in the morning, a fair number of people were about, mostly tradesmen and porters making deliveries. Among the increasing bustle, Winter caught sight of Feor moving down the street at a jog, heading farther out into the slums and away from the gate to the inner city.
She’d made it three streets before they caught up to her, forcing their way through the early-morning crowd. Winter grabbed Feor’s good arm and jerked her to a halt, breathing hard. Spikes of pain lanced through her head with every heartbeat, and her throat felt as though it had been rubbed with sandpaper. Brass Balls of the Beast. Whose brilliant idea was this, again?
Feor turned, and after a moment she lost her thousand-yard stare.
“Feor!” Winter said. “Are you all right?”
“She’s here,” Feor said urgently. “Please let me go.”
“Who’s here? Where are you going?”
“Mother is here. I have to find her.” She looked in the direction she’d been running. “I can feel her.”
“Mother?” Winter fought for breath. “I thought . . . you said . . .”
“I have to go to her,” Feor said. She looked back at Winter, her eyes full of tears. “Please. You don’t understand.”
“Sir?” Bobby said. “What’s going on?”
Winter looked back at the corporal. Remarkably, she didn’t even seem to be out of breath, much less suffering the aftereffects of a night’s debauchery.
“She thinks she’s found her mother,” Winter said in Vordanai. “Not literally her mother. The high priestess of her order, or something like that. She wants to go to her.”
Feor jerked at Winter’s grip again. Winter bit her lip, indecisive.
“We can’t stay here,” Bobby said.
A quick glance up and down the street confirmed this. The three women were the center of a widening circle of stares, and the cast of the gray-skinned faces was decidedly unfriendly. Winter wasn’t sure if they thought they were seeing two Colonials accost a Khandarai girl, or if a general dislike of foreigners was enough, but
either way things seemed to be taking an unhealthy turn.
“We can’t let her wander off on her own,” Winter said. “I’m going with her. You should—”
“I’m coming with you,” Bobby said, and smiled. “Besides, I think we’ll be safer as a group.”
Winter didn’t have the strength to argue, and wasn’t sure she wanted to in any case. She turned back to Feor.
“We’re coming with you,” Winter said. “No arguments.”
Feor blinked, then shook her head. “Mother will—”
“I said no arguments. Come on—we can’t just stand here.”
The Khandarai girl hesitated, then gave a quick nod. She set a fast pace down the street, and Winter and Bobby followed close behind.
“Feor, how far do we have to go?” Winter said.
“Not far,” Feor said. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration. “She’s moving, I think. And there are others—around this next street—”
She broke off, looking up. Winter followed her gaze. Ahead of them, a faint glow was building over the city. For a moment Winter took it for dawn. Then her slightly befuddled mind reminded her that they were walking basically west, away from the inner city. The light grew brighter as she watched, until she could make out coils of smoke rising into the still-darkened sky.
Fire. Shouts of alarm were beginning to rise all around. Fire was the eternal terror of every citizen of the lower city.
“Sir!”
Winter whipped around in time to see Feor take off again, toward the flames. There was no time to think. Bobby was already pounding after her, and Winter gritted her teeth against the pain in her head and followed.
• • •
For the first few moments they were fighting a sudden tide of people. The beginnings of the blaze brought the lower-city folk out of their buildings like fleeing roaches, carrying their children or bundles of goods. There was no effort to fight the flames, and remarkably little screaming or confusion. This was a moment that these people had expected their whole lives, and they reacted with a silent, deadly determination to escape.
Winter was buffeted from all sides, swept backward a few steps, and torn away from Bobby. She looked about in panic and finally spotted the corporal sheltering in the gap between two wooden buildings. Winter worked her way over, shoving so hard she was practically knocking people over, until she could get out of the main stream of traffic.
“We’ll never find her in this,” Winter shouted in Bobby’s ear. “The roofs, maybe—”
Then she stopped, because the human flood tapered off as quickly as it had begun, leaving the street empty except for a few slower-moving groups or those who’d been knocked down or dazed in the mayhem. Winter got a glimpse of Feor, who had, incredibly, made progress against the tide and was nearly at the end of the street. She pointed, got a nod from Bobby, and started to run again.
No actual flames were visible yet, but the glow was definitely brighter, and Winter could smell woodsmoke. Feor rounded the corner a few yards ahead of them, and Winter nearly collided with two young Khandarai helping an elderly man down the road. She spun out of their way at the last moment, ignoring the vicious looks, and kept after Feor. Bobby was a few steps ahead, but when she came to the corner she suddenly pulled up short, and Winter nearly cannoned into her as well.
The next street was a short one, only twenty or thirty yards before it ended in a T-junction, and judging by the distance they’d run they had to be getting close to the outskirts of the city. The glow was much more intense here, and Winter could see tongues of flame licking up in the brightening sky. None were close, however, and she realized there must be two fires, one to either side of them. Straight ahead, in the direction that led out of the city, the night was still dark.
A dozen men stood in the street. They wore white tunics and grubby white trousers, overlaid with a full-length black hooded cloak that each had tied in a peculiar loop around his waist to leave his arms and legs free. All carried drawn swords, the distinctive heavy-ended falchions of the Desoltai. They were young men, full-bearded, with dark hair and skin a darker shade of gray than the urban Khandarai. One raider had his face concealed behind a blank gray mask, featureless except for a pair of eye holes.
Winter knew him, though she had never seen him personally. Every member of the Colonials had heard the story of Malik-dan-Belial, the Steel Ghost of the Great Desol. He had been causing trouble for the prince and his Vordanai allies since long before the Redemption. Supposedly he was a sorcerer, or had made a pact with demonic powers. She’d always dismissed that kind of campfire story—but now, face-to-face with that blank, glowering mask, she thought about the arcane light that had bloomed under Feor’s hands and wondered. He didn’t need demonic powers, though. He had ten armed men, and she and Bobby wore only knives. Winter skidded to a halt, her heart pounding, and looked around for Feor.
One of the buildings letting onto the street was an ancient tumbledown stone place, little more than a wall around a central courtyard with more modern wooden buildings at the back. The makeshift front gates of this relic had been opened, and a small caravan was emerging.
First came a huge, bald man whom Winter recognized as one of the eckmahl, eunuch servants like the one who had originally accompanied Feor. Behind the giant walked an old woman, wrapped from head to toe in white linen under a tattered gray robe. She was supported on one side by a boy of fourteen or fifteen, who was also as bald as an egg. Another man walked beside her with the air of a bodyguard.
After these three came a cart, a four-wheeled vehicle with long wooden poles at the front and rear instead of traces. These had crossbars allowing men to haul the load, and there were eight—four ahead and four behind—doing just that. These men were dressed like ordinary Khandarai laborers, but they pushed with a measured, steady tread that spoke of coordination and training. Each of the haulers was trailed by a slowly dissipating wisp of white vapor, as though they were all smoking something in unison, and Winter caught a whiff of the smell of burning sugar.
At the sight of the interlopers, the old woman and her minders stepped out of the way of the cart. It proceeded slowly past the Desoltai and up the street, toward the edge of the city. Leaning on her young companion, the crone stepped carefully toward Feor, while the desert raiders looked at one another uncertainly.
The Steel Ghost said something, too quietly for Winter to catch. When the crone spoke, her Khandarai was dry but intelligible.
“We will attend to them in a moment.” Her eyes were fixed on Feor. “First I must welcome my poor wayward lamb.”
“Mother!” Feor fell to her knees, sobbing, and prostrated herself full-length on the dirt in front of the old woman. “Mother, I beg forgiveness.”
“Shhh,” the old woman clucked, in a tone that was not at all reassuring. “All will be well, my child. You have been away for a long time.”
Feor, head bowed, said nothing. The old woman looked up at the two Vordanai. Her face was invisible beneath a deep cowl, but the ends of bandages hung limp on her chest and swayed whenever she moved.
“And these are your friends?” she said. “Bring them here.”
These words finally broke through Winter’s indecision. Time to run. She didn’t want to leave Feor, but she and Bobby weren’t going to be able to rescue the girl from a dozen armed men. Maybe I can round up a squad or two and intercept them—
She grabbed Bobby’s arm and turned back up the street, then stopped in surprise. Standing in their path was the young man she’d assumed was a bodyguard, bald-headed like the rest but fit and dangerous-looking. She hadn’t seen him move. He raised his hands, blood dripping slowly from his palms.
“Don’t!” The shout came from Feor. “Mother, please. Leave them be. They saved me.”
“Did they?”
“Sir?” Bobby said quietly. “I can go left, you go right, and one of us should be able to hit him from behind. He hasn’t got a sword.”
The young man smiled a
t them. Winter swallowed hard.
“I don’t think that would be . . . wise,” she said to Bobby.
“But—”
Footsteps behind them cut the discussion short. Three of the Desoltai arrived unhurriedly, and together with the bodyguard they escorted the two Colonials back up the street. The cart was still grinding away, and the rest of the Desoltai had gone with it, including the Steel Ghost. The old woman remained with Feor, who was speaking rapidly in low tones. Winter caught a few words—she was telling her story, sometimes tripping over her tongue in her effort to get it out quickly.
Something the girl said made the old woman look up sharply at Bobby. Winter kept one hand on the corporal’s arm, and she could feel her stiffen.
“She’s . . .” Bobby put one hand to the side of her head. “I can feel something. Something’s wrong.”
Feor had finished, returning to her facedown crouch. The old woman ignored her, focusing on the two Vordanai. When she finally spoke, her tone was even less friendly than it had been.
“I had hoped for better sense from you, my child.”
“It seemed the only way. I owed them a debt.”
“There are no debts of honor with heretics,” the old woman snapped. “No deals with raschem.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Feor pressed her forehead to the ground. “Please. I beg for mercy.”
“Mercy,” the old woman said, almost contemplatively. Then she made a hawking noise, like she wanted to spit. “I cannot. Obv-scar-iot must be released to one who is more worthy of it.”
“I accept your judgment,” Feor said. “But these two—”
“Are raschem. If we let them go, they will fall into the grip of the schemer Orlanko. No.” She shook her head. “I grant you the mercy of a swift death. Onvidaer, see to it.” The hood swung up the street, toward the wagon. “We are falling behind. Akataer, with me.”
“Mother!” Feor looked up, anguish in her voice, but the old woman had already turned her back. The young man, Onvidaer, stood in her place, while the three Desoltai gathered closer around Winter and Bobby.
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