Torin watched as the dockhands wheeled the elephant toward the boardwalk.
“Kind of looks like you from behind,” he said.
She shoved him so hard he almost fell off the boat.
They docked the Bailey and then walked along the boardwalk, legs rubbery. After so long on the water, the world still seemed to sway. Once they reached the city gates, Torin frowned and froze.
“Something’s wrong here,” he said. He sniffed the air. “Something doesn’t smell right.”
Bailey covered her nose. “It smells like fish. It’s a boardwalk. What do you expect?”
He shook his head. “No, there’s something more. It smells like smoke.”
He peered at the gates. An archway broke the wall, its keystone engraved with a raven clutching a sunburst in its talons. The iron-banded doors stood open, and the portcullis was drawn. Behind guards clad in chain mail and tunics of black and gold, Torin glimpsed a cobbled boulevard. People stood along the roadsides, jeering.
“Something is happening inside this city,” Torin said. “The people aren’t happy.” He gripped the hilt of his sword. “I don’t like this. Let’s tread carefully, and keep your sword loose in your scabbard.”
After paying their toll, they entered the city and walked between tall, narrow homes, their wooden frameworks holding walls of white clay. Ahead upon the hillsides, the streets wound up toward the palace on the city crest. The sun beamed down, lighting the golden disks of Sailith temples.
Torin spotted one of the order’s monks; the bald, bearded man stood ahead upon a balcony, clad in yellow robes. He held a crackling tinderbox. A wicker effigy hung upon the balcony, life-sized, shaped as an Elorian. Somebody had fashioned cruel wooden eyes and claws for the dummy; it seemed ready to leap off its tether and attack.
“This hourglass turn is the Festival of Light!” the monk shouted out. “This turn we worship the Sailith way. This turn we burn the heathens.”
Below in the street, a crowd chanted. Hundreds of people were gathering to hear the monk speak. They waved their fists and their faces twisted savagely.
“Eloria will burn in our light!” shouted the monk. He brought his tinderbox to the effigy.
The wicker Elorian burst into flames, and the people below cheered. They raised their own effigies, small figures woven of leaves, wool, and wood, and soon hundreds of fires burned. The people tossed down their blazing enemies and stomped upon them.
“Idar’s beard,” Bailey whispered, her cheeks pale. “I see where Ferius learned his little tricks.”
Torin looked ahead up another street. A second monk was chanting there, riling up another crowd. Those people too were stomping on burning effigies.
“This whole city seems full of his kind,” he said, disgust swirling through him. “I see only two Idarith temples upon the hilltop, but six of Sailith.” He grumbled. “For a new religion, they’ve spread fast.”
Bailey nodded. “Hatred is easier to feel than love. War unites men more than peace. They forget that war always burns both sides.”
They continued walking along the city streets. The Festival of Light raged all around. In a cobbled square, they saw a play performed on a wooden stage; handsome, armored men were battling hunched actors painted white, their masks ugly and long of nose. In another square, a puppeteer maneuvered wooden Timandrians, their small swords slaying Elorian dolls. Closer to the palace, along a boulevard lined with columns, a hundred knights rode armored horses, their raven banners held high, their swords and armor bright.
“We will light the darkness!” their lord cried, raising a lantern. “We will defend Timandra from the evil of night. We are the shield and sword of sunlight, sworn to defeat the darkness.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “All this fuss over what? We’ve lived all our lives in Fairwool-by-Night. So have my parents and their parents. Until Ferius arrived with his shenanigans, Elorians never threatened us. I doubt they even threaten us now.”
“You wouldn’t know it walking around here.” Torin looked at a group of scrawny beggars on the roadside. “When you’re hungry, it’s easier to blame an enemy far away than your own king down the road.”
Bailey clenched her fists. “Let’s go see this king now. If this is how he’s governing his city, I have a thing or two to say to him.”
He grabbed her arms. “Bailey, promise you won’t do anything stupid. This isn’t Fairwool-by-Night. You can’t twist people’s arms, shove them down, or wrestle them into submission like you do at home. Promise you won’t yell at the king.”
“Oh, I don’t need to yell.” She pounded a fist into her palm.
“Bailey! No fighting either. We have to be diplomatic here, otherwise we’re no better than Ferius.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right, Winky. Merciful Idar, you’re like a fussy milkmaid.” She grabbed his wrist and began tugging him. “Now come along, we won’t stop a war by standing around.”
They continued along the road, heading toward the palace. The houses grew larger at their sides, mansions for the city’s wealthy. A fortress rose upon a hill to their east, vines crawling across its walls, a hundred guards upon its battlements. All his life, Torin had only known the Village Guard, a collection of youths who stood upon the Watchtower between tending to their fields, flocks, or workshops. For the first time he saw true soldiers, burly men bedecked in full plates of armor. They stood upon walls and towers, they marched along the streets, and they chanted for glory. Torin’s own breastplate and sword, simple things forged many years ago, felt humble here, and Torin was keenly aware of their dents and scratches.
His feet were aching when they finally reached the palace grounds. A marble staircase climbed the hillside, a mile long, leading to the palace gates. White towers scratched the sky, wonders of architecture, but Torin barely spared them a glance. His eyes were drawn to the gardens that lined the staircase, flaring out like butterfly wings across the hillside.
Cedars, flowerbeds, and grass grew between pebbly paths. Statues of ravens stood upon columns, and koi ponds glimmered in the sunlight. Birds of every color bustled in almond, cherry, and maple trees. Torin stood gaping, trying to count all the flowers he saw: hyacinths, peonies, roses, and—
“Winky!” Bailey pulled his face toward her. “Stop gaping at flowers, you silly boy, and come along.”
She dragged him onto the marble staircase, and they began climbing toward the palace gates. Torin wondered what he’d tell the guards. My father saved the king’s life—please believe me? Let me through, I met the king years ago, and I promise you I’m not crazy?
He was preparing his words when a hiss sounded ahead.
Torin froze on the staircase, wondering if a snake was slithering in the gardens. He turned toward the sound and his heart sank.
“Ferius,” he said, not bothering to mask the disgust in his voice.
The monk stepped from behind the bushes, clad as always in yellow, his lip curled back. Several monks stood with him, heads hooded. Torin would have preferred to see a pit of snakes.
“Torin the Gardener,” he said, lips pulled back to reveal his gums. “Have you come here to admire your pansies? Something tells me you care to meddle in affairs not yours. Return to your little village, little boy, and grow your little flowers. The capital is no place for your ilk.” He spun toward Bailey. “And who have we here but the gardener’s constant companion, the girl who thought her frail grandfather would rule her village. The man has one foot in the grave already, and when he’s finally buried, I will be there to spit upon his tomb.”
Torin’s chest deflated. He turned to see Bailey’s face redden. Smoke looked ready to plume from her ears. She raised her fists and made to lunge.
“Bailey, no!” he said, reaching out to grab her. “He just wants to—”
But he couldn’t stop her. She tore free from his grasp and leaped at Ferius, fists and kicks flying.
“I’ve had enough of your stench!” she shouted, knocke
d him down, and bit his shoulder like a rabid wolf.
For an instant, pure glee filled Torin at the sight; seeing Ferius on the ground, Bailey tearing into him, was as sweet a sight as any garden. But his rational side kicked in quickly, and he reached down, grabbed Bailey’s shoulders, and pulled her off the fallen monk.
“No, Bailey!” he said. “You’re only giving him what he wants.”
Ferius lay on the ground. Face pale, he clutched his wounded shoulder. Spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed.
“She attacked a monk of Sailith!” Lying on the grass, he pointed a shaky finger at her. “Men, grab her.”
His fellow monks approached. Bailey screamed and made to lunge at them too, but Torin pushed her back. He placed himself between the combatants.
“Stop this!” he said. “Bailey, don’t goad him. Ferius, go to your temples and let us be. We’ll not shed blood on the palace grounds.”
Ferius pushed himself up, clutching his shoulder. Grass and blood stained his robes. His tongue lashed out like a viper’s.
“Oh, but blood has already been shed. And more will spill. You cannot stop this, Torin the Gardener. The Sailith Order will rule the world, both Timandra and the realm of night.”
Bailey tried to run around Torin and attack again. “The Sailith Order is not worthy of ruling a gutter!”
“Men, grab this heretic,” Ferius said. “Drag her to our temple dungeon. Chain her in the dark where she belongs. No sunshine should fall upon one so foul.”
With a howl, Bailey drew her sword and charged toward them.
The monks drew chains from their robes, each one topped with an iron ball. They swung the weapons. Screaming, Bailey lunged at Ferius again, thrusting her sword. One monk lashed his chain, diverting her attack. A second iron ball slammed against Bailey’s shoulder. She cried out and fell to her knees.
Torin’s heart thudded. He had not come all this way to fail here. He leaped toward Bailey, but two monks grabbed his arms and pulled him back.
“Ferius, stop this!” Torin shouted.
More chains swung around Bailey. An iron ball slammed against her back, knocking her facedown onto the grass. Monks leaped upon her, wrapping chains around her, securing her arms to her sides. She screamed, her mouth full of soil, and flailed.
“The heretic will pay for her sins,” Ferius said, laughing. He leaned down, grabbed Bailey’s braids, and tugged her to her feet. Twisting her arms, the monks manhandled her forward. Hands covered her mouth, muffling her screams.
“Ferius, stop this!” Torin cried, held in the grip of two men.
Dragging Bailey away, the monk looked over his shoulder.
“Be thankful, boy, that I do not imprison you too. If your father hadn’t been friends with the king, you too would linger in my dungeon.” He spat. “Men, keep the boy here until he cools down. I don’t want him following me. Then let the wretch be. We will not rob the king of his pet.” He sneered. “But if he tries to follow me, kill him.”
With that, Ferius and several of his monks spun and left the gardens, dragging a screaming and kicking Bailey.
Torin tried to break free, but the monks grabbing him were too strong. He kicked wildly, but their grips only tightened, bending his arms and knocking him to his knees.
“Bailey!” he cried after her. “Bailey, I’ll get you out of there. I’ll speak to the king and have you freed. Stay strong and I’ll be there soon!”
She gave him a last look, eyes wide with rage and fear, before the monks dragged her around a street corner. Torin remained in the gardens, on his knees in the dirt, crying her name.
CHAPTER TEN
FISH IN A BASKET
They scuttled through the night, shadows among shadows, racing down the alley toward the man.
Belly wide and jowls swinging, he trundled down the street, carrying a basket of purchased goods: truffles, mushrooms, sausages, salted bat wings, and more. He hummed to himself as he walked, already chewing on a skewer of roasted spiders. Crumbs covered his silken gown, marring the pricey embroidery that formed stars, moons, and birds across his generous frame.
Koyee hunched over and raced forward. She peered around an alley wall, narrowing her eyes to slits to dim their glow. Her sword hung across her back. Dirt stained her once-white fur tunic, filled her hair, and covered her bare feet, but she cared little for cleanliness anymore. She stared at the food ahead and her mouth watered.
She looked across the street. She saw the twins peering from the opposite alley, ready with their clubs and stones. Koyee looked up. Upon a tiled roof she saw Longarm, leader of the gang, watching the street. The young, one-armed woman looked down, raised her hand, and nodded.
Koyee tensed. It began.
It was young, scrawny Earwig who emerged into the street first. The filthy urchin, clad in rags, limped across the cobblestones. He placed himself before the corpulent shopper, blocking his passage, and reached out his hand.
“Please, kind master, spare a coin for a poor orphan?” the boy said, eyes large and pleading, hand trembling.
The man swallowed a spider, tossed down the skewer, and lifted his basket of food higher. He frowned down at the one-eared boy.
“Get out of my way!” he rumbled. “I have no time for beggars.”
Koyee was already creeping along the street, slim and fast and darting from shadow to shadow. Other people moved along the cobblestones, returning to their homes with their purchases. As she moved between them, Koyee kept glancing from side to side, seeking soldiers, but none appeared. Should any emerge into the street, Longarm was supposed to hoot like an owl, but Koyee wasn’t taking any chances.
“Please, kind master!” said Earwig. “I’ll dance for it. See! I can dance.”
The boy made a sad attempt to dance about, flashing dirty ribbons in his hands and hopping on one foot. He sang a little song, tottering around. The shopper tried to move around him, but Earwig darted from side to side, not letting him pass.
“I dance for money. Spare a coin?”
Koyee tiptoed behind the fat man. On cue, Earwig reached out to the basket.
“What have you here, dear master? Spare me a mushroom?”
As expected, the shopper tugged his basket farther back, bringing it out of Earwig’s reach … and into Koyee’s.
She reached out, grabbed a fluffy maitake mushroom, and pocketed it.
“Move out of my way!” the man demanded. “Move now or I’ll summon the city guards.”
Earwig only danced with more vigor. “Don’t you like my dancing? I can juggle too.” He pulled glass balls from his pockets and began to juggle them. “See me juggle. Spare me a coin.”
Not daring to breathe, Koyee grabbed two truffles, a puffball mushroom, and a skewer of sea urchins. When she glanced at up Longarm, the young woman was motioning her back. The raid had ended.
Koyee glanced back at the basket, which the man was still holding away from Earwig, unaware of the second thief behind him. A string of plump sausages rested there, and Koyee’s mouth watered. She had not eaten meat in so long …
Just one more item, she told herself.
“Get out of my way, scoundrel!” the man cried and kicked Earwig aside.
Koyee reached out and grabbed a sausage.
The man kept walking down the street.
The sausage tugged on a string of ten of its brethren. They all came free from the basket, tugging its rim and slapping onto the ground.
Koyee caught her breath.
The shopper turned around and his eyes widened.
“Thieves!” he cried.
Koyee knew that she should run with her catch. Longarm had drilled it with her many times.
But her hands thought faster than her mind.
She lashed out and knocked the basket over, spilling its remaining supplies across the street.
The man lunged at her. Koyee jumped back. Mushrooms, truffles, and meats rolled across the cobblestones. As the man chased her, Koyee fled. From the corner
of her eyes, she saw the other Dust Face Ghosts leap out. Shy little Whisper, the smallest among them, grabbed pickled eggs and ran off with them, stuffing one into her mouth. The twins shoved mushrooms and fish into their sacks, then fled into the shadows.
The string of sausages still in her hand, Koyee raced into an alley, scuttled up a wall, and ran across the roof. The man below roared and tried to climb in pursuit, but couldn’t make it up the wall.
“Thieves!” he shouted. “Guards, catch them!”
In the moonlight, Koyee jumped from roof to roof, sailing over alleyways. Around her she saw five other shadows—the rest of the Dust Face Ghosts—leaping around her. They raced through the night, scampered down into a distant street, and vanished into the shadows.
The distant cries faded. They scurried through the labyrinth of Pahmey’s slums, racing over sleeping beggars, rats, and piles of refuse. When they finally reentered the graveyard, their domain, Koyee’s heart pounded and her breath burned in her lungs.
She collapsed against a tombstone, letting her catch drop to the ground. The other Dust Face Ghosts gathered around her, adding their prizes to the pile.
Koyee stared and her mouth watered.
“By the moon,” she said and licked her lips.
It was enough food to feed them for several turns of the hourglass. The children all reached out grubby hands, snatching the comestibles and stuffing their cheeks. Even shy little Whisper began nibbling. Koyee bit into a mushroom and sighed as the hearty flavors rolled around her tongue.
“Stop.”
The cold voice rose ahead, and a shadow stepped toward them.
Longarm loomed above, a tall, slim figure against the full moon.
Little Whisper whimpered and let her morsel drop; she cowered behind a tombstone. The others froze, crumbs on their chests, their cheeks stuffed.
Longarm stepped forward, spear clutched in hand. She pointed the blade at Koyee, keeping it only inches away from her neck.
“You let him see you.”
Koyee swallowed the food in her mouth, placed down her truffle, and shoved the spear aside.
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