by K. Eason
And to Veiko and Soren, staring at her, Snow said: “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
There was a svartjagr circling outside the window. Alone, which was unusual among the feral ones, and if one svartjagr looked like another, well, this one seemed somehow familiar. The cant of its wings, maybe. The breadth of them.
Dekklis went to the window and opened it. Called Briel’s name, quiet as she dared.
Rurik started. “The hell.”
She ignored him. The svartjagr heard her. Turned its arrow-slim head and looked. It passed the window and canted its wings and doubled back, its head pointed at her the whole time. And yes, there: spider-tracery of old scar on its wings, her wings.
Dekklis braced her hands on the sill. Not entirely safe, leaning out, because the sending always came with a headache, but sometimes it came with vertigo, too.
“All right,” she whispered. “Give it to me.”
The sending hit like a hammer, an axe, cleaving bone and brain. Worse than usual, harder: she saw herself, a distant smudge on the Academy’s wall, a mote in one of a hundred separate eyes. A second shift, this time into svartjagr memory, this time still more alien: the buildings were hard edged, vivid details down to the cracks in the shutters, but the air was solid, too, etched in patterns of color and texture. There was the lake, rippling and flickering, reflecting fire. One of the warehouses was burning. Heat that painted the air red and blue and yellow.
Flash again, to a smear of darkness that was also somehow Snowdenaelikk, with Veiko, and Logi; another person, too, maybe a man—but no one Briel cared about. No one who rated detail beyond man and dark.
Dekklis shaped Istel and sent where? at Briel. Got back red-washed darkness and vertigo. And then Dek was leaning over the sill, gagging, and Rurik’s hand was warm on her back.
“Szanys? The hell was that?”
“Briel,” she said, and realized he wouldn’t know who that was. “The svartjagr. She’s Snowdenaelikk’s. That was a sending.”
Rurik took her elbow. Guided her back to the bench beside the table. “Is your friend . . . ?”
“Alive, yes, and her partner.” Istel. Dek’s guts folded and fell. She put the worry aside, focused, made herself look at Rurik and deliver a report. “It’s a message. Something happened down there—a fight, I think, maybe a—”
There was a knock at the door.
Dek grabbed for the weapons that weren’t there. Naked hips, naked boots. Saw Rurik do the same and grimace. And then they both, together, spread their hands flat on the table and waited.
A second knock. “Szanys Dekklis? May I come in?”
Courtesy and a familiar voice. Oh foremothers.
“Of course, Adept,” she called back while Rurik looked at her with such a deliberate lack of expression she thought his face might crack.
The door opened, and Belaery came in. Alone, in Adept’s robes, her topknot in a midnight coil so dark and perfectly black that her whole head looked slick and oiled. The rings scalloped silver along the rims of both ears, five on one side, one on the other. That was a message, to anyone with wits to see it. Two highborn prisoners would understand it just fine.
Do not try me. Here I have the rank.
Belaery bowed first to Dekklis, then, only a little more shallowly, to Rurik. “First Scout Szanys Dekklis. First Spear K’Hess Rurik.” Polite and fleeting smile. “I hope the accommodations are acceptable.”
“They would be lovelier if we could leave them. Adept.” Rurik’s accent was flawlessly highborn round, where Belaery’s was midtowner flat. Another message. Ink and family against Academy rank and sex.
This, Dekklis thought, is how the Purge had happened. Oh foremothers, defend them all.
“We appreciate the Academy’s hospitality,” she said sharply. “I imagine we have you to thank for it.”
“Whoever you are.”
Belaery’s eyes flickered toward Rurik. Lingered a moment on his face, his furious eyes. “Adept Uosuk Belaery,” she said. “I am an associate of the First Scout.” Her gaze came back to Dekklis. The smile hardened into a tight line. “And yes. I’m the reason you’re not rotting in a proper cell somewhere. Or dead,” she added, and glanced at Rurik again. “That wasn’t easy with you.”
“I’d love to know how you managed that.”
Belaery inclined her head, gracious as any domina. “I have a friend on the Adept Council. And she has a sister in the Senate with some very quick-footed messengers.” Belaery shrugged. “Listen, Dekklis. We’ve had some of the same problems the Houses have, with god-rot in high places. A particularly highly placed piece of that rot arranged to have all highborn dissidents—that’s what they’re calling you—brought here for safekeeping.”
“You mean, to be hostages,” Rurik said. He’d folded his arms across his chest. Was staring directly at Belaery, as if she were an errant mila who’d failed at latrine duty.
Belaery sighed through her nose. Dek watched all that Illhari custom working its way across her face: exasperation, offense, impatience, with male intrusion, male insolence, just plain poor manners.
“I mean,” she said, deliberately not looking at him, “for safekeeping, because that is what I said, K’Hess Rurik, until a purpose could be found for you. There was concern that hasty decisions would result in regrets later on. I didn’t give the order to bring you here, but I made certain you were housed in this apartment rather than in the vaults.”
“Oh, well, that’s kind—”
Dekklis thrust out her arm, made a bar between Belaery and Rurik. Raised her own voice over his.
“You said that you had the same problems with god-rot. You don’t anymore?”
“We do not.” Belaery raised her chin. “The problem suffered an unfortunate and sudden illness. He did not recover, and my friend assumed his position on the Council.”
Dekklis caught the smile crawling onto her face. “Bad fish?”
Belaery nodded, wide-eyed and grave. “Perhaps.”
“Doesn’t your rot have friends of his own?”
“There have been a couple of accidents. Some of the staircases can be quite treacherous in the dark.”
Dekklis laughed outright, sharp and loud. “And no one’s suspicious.”
“No one’s interested in having Council control fall into Senate hands, and certainly not godsworn hands. We also swear oaths, First Scout. The Academy will not be a political tool for any House’s advancement.” Belaery’s eyes glittered. “We have no interest in bringing the godsworn back to power. But we also do not wish to see the Taliri take Illharek.”
“So why are you here?”
Belaery nodded, a teacher pleased that her pupil had finally asked the right question.
“Three reasons. First: there’s a fire in the Suburba. One single warehouse, down on the Tano dockside. That wouldn’t be so remarkable, except that the fire’s been very polite. It hasn’t even tried to jump onto its neighbors. Which, of course, means it’s conjured.”
“Snowdenaelikk’s doing.”
“Presumably.” Belaery’s smile smoked away. “The Academy has rules, of which Snow has just broken a handful. Not that she ever much cared for rules.”
“Who’d she kill?”
“Most people would ask is she all right? first. So you must know that she is.”
Dekklis blinked. Rearranged her face into what she hoped looked like shock. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, don’t try. I saw Briel outside. Her scars are distinctive. And her presence here suggests to me that Snow’s alive, and what’s more, she wants you to know that.” Belaery went to the window. Gazed out, as if she even noticed the view. “Let’s dispense with the toadshit. I know the Suburba relatively well, and I’ve done some scrying, and I can’t find her. Snow’s very good at some of the more, ah, rudimentary conjuring. Better than most of the Adepts, actually, though I doubt she knows it. We won’t find her if she doesn’t want to be found.” Belaery l
eaned against the window frame. Folded her arms. “To answer your initial question, I don’t know who she killed. That’s actually the second thing I came to ask you.”
“I certainly don’t know. She doesn’t check plans with me. But I can guess it’s got something to do with her partner, or Tal’Shik’s godsworn. Probably both.”
“Godsworn in the Suburba, too. So that’s confirmed.” Belaery’s mouth tightened. “I was afraid of that.”
“Afraid.” Rurik made it a challenge.
Belaery curled her lip. “Godsworn are formidable, First Spear. I thought you already knew that.”
“I’m not an Adept. You people do magic.”
“We people conjure. We do not wield godmagic.”
“About that,” Dek started. Stopped when Belaery looked and smiled razors.
“Yet. That takes time. Which we might not have if Snow’s toadshit starts a war with the godsworn.”
“Work faster, then,” said Rurik.
Hell and damn. “So what’s the third thing, Adept? That you wanted to ask me.”
“What? Oh, yes.” Tap tap, slim fingers on the stone, a nervous gesture at odds with Belaery’s deliberate nonchalance. “There’s an empty place on the Senate bench for House Szanys. I thought you might be interested.”
“You know why that seat’s empty? I killed my sister, in front of witnesses. Half the motherless Senate.”
“Oh, I know.”
“You think the other senators will just forget it? Let me sit on the bench with them?”
Belaery shrugged. “All that time in our archives, Szanys Dekklis, and you still don’t understand? Sororicide, matricide—all traditional, honorable ways to rise in power. Szanys Maja took that very path with your mother, in front of those same women.”
“I didn’t kill Maja to take her place.”
“Who else knows that?”
“Anyone who knows me.”
“Which is . . . wait. Let me count. You’ve been absent ten long years. So those who actually know you now are: Snowdenaelikk. A skraeling man. This son of K’Hess here, your First Spear. Your own partner, Istel—who has not, as I understand, returned to the garrison. None of these people will contest your claim on the Senate floor. Perhaps K’Hess Rurik will even endorse it. His mother certainly will.”
Maja had counted on Dekklis’s ignorance. Had believed, being Maja and arrogant, that she could control her naive little sister. But Belaery knew better than that. Belaery looked at her and saw Snowdenaelikk’s friend, and everything that meant. So Dekklis would be a lever against Snow, maybe, a weapon to turn on the Laughing God. A weapon turned to many Academy purposes.
“No.”
Belaery’s look could curdle milk. “Snow said you were an intelligent woman, if unsubtle. So consider, Dekklis. You’re legion. You could be First Legate and senator. You could command our troops. Defend Illharek from the Taliri. You could be the Republic’s hero of the siege. The people would love you.”
“The Senate would hate me.”
“Some might. Some will cling to you like a svartjagr on stone. And you will have other friends.”
Oh yes, wouldn’t she. A whole conjured tower full of those friends, no doubt, robed and ringed and reliable as cats.
“No. And don’t say you need me, Belaery. You don’t. You’ll make this deal with someone else if I don’t go along with it.”
“Maybe.” Belaery looked grim as any trooper. “If there’s another senator left untainted. The godsworn have no love for us Adepts. Surely Snow told you that.”
“Snow told me that the Academy allied with the rebels during the Purge. I imagine the godsworn are holding a grudge.”
“We have always served Illharek’s best interests.”
“You serve your own.”
“We will have to teach you politics, Senator.”
“Don’t call me that. I haven’t agreed.”
“You will, because you know I’m right. Because there’s no one else who can do this. Because if you don’t, Illharek will dissolve into civil war and godsworn infighting while you sit in here and watch the svartjagr pick at the corpses.” Hard glare. Long silence, which grew thin and then snapped. “Snow thought you had more than cobwebs and toadshit for brains. Was she wrong? Can you be so obtuse?”
There wasn’t a good way to answer that. Dekklis shrugged and didn’t. Held her own silence until the room ached with it.
Then Rurik cleared his throat. “If I may speak, Adept,” all highborn formality, a man asking permission to address his betters.
Bel inclined her head, a study in magnanimity. Rurik didn’t notice. He was looking at Dekklis. Eyes on her, hot as fever.
“Go ahead,” Dekklis said, and barely bit back the sir.
“Thank you.” For a heartbeat she thought he would bow to her, too. But then he squared both shoulders. Snapped a salute and held it. “I only wish to say that it would be an honor to serve you, and through you, Illharek, as both senator and First Legate. It is rare to meet a woman of such honor and dedication to duty.”
Foremothers, what a speech. Pure highborn flattery, pure politics, pure toadshit. Belaery was nodding, smirking—believing it, because that is what highborn men said, and she didn’t know Rurik.
And from Rurik, here and now, that was an order.
Give us a way out of this room, First Scout.
Because if they got out, they could do something. Bring the Sixth inside. Start acting instead of reacting. She’d never wanted any motherless Senate seat. Certainly not to be First Legate. But want wasn’t the important consideration now. Duty was.
“If I agree.” Her voice cracked and splintered. She swallowed. “If I agree to this, you let us both out of here.”
“Of course.” Sly almost-smile draping Belaery’s lips, which made Dekklis want to hit her. Except senators didn’t hit people, did they. Senators got other people to do their hitting for them.
“Because I will need commanders in the field, and I will need K’Hess Rurik most.”
“Naturally.”
“And.”
Belaery raised both brows. “And?”
“I take your advice. I don’t take your orders. I serve Illharek, not you, and not this Academy.”
Belaery bowed, palms together. “As you say, Senator Szanys. Just as the Academy exists to serve Illharek.”
Snowdenaelikk, Dekklis thought, was going to laugh herself sick.
“I can’t save him.”
The words drifted up with the jenja smoke, uncurled and unraveled and disappeared, so soft Veiko might think he’d imagined them. Their speaker did not turn her head when he came and stood beside her at the railing. Only pulled another lungful of jenja, and held it, and then asked him, “What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting with you.” It was as honest an answer as standing and escaping. Veiko had seen death, dealt it, survived it. But he was finding it difficult to watch a friend dying slowly, beyond anyone’s help.
Because of you. Think of that.
Istel hadn’t made any accusations to that effect. Istel probably didn’t even blame him; he had fought with Veiko and lost a fight, that was all. He might not even notice the moment of dying, being as full of mossflower as Snow could make him.
That false peace was more unnerving to Veiko than Istel’s gritted silence had been while the blood leaked through bandage after bandage and K’Hess Soren had traded basins of clean water for polluted red. Patient Soren, who had not argued when Snow told him how much mossflower to put in the tea, although his eyes had rolled wide.
Much of that tea had leaked out later on the bandages. More had probably leaked into Istel’s guts along with the contents of his stomach. That was the damage Snow could not repair, not with needle or thread or poultice or conjuring. Godmagic might, but no one had called on the Laughing God yet. Veiko wondered if Snow had thought of it, and realized that he was reluctant to ask. He might give her ideas. He might save a man’s life. He might do far more harm t
han good.
Tell yourself that.
And so he did nothing except stand beside his partner, and watch the street below, and feel his heartbeat throb in every bruise and cut and the row of stitches above his eye.
Snow flicked the butt of her jenja into the street. Missed, by some miracle, hitting anyone. No one looked up. Veiko suspected a conjuring on the balcony, so that anyone looking would see empty iron and shuttered windows instead of a tall half-blood and a taller skraeling and a big red-furred northern dog.
“Didn’t expect him to be alive when we got back, yeah? Thought for sure we’d come home to a corpse. Now I got three freeborn men living in my flat with me.” Soundless laughter, lips peeled back from her teeth. “Let that get to the street, Sinnike will close up shop from the shame.”
“You do not care what she thinks.” Sky is blue. Water is wet. Idle conversation, which he’d never been good at, which was Snow’s best defense and distraction.
“No.” She found another stick of jenja. Lit it and sucked hard on the end. “I don’t. And it’ll be down to two men soon enough. Fuck and damn. I keep thinking—if I’d stayed here, yeah? Just a candlemark longer. If I’d treated him when he arrived, he might not be dying right now. And I know better. He was dead when he got here. Wound like that, there’s no fixing. He knew it, too.”
She would have tried anyway, except for him. Veiko knew it. She had chosen his life over any tiny chance Istel had. A man should not feel guilt for another’s choices, but he did.
Veiko did not need to inquire about Snow’s own guilt. Her eyes were red rimmed, red mapped. She had not, he guessed, slept more than a candlemark since their return here, and had snatched that huddled against the hearthstones, beside Istel. He wanted to tell her: Rest, because Istel will not notice. Rest, because we will need your wits soon enough.
And then he considered what her dreams might look like, with Tsabrak newly come to his power, and thought she might have another reason to avoid sleep.
Snow tapped the jenja against the railing. Bright cinders at first, and then drifting ash. “The Laughing God made me an offer, and I took it.”