Starwatch

by Ian Blackport

  “Because Neseaf sounds stupid.”

  “That’s enough from you. Time to focus on finding me a competent galen. Stow your quips and questions for later.”

  “As my employer commands.”

  Once alone on a quiet trail, Cyriana tilted her head and glimpsed familiar figures stumbling around one domed shrine strictly forbidden to visitors on this night. They staggered as though struggling to hold their hunched bodies upright. Perhaps a melodramatic pantomime, yet the spectacle was unmistakably noticeable as a result. She could forgive them an exaggeration if it achieved results.

  Thran and Aeyir lurched beyond columns and into shining moonlight. From this distance she could scarcely perceive gray discoloration marring their flesh with a sickly complexion. Blackened welts lifted from their skin and discharged a milky fluid contrasting with the dark sores. Even removed as she was, Cyriana could not help but admire Thorkell’s brilliant handiwork. She might not ever call him a dandy again, because this was true artistry. All the more impressive he whipped the cosmetics together on a tight deadline after being pummeled by Maylene.

  Cyriana raised a hand speckled in blood and pressed it against Baskaran’s chest. “Stop.”

  “We need to patch your wound.”

  “Relegate the thought to a secondary concern.” Despite torment flaring through her stomach, Cyriana parted dry lips in a smirk. “Seems we’ve lost track of time, because it’s starting.”

  “What is?”

  “My absurd sideshow. I only hope Maylene and Zalla snatched the damn scroll or they’ll have a hell of a time escaping Starwatch after this.”

  Understanding dawned on Baskaran’s features and he led Cyriana off a brick pathway soon to be swarming with panicked bluebloods and destitute vagabonds alike.

  “I find that I’m not feeling my best at the moment,” she declared. “Can you shield me from what’s about to come?”

  “This is the reason you hired me. I’ll carry you if need be.”

  “Just keep me on my feet and I’ll help pull my own weight.”

  “You’ve suffered enough, I think. Leave this to me.”

  Cyriana nodded and allowed herself to droop further into his arms, thankful for a slight lessening of stress on tired legs. Statuesque muscles carved on Baskaran seemed not to even notice the additional weight while her mind drifted to imminent panic. Fourteen years earlier a plague struck Asdor, depopulating whole villages in the countryside and reducing citizens to quivering wrecks. For those stricken by the illness, symptoms spread at an alarming rate. A vigorous person might contract the disease one morning and be dead the next. Learned galens were unable to offer effective solutions, standing powerless against what many believed to be the wrath of unforgiving gods. The entire Draugan Empire was fortunate this plague died mysteriously before it could spread farther afield and threaten millions more. Asdori residents still speak about the tragic year of 316 Black Ruin, offering benedictions to deities for safeguarding their lives.

  Those who survive such a fatal epidemic tend to live in perpetual fear it may one day return. All Cyriana needed to do was nudge imbedded fear to the forefront and watch it take root, despite employing a method that was irrational in retrospect. Why would victims in an advanced stage inexplicably appear within Starwatch from a shadowed recess? Better yet, how could two males develop deathly symptoms without infecting another living soul, even assuming the rapid fatality?

  Absurd elements did not threaten to spoil the ruse however. People never responded in a reasonable manner when frightened. In her experience, fear inhabited the same region where logic might otherwise reside, and only one could win out during a conflicting struggle. The universal truth spawned all manner of fiendish distractions to an enterprising thief lacking scruples. She had once chased housekeepers from an estate during the darkest hours by donning tattered clothing and wailing like a spectral apparition while dragging dirty chains painted the color of rust from her wrists. That was an entertaining night.

  Cyriana returned her attention to the shambling victims. She noticed lips crusted in oozing sores moving but could not hear their words. Finally she realized Thran and Aeyir were begging for help. A nice touch, admittedly. Despite musicians once again filling the air with melodious dirges, their harmony could not long drown plaintive cries. Given her abdominal wound, Cyriana’s desire to halt might seem suspicious to anyone watching, yet she desperately wanted to witness this spectacle. Her curious choices would soon be forgotten regardless, once panicked screeching spread between onlookers as though a savage wildfire. She reckoned the wait would not be long, and as ever was proven correct.

  Murmuring banter quietened and faces turned to regard Thran and Aeyir with bemusement. Cyriana watched in giddy pleasure as expressions shifted to horror almost at a languid pace. Mouths opened, fumbling to uncover words left murky against budding dread, while trembling hands lifted and pointed at the afflicted twosome.

  “All it requires is a lone word,” Cyriana whispered. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Plague!” shrieked one reveler.

  Cyriana spread her lips in a smile and then cursed when she tasted blood dribbling from the corners.

  Fearful spectators echoed the cry into a shrill cacophony. Nobles attired in the priciest finery clawed at their peers, scrambling backward with mindless desperation to escape contagious victims. Sensible aristocrats fell atop one another, writhing and scrabbling for refuge. Ever reliable self-interest seized their minds and fists started swinging against those too stunned to flee. Some fell in tangles while others surged for open gates and the refuge hopefully awaiting beyond. Not one responded with touching concern for the welfare of a friend or stranger, preferring instead to forego magnanimity for a greater chance at personal survival. Humans were selfish creatures in the end, whenever faced with a threat. Excluding galens, of course, who were forever exceptions to every otherwise immutable rule.

  An elder galen cautiously approached the ousted students, and Cyriana attributed his bravery to either compassion or misgivings at their behavior. This might be the end of their amateur theater, if the scholar identified Thran and Aeyir for who they really are. Or noticed crippling symptoms were attributable to clever chicanery rather than disease.

  Her bumbling patsies did not glimpse the galen drawing near, until one skeletal arm thrust forward and clutched Thran’s wrist. Eyes wreathed by wrinkles and pockmarks lit in comprehension, though Cyriana could not be certain whether he recognized the expelled nitwits or false decorations they wore. Unsurprising an academic would distinguish genuine markings from gimmicky ones. Not that Cyriana cared, since the damage was done and her objective achieved. Let the old man try corralling all these flocking sheep back to ruined festivities.

  “They aren’t sick!” he shouted.

  His words rang hollow to those in the grip of despair, whose only concern was fleeing a poisonous miasma. One calming voice in a raging storm meant nothing. The die was cast once an initial scream touched the air.

  The galen chose not to bother with an uneducated crowd and instead howled at nervous guards waiting in a loose cordon. “There is no plague! Arrest the delinquents!”

  Knowing their ruse was finished, Thran and Aeyir abandoned the charade and bolted like the healthy specimens they are. Dark sores melted from skin flushed with sweat, forcing them to wipe a clinging paste from their eyes. Armored sentries sprinted across pathways and spongy grass, weaving an erratic route in pursuit. One clutched at coattails billowing behind Thran, though the young Shiylan wriggled free.

  Cyriana noted additional sentinels ringing the courtyard and closing in on the wayward former students. “Not looking good for you, boys.”

  Swarming guards tackled the miscreants amid flailing limbs and choked screams. Aeyir thrashed in valiant resistance, clobbering one guard in his face with an uplifting boot. A cracking backhand snapped Aeyir around and one woman plunged her kneecap into his spine, pinning a face laden in smudged makeup against grass.
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  Cyriana felt utterly unsympathetic toward their plight, watching the desperate lads continue to squirm and howl. “That’s a shame.”

  She turned away from the amusing carnage and hobbled alongside Baskaran through an entry inundated with fleeing partygoers. Even sapped of strength and losing blood, Cyriana granted a harsh elbow to anyone who ventured too close. Overwhelmed guards wore bruises and scratches on despondent faces, incapable of resisting the tide and learning to no longer bother. One man toppled toward Cyriana and Baskaran planted a palm on his reddened face, shoving the bloated socialite into a jumble.

  Fresh air caressed her scalding face once beyond the gate, yet did nothing to stifle heat spreading elsewhere. Fabrics clung to her perspiring skin like an unwelcome touch. Trees passed to either side as they descended gentle inclines, each stride blurring into a continual strain on Cyriana. More weight shifted to the stubborn man at her side, until she did little more than scrape boots over cobbles. Their journey toward the city seemed interminable to her weakening mind, an exercise in endurance she refused to fail.

  Finally Baskaran rounded one brick wall and came to a rest, gently leaning Cyriana against its furrowed surface. She placed a hand atop bubbling sores, relieved to discover the flow seemed to be lessening. Or maybe she was merely losing all sensation, though the unrelenting fire twisting through her stomach suggested otherwise. Shrieks from dispersing Fete attendees softened as they scattered in myriad directions along weaving paths and avenues. Cyriana felt unanticipated admiration toward their heroic stamina, since most were habituated to fawning lackeys holding open carriage doors. The simple threat of death spurred robust enthusiasm from even the most lethargic patrician.

  “Why are we stopping?” she questioned. “Drag me to our rendezvous and let’s hope the others found their way.”

  “Not a chance. I’m having you properly stitched before we attempt crossing the city at night. If only you could see yourself right now. You look to be standing on the wrong side of death. Our companions can sit on their arses and wait.”

  “Disobeying my orders, are you?”

  “Concerned for your welfare,” corrected Baskaran. “Even more than you are apparently.”

  “Nonsense. I’m the only one who has her priorities straight.”

  “And an open stomach.”

  “Fine,” Cyriana growled. “Give me over to a physician. Though I’m becoming alarmed at the frequency people are choosing to ignore my directions.”

  “Simple solution to that. Start making popular choices.”

  “Whiner. At least there’ll be more carriages available tonight thanks to the festival. Think you can be a gentleman and wrangle me a hansom cab? I’ll pay.”

  “If these terror-stricken revelers haven’t snatched them all thanks to you.”

  “Just shut up and find one. Even if it means yanking the current occupant out.” Cyriana slumped against the wall, sliding down into a seated position. “I’ll wait here.”

  Chapter 19

  Bask in your own naiveté if it suits you, but most among us can count the number of truly reliable friends we have on only one hand and still have fingers left over.

  From the Trial of Farien Taerlon, Day 8

  One day before his mysterious disappearance

  308 Black Ruin, Year of the Tangled Glade

  22 Nashrenir

  “Absolutely not,” Maylene scolded, narrowing her eyes to slits. “I won’t allow this.”

  “The decision isn’t yours to make,” replied Cyriana. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “This is bloody madness.”

  “Could be. But the way I see it, this is our best choice.”

  “Like hell it is.” She jabbed a forefinger at Cyriana’s face and glowered. “You can hold yourself upright as though nothing’s wrong, but you’re still walking wounded. I see it in your eyes. You aren’t up for this if shit goes south.”

  “Don’t presume to tell me what I can and can’t do, Maylene.”

  The Asdori woman hammered one boot into a vacant chair, knocking it to clatter against a barren wall. She whirled and focused her anger at Thorkell. “You planning to sit there like a dimwitted mute or do you want to say something?”

  He drummed fingertips atop a table and rubbed his chin. “Maylene knows you better than anyone, Cyriana. If she has her doubts I’m inclined to believe her. There might be a wiser way if you don’t have the strength.”

  Cyriana felt her ire rising and swept one hand through her stained hair, seeking to summon calm with the gesture. “What we’re having is not a discussion, because nothing’s up for debate. Two months ago you all joined our venture under the condition I called the shots. Didn’t seem to be problems with that addendum until now. You want democracy, take a hike to Twelve Cities. Because you won’t find it here. This is my team and when I say park your arses somewhere, you will.”

  “I won’t do it,” Maylene hissed.

  Cyriana narrowed eyes toward her oldest friend. “You’d damn well better. If you stroll into sight, you’ll be endangering me and putting yourself at risk. Rope needs to understand my crew is elsewhere and ready to scatter with the artifact if he harms me. Each additional person who attends this meeting puts the plan more in jeopardy.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. The fewer people who attend only puts you more in jeopardy.”

  Cyriana grumbled and cast her unforgiving gaze toward Eloran. “I notice you’re uncharacteristically introspective. What complaint do you have this time?”

  “None. I happen to agree with you for once.” Eloran lifted hands marbled with shallow wrinkles. “Believe me, I’m likewise surprised by this turn of events.”

  “How is it the frigging grouch is the only one who respects my wishes?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know if I’d phrase it in such a way. I’m merely being practical. This way is safest for us all. It might seem Cyriana is putting herself in unnecessary peril by doing this, but the greater peril is if we all expose ourselves.”

  Maylene pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “We can agree Rope is unlikely to honor his arrangements, yes? If you waltz up to him alone, he might choose to kill you. At least haul Baskaran along to give yourself a fighting chance.”

  “He won’t kill me,” Cyriana asserted.

  “And you can speak to his mental state after several fleeting conversations?”

  “Please. I’m not that capable a judge of character. But should he strangle me, he risks all of you vanishing into the wind with his prized relic. Murdering me achieves nothing for him. He’s too much of a businessman to misunderstand the notion. That much I know.”

  “If you’re confident death isn’t a probable outcome, what difference does it make whether you invite someone else to join you?”

  “I said Rope won’t kill me. No chance he’ll feel the same hesitation regarding another. I’m not sentencing one of you to die on a foolhardy errand.”

  “You are the most intractably stubborn person I’ve ever known,” Maylene snarled. “And you’re damned unapologetic about it, too. Do I need to rip out your stitches again to keep you from going?”

  “Wouldn’t stop me and you know it.”

  Eloran cleared his throat. “We already have a solid arrangement in place. Let’s stick with it and all do as we agreed last month.”

  “Never mind the strange words I’m about to speak,” Cyriana said, “but Eloran is right. We reached a consensus regarding what to do once the codex was in our possession. And we’re adhering to the damn plan.”

  “You weren’t wounded at the time,” Maylene asserted.

  “It changes nothing in my mind.”

  “Cy, listen to me—”

  “Maylene, please. I’m asking you as a friend to do this for me.”

  She flinched as though suffering a physical blow. “How dare you toss around that word, considering what you’re demanding. I’m supposed to watch you walk to your own death?”

  “I don�
�t want to risk anyone’s safety if I don’t have to. Not more than I already have.”

  “You wouldn’t have to ask us,” Zalla affirmed. “We’re all willing to take the risk for you.”

  “I know you are. And that’s why I can’t let you.” Cyriana deposited a small pouch in Maylene’s hand. “Do as I say and watch over the others. Take them to the Crane and Crock inn like we intended. I’ll contact you when I’m able.”

  *

  Cyriana lifted a boot over fragmented marble sheathed in mildew and sighed. Cemeteries were such dreary locales, even disregarding myriad tales of restless spirits and wandering ghosts. She made a point of avoiding land where the dead were entombed for eternity. Not necessarily owing to any superstitious dread, though a nagging part of her mind refused to discount the potential. The reason for her reticence was mainly how damned depressing graveyards were. This was doubly true for abandoned ones fallen into disrepair.

  She eyed a crumbled headstone resting atop overgrown grass and brushed past. Dusk cast lengthening shadows throughout the necropolis beneath trees sprouting crooked branches. Cyriana approached the central stretch and discovered a lone man awaiting her arrival. A leaning sculpture flanked him to one side, capped with a carved figure touched by mold. She suspected an innocent face chiseled into stone was meant to appear angelic, but instead seemed to glower at her with malicious intentions. Cyriana despised this forgotten cemetery and its eerie statuary.

  “Thanks for not insisting we meet somewhere spooky.”

  “Sarcasm, of course.” Noose clasped hands behind his back and strolled down a shallow hillock. “Knowing this locale is deserted of the living appealed to me, given our respective need to avoid attention. Nothing more. Do you have a reason to fear an abode of the dead?”

  “Not that I know of,” she answered. “Incorporeal beings are maddeningly tight-lipped about unkind motives. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m eager to be standing in one.”

  “Then try not to offend their sensibilities while here. Ordinarily I would think my warning obvious, though you seem to be particularly skilled at causing offense in others. I presume this talent extends beyond us mortals to also include the spiritual. It’s a wonder you haven’t joined their ghostly ranks already.”