City of Lies

by Sam Hawke

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For my boys, the other three parts that make me whole. I’d be a one-legged chair without you, my loves, and I think we can all agree that would be a pretty terrible chair.

  Acknowledgments

  A book is very much a big team effort (or at least this one certainly was), so my sincerest thanks to everyone who helped in large ways or small. In particular, but in no particular order:

  Thanks to the two women who took a chance on this book and made it a reality: my agent, Julie Crisp, who brutally pulled all the stuffing out and made me put it all back in in a different order, and my editor, Diana Gill, who did the same, only this time with magical stuffing. Epic, magical stuffing. You both saw the better shape the book could be in, and I take back all those things I muttered under my breath as I typed, I swear.

  Thanks to Greg Ruth and Irene Gallo for the magnificent artwork on the cover. One day I’ll stop squealing when I look at it. Maybe.

  More generally, I am so grateful to everyone on the amazing Tor team (including Gifmaster Kristin Temple, and my own personal Finnish road safety consultant, Jen Gunnels) for their hard work on the book behind the scenes and for nursing a bumpkin Aussie through the realities of NY publishing. Thank you all!

  But before City of Lies was a book it was a project of many years that was supported not only by my household (love of my life, K, partner in all things, encourager, supporter, and—where necessary—prodder, who reread a book for the first time in his life for me; and my beautiful sons, who shared my attention with the computer and notebooks for their entire young lives without complaint and with fullhearted cheerleading) but by my entire extended clan, most of whom read at least one draft and all of whom gave their unwavering support. In particular:

  Sis the Younger, Gemma, who gave her time and attention to every word I sent her (day or night, as many times as I asked), helped me brainstorm, invent nouns and solve problems, and engaged in countless annoying moaning phone call/text walls over the space of at least ten years. Meg, you put up with my crap surrounding this book with a degree of patience, support, and good humor that should qualify you for some kind of award, but doesn’t, so sorry, it will just have to be my thanks.

  Sis the Elder, Annette, fictional plant-and-symptom-makerupperer-extraordinaire, whose eagle eyes proofread this sucker more times than they could possibly enjoy, who sneak-printed manuscripts for me in the wee hours of the morning, and who even wasted time on a well-earned holiday on a cruise rereading and sending me notes during sporadic patches of Wi-Fi on Pacific islands. I’m sorry for contributing to your sea sickness, Nettie!

  Elder Bro, Chris (even though he had a maddening habit of texting me his 100-percent accurate predictions while he was reading and therefore generating a deep fear that I had written the most predictable story ever, goddamn it, Bro), and my lovely sister-in-law, Di, who dabbled well outside her preferred genres for my sake.

  Mum and Dad, Robyn and Bob, the most loving and supportive of parents, who never faltered in their unrealistic and unwavering belief that I would make this happen.

  My beloved uncle Chiz, who is always there for me, and with whom I will absolutely have an argument at some stage in the future about something that happened in the book. The trifling fact that I wrote it will not sway his opinion.

  Oh, and Younger Bro, J, who hasn’t read this yet but promises he will at some point. I believe you, kiddo, I really do. (And Reeny, who hasn’t, either, but I DO actually believe).

  Love you all so much.

  Thanks also to my many lovely friends who generously gave up their time to read drafts and/or generally talk shop: Tammy Jones, Anna McNair, Aiden O’Hehir, Cath and Ian Sainsbery, Jane Abbott, Jacinta Geaghan, Jeff Fisher, Robin Hobb, Fleur Roberts, Damon Taylor, and Jess Cleaver. Your advice and comments were invaluable.

  Also a shout-out to the ACT Writers Centre HARDCOPY program, especially its mastermind Nigel Featherstone; QOTKU Janet Reid and the Reiders on the Reef; the Forward Motion writers community; and the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild. It feels like a small and kind world hanging out talking writing with you all.

  Oh, and finally, thanks to my year one teacher, Mrs. Lyn Sheils, because I promised I would acknowledge her in my first published book when I was a (probably quite obnoxious) six-year-old, and by jiminy I’m keeping that promise.

  Laceleaf

  DESCRIPTION: Attractive wide-ranging plant with delicate green leaves and clumps of small white flowers.

  SYMPTOMS: Dilated pupils, rapid weak pulse, and a peripheral numbness that spreads inward, resulting in respiratory paralysis and heart failure.

  PROOFING CUES: Mild, musty smell and pleasant flavor, often mistaken for harmless cousins.

  1

  Jovan

  I was seven years old the first time my uncle poisoned me.

  He served me the toxin in his signature cheese stew. It gave me waves of stomach cramps and hallucinations of every horror my young mind could conjure, but left no lasting damage. I learned that day to trust nothing on my plate or in my cup, not even something prepared by my beloved uncle Etan, my Tashi, the most honored and trusted person in my world. Especially not him.

  By ten, I could identify the ingredients in most dishes set before me, from the spicy baked fish served year-round in Sjona’s farms and estates, to the flat black bread cooked in clay ovens in every kitchen in the city, to the delicate cheese-and-honey pastries favored in the highest circles of society. I could detect any of the eleven greater poisons hidden in those dishes. Most by taste, some by smell, and one by its unique mouthfeel. I could also, should the need arise, use them myself.

  Before his own Tashi died and my uncle Etan inherited his seat on the Council, he had trained as a cook—something of an oddity among the six Credol Families, but not unheard of. No one thought it amiss that he should instill in me the same dedication to the craft. Under his tutelage, foreign dishes and imported spices ceased to be an obstacle to my tongue or nose, and I learned all that had ever been written about the natural and crafted poisons of our land.

  Over the next ten years, and hundreds of poisonings, Etan gave me many gifts: immunities, scars, an appreciation of our family’s honorable and secret role, and a memory and mind trained in our craft so I could one day protect the ruling family of Sjona as he did.

  As he lay dying before me, none of it seemed enough.

  * * *

  A well-trained memory is a fine thing, an essential skill for learning and of critical importance to a proofer. Today mine, once a source of pride, revealed itself as a useless trick. I could recall the whole day, an unwilling audience to my own play, but what good could I do, reliving a day of mistakes and inaction? I had go
ne over it again and again, and still I did not see our enemy. Over and over, I did not save my uncle.

  We had sailed home only yesterday morning, not knowing it for the last day of our old lives, smuggled like thieves in the back of a fat little transport ship bringing wood from the Talafan Empire south to the capital. Tain Caslavtash Iliri, the Chancellor’s nephew and heir, future ruler of the country and equal parts my dearest friend, solemnest duty, and pain in my rear, nursed a sore head with infuriating good humor. I nursed a bad temper and a dose of relief. Several days earlier than planned, Tain’s retinue abandoned long behind us in the northern border city, we had both hoped to slip back into Silasta without remark.

  A month of meetings and social engagements had left me exhausted and irritable, longing for the familiar comfort of routine. In Silasta, I knew everyone who might interact with my charge, highborn or low, and what they stood to gain or lose. Or at least, so I had naively thought. But in Telasa I had been forced to rely on my judgment alone in assessing new threats and challenges. Who might be tempted to dose the Heir’s kavcha with beetle-eye to fuel careless tongues, or bake hazelnode into his bread to cause a stomachache and absence from a key event?

  The boat passed under the north river gate and through familiar white walls, breaking the force of the wind and bathing us in the emerging smells and sounds of our city. While the captain handed over weapons and negotiated passage in a confusing jumble of broken Sjon, Talafan, and simple Trade, I nudged my friend from a doze. He came alert and stood without apparent stiffness. No matter how luxurious his ordinary accommodations, Tain could relax in the most awkward of places. “That didn’t take too long,” he said cheerfully.

  I rolled my eyes as I gathered the last of our belongings. “Sure, for someone who slept through most of it, and spent the rest drinking with the crew.” He’d loved socializing with men and women who couldn’t read our tattoos and thought us merely wealthy wastrels from the capital. I had to admit I’d also enjoyed the anonymity and the break from worrying about anything untoward in his cups.

  He turned his easy grin on me. “Practicing diplomacy, my friend.”

  On deck, we leaned over the rail as the boat negotiated the channel through the marshy north end of the Bright Lake, enjoying the sun’s warmth. The fierce breath of the Maiso had kept us mostly belowdecks on the trip, but Sjona’s harsh winds couldn’t penetrate the walls of the city. I felt comfortable for the first time in weeks.

  The magnificent arch of Trickster’s Bridge loomed before us, a grand window into Silasta, the Bright City, with its white stone brilliant against the late summer sky. To the east, domed roofs and zigzag streets rose from the bank, a pale honeycomb against the slope of Solemn Peak. On the western shore, a merry jumble of boats, foreign and local, spilled traders and visitors of all descriptions out to the docks of the sprawling, industrious lower city. Yellow-sashed officials from the River Guild weaved through the crowds. Blackwing gulls swooped unwary workers unloading barges, and their shrill squawks mingled with the distant hoot of oku being unloaded from a barge and the lively orchestra of commerce. It felt like waking from an uneasy dream as we passed under Trickster’s and back into our reality.

  We paid our host and joined the mixed and colorful soup of merchants, workers, and tourists moving from the docks into the lower city. Silasta’s younger and less cultivated side was three times the size of its older sibling, a hodgepodge of industry, trade, and residences of varying levels of respectability. The smell of a dozen different spices and frying oils assailed us. Tiny canopied stalls were wedged between elegant old teahouses and subtle gambling dens, and hawkers melted in and out of the shadows with cunning spreads of goods ready to fold up and disappear at the first sign of a Guild official. By the nearest canal, a swaying tourist bickered with a preacher kneeling by an earther shrine crafted of rock and bird bones.

  I longed for the peace and space of our family apartments, a pot of proper Oromani tea, and the calming presence of my uncle and sister. “I’ll call us a ride.” I caught the prowling gaze of a litter carrier, but Tain interrupted.

  “What’s going on there?”

  I followed his gesture. The confrontation between the drunk and the street preacher had escalated. The foreigner had a hold on the earther’s wrist and was shaking his arm, shouting, while the smaller man clutched prayer charms around his neck and half-sung, half-moaned some kind of chant. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” I muttered. Our local merchants should have known better than to sell kori to a tourist at this time of day. Though from the look of him, he’d perhaps been out all night. He wore a crumpled jacket and wide trousers in a fabric too heavy for our climate, and an air of belligerence far stronger than the smell of alcohol and gaming house smokes.

  Tain moved closer and I caught his arm. “Leave it to the Order Guards.” I looked through the crowd in vain; no red-and-blue striped uniform in sight. “Or a Guild official.”

  The drunkard had taken offense at the preacher’s rantings and his accented Trade tongue grew to a roar. “—eh, eh, I’m talking to you, bloody street scum! Look at me when I talk to you!” He kicked out roughly at the shrine, toppling one of the balanced piles of stone.

  The preacher, who until then had been avoiding eye contact and allowing his arm to be shaken like a loose streamer on a festival day, stopped his warbling chant and snapped his gaze to the bigger man. He said something I didn’t catch, but whatever it was enraged the tourist. He reached into his billowing pants and the glint of a weapon flashed in the morning light. Someone shrieked and the surrounding crowd drew back from the altercation.

  “Guard!” I yelled, but as I turned to usher the Heir back to safety, Tain lunged for the man’s knife hand. He grabbed the wrist two-handed and pivoted in a half turn back toward me. The drunkard dropped the preacher and fell backward with the pressure on his elbow and shoulder, and the knife clunked to the ground. “Lem—lemme go!” he bellowed, struggling as much with confusion as pain.

  I cautiously shuffled in and kicked the blade out of reach. It was illegal to carry weapons in the city, but fools will be fools, and sometimes the confiscation process at the gates wasn’t as rigorous as it could be. Still no sign of an Order Guard. I edged closer to Tain. My duty was to protect him, but from hidden threats, not violent idiots in the streets. Why he had to make everyone’s duties harder was another matter. The crowd looked on in embarrassed fascination, and a few people had recognized Tain. “We should—” I started.

  “Are you finished here?” Tain rested his own knee on the man’s bicep.

  “Finished! Finished!”

  His arm released, the man rolled onto his side, shaking his wrist and moaning. Tain turned to the preacher, who was hastily restacking stones and muttering. “Are you all right?” He crouched beside him. “Can I help?”

  “The spirits are displeased,” the man muttered, scowling without taking his eyes from the shrine. “This city is corrupt and the spirits are angry. We will be punished.” He shrugged Tain’s hand from his shoulder. “We will all be punished.”

  “Let the Guilds handle this, please, Honored Heir,” I said. If hearing the title meant anything to the earther, he hid his reaction, continuing to reassemble his shrine and mutter dark warnings and curses. I sighed. Technically the man shouldn’t be bothering people by the harbor but usually earthers were no more than a mild annoyance. He’d probably cursed the foreigner for drunken behavior or otherwise offended him. Where were the Guards, though? On a busy trade morning the place should have been swarming with them as a deterrent. Silasta was a famously nonviolent city but the Order Guards were a necessary precaution to prevent escalation of any heated trade or tariff disputes, especially with an influx of foreign merchants and visitors who did not necessarily share our peaceful outlook.

  I took Tain’s arm and pulled him to his feet, trying to steer him away. “Do I really need to tell you not to—” With a whoof the air was punched out of me as the foreigner plowed into us
from the side, sending me to the ground and Tain scuttling back from the man’s tackle and crashing into a canopied stall selling fried glintbeetles. Bright beetles and paper cones crashed everywhere and the woman running the stall shouted in annoyance. By the time I’d regained my feet and my breath, Tain had scooped behind one of the man’s knees and with a kind of awkward shuffle-hop he overbalanced his opponent. The drunk fell into the leg of the stall with a loud curse in a language I didn’t recognize, almost toppling it entirely. Tain fell with him and the two scuffled and wrestled in the pile of spilled food.

  I cursed under my breath and circled the pair, looking for a way to help. When the bigger man pinned my friend underneath him, I launched in and locked my arms around his neck. “This is not what I call a homecoming,” I panted as I tried to pull him off. Honor-down, it had been a long time since I’d had to do any martial training. Where were the bloody Order Guards?

  The man released Tain and struck me in the solar plexus with his elbow. Winded, I loosened my grip and he pulled free, shaking me off like a bug. He roared, his intoxicated rage-presence making him seem at least twice our size, and swung a fist clumsily at Tain, who ducked it and delivered two short hard punches to the man’s stomach before dancing back out of reach. “He’s full of kori,” Tain said. “Hit him in the guts!”

  I felt like giving my friend a whack instead when I saw the enjoyment sparkling in his eyes. I didn’t want to get anywhere near the man’s guts. Around us the crowd continued to scamper back out of the way. The spectacle was either making or ruining their morning, but no one seemed inclined to assist. I dodged a stray blow in my direction and as the man launched himself heavily at Tain again, his drunken focus on this new target of his rage, I chopped into his stomach as hard as I could with the side of my hand. “I just want a cup of tea,” I told him bitterly.