Eulogy

by D. T. Conklin

  "Castrated. Yes, yes, of course." He gave Kipra another smile, this time weaker as he rubbed his side. "The boy... er, man—he'd told us a bit about you on the trails. Hadn't been expecting to ever meet you, to be telling the truth. Thought you were a wisp or ghost or imagination."

  The merchant.

  She knew Ark had left with a wagon, but he'd never told her of them. They were simply the people who'd taken him from her. Not even his story about the maidens of Vestel held many details about the merchant and his wife. Now they sat in her friend's home, ate Graelina's soup, and acted as if they'd known Ark his entire life.

  The woman's breasts were pushed high above a low-cut tunic, revealing a valley of cleavage. Her skirts clung to her thighs, the thin red fabric allowing Kipra's imagination very little to explore.

  Ark traveled with her for over a year? Not a pleasing thought.

  "Seems you didn't know him as well as you thought," she said.

  Bran sighed. "Kipra, they're here to help, not bicker. Gar Tsi and Teel, meet our spitfire treasure, Kipra Steel. She's a bit rough around the edges, like a demon-damned briar patch."

  "Bran!"

  The blacksmith grinned.

  "I'm no briar patch." She turned to the newcomers. "I don't have time to coddle you, so spit it out and let me get back to work."

  "Briar patch," Gar Tsi said. "Seems fitting. Don't you think, my love?"

  "Like a scythe," Teel murmured, and she crossed her legs. Slowly.

  Kipra threw up her hands and glared at Bran. "This damned city isn't going to save itself, and you're not helping. Pack the merchant and his pretty little whore off and get to helping. We don't have time for—"

  "A compliment," Teel murmured.

  "You were thinking she's simply being prickly?" Gar Tsi said. "Nope. We're not being here to take your time without reason, girl. I've brought fifty men from Alkar, and we'll be helping however we can. Kinslek isn't wanting to leave you stranded, but he's got too many problems to send more."

  Kipra bit back a retort.

  Fifty men! It almost doubled her numbers. Even if they were all Parched—not counting the merchant, his wife, or Kinslek's Keeper—it would be enough to help clear the streets and hunt down Crest's remaining men. Gar Tsi's reinforcements were well equipped and hopefully well trained. With things safer, she could send people into the countryside to hunt and gather, and those who returned wouldn't find themselves robbed.

  Farren wouldn't starve.

  "Aye, girl," Gar Tsi said with a smirk. "It's not being all bad. I'm thinking we can take these men and—"

  "Why didn't Kinslek send more?"

  Gar Tsi twined his fingers together. "He's getting himself ready for Abennak's invasion. His army isn't being trained yet, and he's struggling to find things to feed them with. A slice of bread isn't helping a soldier much."

  Invasion.

  Kipra had heard the rumors, of course, but it was difficult to separate fact from fancy. The fools in Farren would find anything to talk about, if they could. How many would Abennak throw at them? A thousand? Ten thousand?

  Suddenly fifty men didn't sound as promising.

  "Split those you brought into groups of five," Kipra ordered. "Bran, find Pernik and tell him to mix these men with our own. The faster they trust each other, the better. Make sure the council knows they've arrived and, demon-damn, find the rest of Crest's stragglers. And my sister! They must be holed up somewhere on the north side. Check Kleni's brothel again. Watch the demon-damned thing all day, if you have to."

  They glared at her with jaws dropped, eyes wide.

  Outside, the patter of rain struck the shack as thunder rumbled in the distance. Blasted summer showers. They would turn the city into a sloppy mess and make it even more difficult to convince the patrols to effectively walk the city.

  No one wanted to rust beneath their armor.

  Bloody perfect.

  "Well?" Kipra asked. "If there's an army marching here, we'd best get this place in order."

  Gar Tsi shook his head. "Weren't expecting that."

  "There are a lot of things you weren't expecting," she said. "Deal with it or get out."

  The merchant leaned close to his wife. "You thinking she'd take command like that beneath the sheets? I'm betting so. A man can only be getting so lucky, you know."

  Teel stroked his arm. "Luck isn't always for a man."

  Ark had spent a year with these two.

  Bastards!

  Kipra smashed her fist into the merchant's cheek.

  He reared back, unleashing a pained yelp, and crashed over his chair. It should've ended there, but his wife tore a long dagger from beneath her skirt and lunged.

  Kipra skipped back and dropped a hand to her hilt. She clenched it, preparing to draw and strike and—

  Bran's fist closed over it and shoved the blade back to its sheath. He squeezed and squeezed her wrist, stronger than any three men, until she feared the bones would shatter and muscles snap.

  "This is my home," he said with a growl. "I don't give a twice-knotted fuck if you're insulted by them, but the next time you do that I'll be done with you. We've got enough problems."

  He released her.

  She stomped from the house and slammed the door.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rain plummeted.

  Wind lashed Kipra's hair against her cheeks, and she ducked her head as a surge flung water into her eyes. Clouds obscured the mid-afternoon sky. Farren bled dust, dribbling to the gutters in a swirling mixture of water and grime that, in places, reached her ankles. The city flooded quickly and, with the trash heaped so high, it was no wonder.

  She cursed herself and trudged on.

  Bran had a right to be angry. An army supposedly marched from Rippon, and she'd acted like a spoiled child, angry because another woman looked at Irreor. Stupid, foolish, and immature.

  But the blacksmith? She'd never seen him so furious. Had stress finally pushed him over the edge? She'd find him and apologize, though her mouth soured at the thought. Later. For now, she needed to think and walk and breathe.

  An army threatened not just the city, but the entire kingdom. Had Ark known? He'd not mentioned it since he returned, but he must've at least suspected. The merchant's wagon had traveled to Alkar, and Ark had met with Kinslek—that much she knew, for the king had made him a Keeper—but she'd assumed it was so he could overthrow Crest.

  It was obviously something more.

  And he lied to me.

  A group of Parched Men huddled near the singed remains of the warehouse, peering at her as she trudged past. Each clutched a wooden bucket to catch the rain, but cracks leaked their prize to the ground.

  They didn't notice.

  They simply stared at her, just as they always did. It had been like this her entire life, but moreso after the warehouse fire, when she'd commanded them to stop. Now they knew her. They whispered to one another, grinning like the merchant and his whore of a wife.

  One shuffled forward, stretching its hand out.

  Kipra halted and gripped the hilt of her shortsword, prepared to rip it from the sheath and remove his arm. He drew closer. His hand reached and groped.

  No!

  She pried her fingers from the hilt, remembering Bran's anger. He'd been right, she told herself again. True, maybe even Parched Men wanted to use her and discard her. They saw her like they saw her sister—a whore, a harlot, a forgettable.

  But this city is mine. Not my sister's, not the merchant's, and not the Parched Ones'.

  The Parched Man grabbed her arm, pressing cloak against flesh. Water dribbled down her fingers and, a full head shorter than she, he tilted his head up to peer at her.

  "Who are you and what do you want?" she said.

  "Me Grikk. Son broke leg," he said, as if the simple answer explained everything. "Can't walk."

  They all wanted or craved something. Food or aid or answers. The council hoped for her to lead, and these Parched Ones expected her
to save them. They thought she would hold the answers and find the food.

  She couldn't, but she owed it to Ark and Bran to try.

  "Where?"

  Grikk released her to point down a narrow alley. "We live across from potter. I show you."

  She rubbed her arm as she followed him, but his touch still lingered. Rain wouldn't wash it away. Her own wishes wouldn't erase it, but at least he hadn't threatened her. He didn't want anything except help for his son.

  The Parched Man led her past the potter's, a run-down hovel with a single window. The potter hadn't worked here for months, or years—longer than she cared to remember. Parched Ones were packed within it, peering with their lifeless eyes to those who braved the rain.

  Kipra ignored them as her guide pushed on the door to his home.

  Darkness. Silence.

  "Son likes dark," Grikk said.

  She sighed. This Parched Man wasn't the same as Yaron Kenn. The High Seat was intelligent, perhaps even refined, but this man could barely speak. It was more than that, though. There was something missing from this man, like a room without a door.

  Or a tomb that hasn't been filled. There's nothing inside him, and—

  "You fix." Grikk grinned a lifeless grin.

  Even without his touch, her skin itched. "How long has he been here?"

  "A day? A week? More than that?"

  Rain glued her hair to her face as she peered into the darkened room. She hugged her cloak tighter. Something about this place—the shadows, the deep silence, or something more insidious—forced her to step back.

  "Bring him here," she said.

  He bobbed his head, shuffled into the home, and emerged with his son wrapped in his arms. Skin drooped from the starving boy's bones, and he sucked in shallow gasps. His jaw flopped as Grikk carried him, and his eyes... nothing lived there.

  Kipra swallowed hard.

  "You fix," Grikk said.

  "Lay him down."

  She waited until he did, knelt in the water and sludge, and tugged the Parched Boy's leggings over his knees. Bone poked from his shin, a jagged edge of white against a field of red, and diseased skin surrounded the wound.

  Grikk pointed at the wound. "You fix."

  "I don't know if I can! It may already be too late, and I don't have the tools or knowledge to—"

  "I had a soldier, once," the boy murmured, and he hacked a crackling cough. He smiled, but it bore no happiness, only a strange type of reverence. Or adoration. "I played and played and played with him, but he never talked back. He kept watch over me. He protected me."

  Kipra touched his forehead with the back of her hand. It was slimy and warm, as if she'd brushed against a mound of overcooked porridge. The boy hissed out a breath, looking up at her with lips twisted as if to smile, but his gaze had died long ago.

  If it ever lived to begin with.

  Would Yaron Kenn have realized how sick this boy is? Would hehave done something? Do they even have minds like us, or are they all just empty? "Grikk, why haven't you taken him to a healer?"

  She felt more than saw the father shrug.

  "He protected," the man said. "Always protected."

  "Who protected?"

  With the last of his strength, the boy whispered, "I named him Irreor Ark." His head slumped to the side with his mouth opened wide, drool dripping to the cobblestones.

  Kipra held back a shudder as she reached out to gently close the boy's eyes. He'd called... he'd called his soldier Ark. Ark! She tried not to think of it.

  She'd never wanted to see children die, not even the Parched. The boy hadn't deserved it.

  His father unleashed a low, keening groan. He wrung his hands, rocked back and forth, and stared down at his dead son. He should've been wracked with despair or rage or grief, but his groan contained none of those emotions.

  It was dead, just as his son was dead.

  Kipra lurched to her feet and clamped a fist to his shoulder. She mourned this child, in her own way, but she couldn't afford to mourn long. Time ticked. Days fled. The city gained nothing as she stood here.

  One question remained. "Why did he name his soldier Ark?"

  "He protected. Always protected."

  Kipra clenched her teeth. The explanation answered nothing. It simply forced more questions. How did the Parched Ones know of Ark? Why had the child's smile contained such adoration when he spoke of Ark?

  Bloody Ark!

  "What I...." Grikk said. "What I do with body?"

  She turned from him, unable to look at his lifeless face, and pointed to a plume of smoke drifting high above the city's eastern section. "Burn him."

  Grikk croaked as if attempting to speak, but Kipra abandoned him there.

  She stomped toward the plume of smoke. Burning. They'd burned so many bodies in these last weeks—some from starvation, others from disease, others from unknown causes, as if they'd simply decided to die. The reasons didn't matter. Rain couldn't kill the pyre, but the citizens died every day, Parched and human alike.

  It would worsen, especially if Abennak's army marched.

  She couldn't find a way to stop it.

  To her left, someone said, "I've always thought of them as lucky."

  She pivoted to a man who leaned against another decrepit shack. He wore a hooded cloak drenched by the rain. It shadowed his face, but she recognized swirling tattoos, green eyes, and what seemed to be real skin.

  He shoved from the wall to approach her with a slow, cautious step.

  He's not like Yaron or any other Parched One, but he knows. She licked her lips and retreated a pace, beyond his reach. Is he like me or Bran or Ark, or more like Yaron Kenn? Void take me, does everyone now see the Parched Ones?

  "They're lucky because they don't understand what they are," he said. "They don't understand what separates us from them. But what are we, really?" He held out his hand. "I'm Fier—"

  "I don't care," she snapped. "I've work to do."

  "Ah, yes. You've got to wander the city, trying to right the wrongs of these people you know nothing about. These things you can't accept. But they accept you, don't they? Have you ever considered that?"

  More times than he could imagine.

  She hesitated, and he tossed back his hood. Mangled, jagged tattoos twisted as his face did, but they weren't horrible or terrifying. No, they highlighted the sad spark in his eyes. They reached down his neck, vanishing beneath his robe.

  "Fier who?" she asked.

  "I don't understand it all, either." He sucked on his cheek. "I know they're different, just as I know we're different. Who can say why they shuffle and moan? Who can say why they die in alleys, or why they watch you with such vigor?"

  "Hardly an explanation. What do you want?"

  "To help."

  "How?"

  "Look at this place. It's filled with these people, these things, who aren't like you and I. But they're important, aren't they? You can sense it, or else you wouldn't work so hard to protect—"

  "I—"

  "I also sense it," he said softly. "I feel it in my gut, and I can't get it out. Oh, how I've tried. But questions and answers are blocks from different puzzles. They don't fit, no matter how I smash them together."

  Kipra understood the puzzle. Each person was a piece, and even the Parched Ones somehow settled within. No one ever found a solution, not even Bran.

  "Where do we fit, then?"

  Rain pattered against his face, dripped to the ground.

  "We fit where we fit."

  Weeks ago, even in the last days or hours, she would've driven him away with snarls and threats. Those times and those memories felt secure.

  The city didn't need that woman. It needed everything it could get.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Wisk ducked behind a tall crate.

  A breeze swept through Farren's alley, accompanied by the odor of stale sweat and the last glimpse of light as the sun sank below the horizon. A beetle scuttled across his hand, and he slappe
d it to the ground. Vermin infested this place. They burrowed into the heaps of trash, into the heaps of dust. This city—the stink and rot and packed bodies—it disgusted him, and he sighed at the thought of returning to Rippon. Sure, mold had invaded the northern city, but it was better than this.

  On the other side of the crate, one of Farren's guards whistled and strolled closer.

  Wisk smirked as he imagined his knives in that man's eyes. Abennak and the daughter of Kelnak had forced him to come to this place, but the thought of killing—watching the life fade, watching the blood drain and pool, feeling the last twitch of their bodies—he craved it.

  He'd received two hundred gold coins for his first, enough to purchase a set of clothes, a woman or two, and land outside Marjen Keep. The money didn't mean anything, for he could've summoned a mound of it with his gentahl. He could afford hundreds of plots. Thousands.

  Murder held an appeal that stretched beyond money. The number of slain had grown beyond Wisk's ability to remember, but he'd learned to analyze himself—the tightened muscles, the heightened senses, the boiling blood.

  Murder defined him.

  "Kipra Steel," the Mad King had said, but Wisk didn't know what she looked like, where she lived, who she associated with. An enigma, but a knife to a man's throat answered such questions.

  It was easy.

  Other questions are harder, aren't they, Villeen? Do you understand what your power is, or how addictive it can become? Do you know what your father is? The rest of us didn't. Still don't, really, but I don't much care.

  He had other, simpler goals.

  One trail assuredly led to another. A gateman's uncertainty pointed to a weapon merchant's clearer answer. Paths of information twisted upon one another, but they always revealed themselves to a man with patience.

  Wisk possessed very little patience in this reeking city.

  He'd followed a guard for two days, tracking him from one place to another, watching as he met with others. At first, Wisk thought the man would lead him to the woman, Kipra, but time passed without a hint of her. However, those days of stalking unearthed other information, like the daily habits of this guard, where he lived, where his family lived.