by Chris Moss
Julia’s taut face gave a stiff nod. She walked away, leaving Harpalus alone with Nathen’s accusing corpse.
Hours later, Harpalus, Julia, and Gyges sat on one of the New Citadel’s upper balconies watching the Praetoria fight flames snaking out of the House of the Magpie.
“I am sorry you had to do that,” said Julia, cutting a piece of bread and handing it to her former student. “Will you start up another merchant company?”
He shrugged. “Even if I did, it’ll be years before I can rebuild a legitimate shipping route that can service my operations.”
“And what about Harpalus?”
The Spymaster raised an eyebrow, the meaning of her words taking a moment to sink in. “Harpalus Godfridsson, the Merchant Minor, is dead. He died in the fire.”
“So, who will you become now? Brother Reynard?”
“No,” he said, trying not to think of Typhena’s face. “Reynard doesn’t have the freedom of movement outside the Citadel I need right now.”
“Dockworker Hirbald? Envoy Telemon?”
“No, I’ll just be Harpalus for now.”
“You could always just be Pye.”
Harpalus poured himself some wine and contemplated the fire below, doing his best to ignore Julia’s watchful stare. “We have to find the Prelate defector.”
Julia nodded. “When will you leave for the continent?”
The odd catch to her voice made Harpalus hesitate, his thoughts clicking behind his eyes until he came to a decision. “Oh, I’m not leaving, Auntie. You are.”
The pale, old woman’s eye narrowed. “What?”
“I have a great deal to organize before Roldar’s anniversary, and there’s no one else I can trust to deal with Lady Mantis. Find where the traitor can be caught, but if the Mantis doesn’t know it’s a Prelate, do not be the one to tell her.”
Julia’s eyes flashed, but she agreed. “As you wish, but I’ll need to take Gyges with me for protection.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ll have to,” he said—a concession he wished he did not have to make. “You’d better go and pack.”
Julia nodded to Gyges and the pair left without a word.
The Spymaster leaned on the balustrade and continued to watch the fire. After a few minutes, he poured another drink. “I know you’re here.” He took a sip of the dark liquid, letting it roll around his palate.
A shape detached itself from the shadows under the roof adjacent to the office, the dark-cloaked figure leaping onto the balcony.
“How did you know I was watching?” said Typhena, pulling back the hood. Her silver hair spilled out. “No one else could have possibly seen me.”
“It’s what I would have done in your position.” Harpalus shrugged, watching the Vutai.
Typhena’s flushed face held a confident smile. Harpalus looked for weapons, noting the plain clothes and leather the woman wore under her cloak. He had expected the skimpy red and gold attire he had last seen her wear.
The woman caught his expression and cocked her head. “Disappointed I’m not wearing something else? Perhaps I could arrange a—”
“Don’t play games with me. And drop the performance.” The Spymaster froze in anticipation of her response, edging his hand closer to the wine jug on the table by his side.
Instead of attacking, Typhena nodded, leaning on the balcony next to him and taking the second cup. The confidence drained out of her expression, and she looked up at the Spymaster with tired, hollow eyes.
“Consider yourself honored,” said Typhena. “I never let men see me like this.”
“Why are you here?” said Harpalus. “In fact, why did you let me live at all? I would have killed me.”
“Because I wanted to talk to you.” The silver-haired woman shrugged. “Look, let’s not play games. I’m not here to kill you—I really do just want to talk. Although, if it came down to it, you’re nowhere near recovered enough to fight me, so stop reaching for the wine jug with your other hand.”
The Spymaster kept his face expressionless though his heart pounded. He withdrew his hand. “Very well. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
Typhena smiled—not the dazzling smile she had worn moments ago, but a tiny, self-deprecating twinge of her cheek. “I wanted to see if your precious Prioress has rejected you.” She finished the cup in a single draught and watched the firelight.
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” said Harpalus.
“Which means she doesn’t know yet.” Typhena snorted. “Alright, another question, then. When they found you, were they overjoyed at the return of their long-lost son? Were you embraced with open arms?”
“That has nothing to do with you,” said Harpalus.
“It’s everything to do with me,” said the silver haired woman. “But I take it I was right. These are our lives, whatever-your-real-name-is. As soon as you are of no further use, you know what’s going to happen.”
Harpalus shook his head, trying to free himself from the pain of Typhena’s words. “And what do you want?”
He refilled his cup and Typhena offered hers. Her hip and shoulder nudged up against him, his whole body twinging at her touch.
Breathe, don’t react. The reminder still couldn’t stop the Spymaster from spilling wine over her hand. She caught his eye and winked.
“What do I want? That’s simple.” The Vutai flicked the wine on her fingers into the night. “I want to complete my mission.”
“And then what?”
The brief smile faded once again, and Typhena slumped to the balustrade. “Then it’s back to Maal’s court to keep the Immortals in check. The everlasting idiots would rebel or self-destruct within a year if the Vutai weren’t constantly managing them.”
Harpalus almost dropped his cup. In a single breath, the silver-haired woman turned his view of the Goddess’s court on its head, and presented opportunities he would have sacrificed a dozen agents to find. “Wh-why are you telling me this?”
Typhena finished her wine in a single gulp and looked at Harpalus with a gaze so determined he almost stumbled back.
“Because I’m going to succeed. I’ve already beaten you once. And when I leave this island, I’m going to take you with me, as well.”
The Spymaster trembled and fought a rush of emotion at the woman’s steely words, trying to re-assert his clockwork mind. He could only manage to berate himself over his own weakness.
It’s just another technique. Physical intimacy, alternating aggressive and passive responses, the use of drugs—these emotions are a conditioned response, nothing more. She’s a torturer, a whore, and a murderer. You feel nothing.
“What makes you so sure you’ll win?” He smiled at her look of surprise. “You only beat me when I was alone and wounded. Next time, I’ll be fighting you with everything I have.”
Typhena regained her composure and grinned. Harpalus couldn’t tell whether she was acting or not.
“You see?” She chuckled. “No other man I’ve met has had this much spine. But in time you will understand—the Citadel will turn on you.”
Harpalus opened his mouth to reply, but a loud knock at the door stopped him.
“Um, sir? Sister Julia has sent me to change your bandages. Are you alone?”
Harpalus looked at Typhena in terror, but the Vutai had already disappeared back into the darkness.
“Yes, I’m alone,” said the Spymaster. “Come in.”
A meek, brown-robed cleric hauled a bag into the room and started laying out jars of ointment. The Spymaster leaned on the rail and watched the fires of his old life.
26
Rubai’s answer to me was that the maidens of the tribe were sacred to the ancestral bear god Baabuk and were forbidden to leave their pritju, lest they be taken by a mythical beast known as the Chonoroq. Even today the pritju are ruled exclusively by women, as decreed by Baabuk in ancient times.
~from ‘Traditions and Customs of the Baavghir’ by Scriptor Ursula,
dated 631st year of the
Empire~
“You’re sure the beast is hunting them?”
“Yah. It tracked them to the southern river cave.”
Opening gummed-up eyes, Kestel returned to consciousness, trying not to groan. With his hands tied behind him and the back of his skull throbbing, he looked around. He and Eriwasteg had been dumped in what looked like a cage or pen. His leathers were clammy from the pools of standing water on the stone floor.
“About time, lad,” whispered Arbalis.
Kestel focused on the stocky figure. The bronzed veteran sat confidently, despite his bruised face, as if he were holding the other men ransom. Calla sat beside him looking as tense as a caged animal. Trying to pull himself up, Kestel’s head swam and he collapsed into the water.
Three men entered the cramped space.
“Don’t try and move, boy,” said the first of them through the bars. “Vronde may have knocked ya a bit hard on the bobbin.”
A man with the puffy-faced appearance of a good fighter or bad drinker, nodded. “S’right.” He grinned, flashing his two remaining teeth. “It’s like, one of my special gifts.”
“One chance,” said the first, his mouth burned and scarred. “What is that thing, and why is it hunting you?”
Kestel returned the man’s gaze until it was clear no answer was forthcoming.
“Suit yourself,” the scarred figure said. Turning to his companions, he gestured toward the group of prisoners, speaking in a language Kestel didn’t understand.
“But we are your guests. We demand the guest-right.”
The three men turned back. The astonishment on their faces had Kestel craning his neck to see behind him. He caught a glimpse of Eriwasteg, her bottom lip cut, her expression stormy.
“You’re Baavghir?” said the scarred man.
“What’s going on?” Kestel whispered.
“Shut up,” said Eriwasteg under her breath. “They’re considering whether or not to kill us. Now let me handle this.”
The burnt man narrowed his eyes. “What is an Baavghirla doing alone?”
Eriwasteg hesitated for just a second before growling a reply. “I’m broda.”
Their captors exchanged glances, unsure of what to do.
“Where is your father, girl?” said the scarred man. “He will want your return.”
Eriwasteg’s face froze. “He’s dead. Killed by Maal’s raiders.”
“Then you have no family and I need not offer you the guest-right,” the scarred man said.
“But I can ask to speak to your Ukmahd. Your honor demands it.”
The trio pressed their heads together, whispering amongst themselves for a long minute.
“Alright,” the scarred figure said, nodding to the two brown cloaks to haul the prisoners to their feet. “I am Gvarl Ondrell of the Branded Men. You are?”
“Eriwasteg Tomrain, of the Beltyr pritju. This is Kestel of no family, from the Citadel.”
“That one.” Gvarl pointed at Calla. She spat at her captor’s feet. “Has she been sent to infiltrate the Branded Men?”
“No. She was scarred battling the Immortals.”
The men in the cave looked at Calla with newfound respect. Her gaze remained locked on the other scarred figure, her single eye glittering.
Gvarl turned away in disgust. “We’ll take you to see the Council. They will decide if you live or die. But if you try anything—anything, I’ll feed you to Vronde. Get it?”
Eriwasteg’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded. Kestel sized up the stocky man, but Vronde just looked down with a nasty grin.
“Try it, son. Go on—I dare ya.”
Sighing, Kestel nodded too. They led him up the stairs, and into the light.
“What in all the angels?” Arbalis gasped, blinking at the strange sight before them.
Spread out below, a small settlement hugged the edges of a sheer cliff in the shadow of the hills. The village sprawled over three rising terraces, the lowest a labyrinth of low, flat-topped buildings. The second featured only a strange, mushroom-shaped tower. The uppermost terrace, where the cells were located, was dominated by a squat, two-story building.
“Where are we?” whispered Eriwasteg, her gaze taking in the hidden city.
“This is Kom-zamak—home for dozens of different groups fleeing the war,” said Gvarl. “And it has been decades since any outsider has been brought to this secret place.”
“You two were out cold when we passed through the gate,” said Calla, squinting, after the darkness of the cell. “It looked like we were walking into a bare cliff face, when suddenly, it opened up to all this.”
“But how’s this possible?” Arbalis looked up at the sky. “Is it magic?”
The brooding, gray clouds remained, as did the forest behind them, but both seemed washed out, as if viewed behind wavy glass.
Gvarl and his men gave no reply to the old soldier’s question. They pushed the four prisoners forward, shepherding them past a group of interested onlookers. Most of the gawking crowd wore wool and linen clothing common across the Outer Coast, but groups of brown-cloaks with scarred visages stalked through the buildings around them.
Gvarl gave Arbalis and Calla a sharp prod with his sword, breaking up their whispered conversation. “Move!” he said, glaring at Calla.
“If that bastard doesn’t take his eyes off me, I’m going to—”
“Don’t try anything,” said Eriwasteg to Calla. “We’ve been extended the guest-right. A single, violent action and they’ll be free to slit our throats and leave us in the forest.”
“Eriwasteg, how do you know all this?” said Kestel.
“Their bows—they’re Baavghir, but I don’t recognize any clan markings.”
“Where are they taking us?” asked Calla
“I already said I don’t know,” said Eriwasteg. “All I can tell you is—we’re being taken to meet their Ukmahd.”
“And then?”
“Then we convince her to let us live,” said Arbalis, his tone grim. “And it doesn’t look like they welcome strangers.”
“Correct,” said Gvarl. “The only reason we haven’t killed you is because this broda has invoked the guest-right. That, and my masters will wish to know more about the beast that has been stalking our woods.” He glared at his prisoners, but no one offered any information.
“Fah!” He spat. “Keep your secrets. You will talk for my masters or I will take your tongues before the night is through.”
This place is incredible, said Creven. An illusion of this magnitude centered on that tower—no one in the Citadel could have managed this.
How do you know? said Kestel.
There’s something in that tower I can’t recognize. It’s like a blind spot.
You don’t have blind spots. You’re dead.
I experience things through your senses.
What? Kestel found that little detail horrifying.
It’s hardly a perfect setup for me either, Herald.
You mean whenever I—
Yep. And you’re asking if I’m going blind? No, trust me—we don’t want to have this conversation. Just pay attention to what’s ahead.
Approaching a wide set of stone doors, Gvarl nodded to the guards standing in front of the hall. “They demand guest-right. Let the Council speak to them.”
They cut Arbalis’s bonds, so Kestel and Eriwasteg held out their hands. Calla offered a cold smile and let the frayed rope fall from her wrists. As if by magic, a small blade appeared in one of her hands.
Gvarl’s scarred lips twisted into a snarl. “All this time…take her away and lock her in the holding pen!”
The scarred woman growled and kicked, dragged away by three brown-cloaked guards. Arbalis sighed and shook his head in disappointment, but followed Gvarl and the others inside.
The structure’s interior held a meeting hall, complete with a ceremonial fire pit and long table at the far end. Servants and guards were stationed throughout the room, and four figures sat at the far ta
ble. Gvarl hurried forward and whispered in the ear of an old woman dressed in wool and furs. Her arms and face had the same honey-toned hue as Eriwasteg.
“Greeting, strangers,” she saids standing to address the group. “I am Ukmahd Tavkik, Elder of the Gray Circle and keeper of Kom-zamak. It is a rare day when outsiders are extended the guest-right to a meeting of our council.”
“Greetings, noble mother—”
The old woman waved her into silence, her lips twisted in indignation. “You are a broda, are you not? Out of respect for your family you have been granted the guest right, but you have no authority to speak here. You are nameless and shall remain so.”
Kestel flinched at the blood rising in Eriwasteg’s cheeks, but the young woman merely curled her lip and stepped back.
“I speak for these people.” Arbalis stepped forward and faced the men and woman before him. “I am Commander Arbalis Secunda Galeria of the Praetorian Guard, and these two are my companions.”
“Praetoria? But where is your armor?”
“We needed a disguise to pass through Palentanum but were attacked by a terrible beast. We were forced to flee with naught but our weapons and the clothes on our backs.”
“This beast grieves us, too,” said the elder. “We will name you Arbalis Galeria and let you speak, but heed well your words. We may fight the false Goddess, but nor will we bear the yoke of your Citadel.”
Arbalis nodded, but Kestel saw the soldier’s shoulders tense at the slight.
“We seek passage to the Lernaen Swap, as we believe the key to destroying Maal’s power can be found there,” said the old soldier. “Maal knows the threat we represent and has sent the beast you tracked in the forest to hunt us.”
At these words, the councilors started in surprise, bowing their heads together to whisper. Finally, one of the councilors stood up, a heavyset man with a brown cloak and burns on his chest and neck.
“I speak for the Branded Men. How do we know you tell us the truth, Praetorian? What vow do we have that you would not turn such a weapon back on us?”