And there was the headache. He'd had it like a beast clawing at the inside of his skull for the first few days, but it had tapered off into a feeling of hollowness and the persistent memory of Rallant's fingers on his neck. The nip of his nails. Magnetic...
He shook it off and reached for his mug. Alcohol was the only thing here that helped, because he had no taste for the toyboys on display. Too young—probably below conscription age, thirteen or fourteen. He hadn't gone for that even when he was their age.
“Is that how it was for all of you?” he said. “Prisoners brought to the Palace?”
“Hardly. Most volunteer.”
“What? Why?”
“Why are you in the army?”
Linciard frowned, but Vrallek was regarding him levelly, no sneer on his ruddy face, no sign of mockery. “I was drafted,” he answered. “Most Wynds are. Went into the Border Corps when I was eighteen.”
“Did you want something else?”
“Well...I don't know. It was better than working in the lumber-mill, I guess, except for all the Corvish shooting at us.” Blood on the axe-head. Blood on the fallen leaves. “There's not much work in Wyndon but logging, mining... Trapping, maybe. Ground's too stony for farming. Suppose you could say the Gold Army is the border's main employer.”
The burning palisade. The bloody footprints in the snow, the little bodies...
He grimaced and tried to look away, but they were always there behind his eyes. Like the man in the pit, mouth crusted with red, flesh stiff from frostbite but still alive. Looking up at him and the axe in his hands, and smiling.
He took a long drink. Swallowed. Stared into the mug. Said, “It's...not a bad life. Better over here in the Crimson, though. Cleaner.”
Vrallek made a faint, rough noise that might have been a chuckle.
“Why? What does it have to do with anything?”
“Perhaps it doesn't,” said Vrallek, and his gaze had definitely cleared, for the look he fixed on Linciard was sharp with interest. “You're an odd one for a Wynd. Thought your folk were all about family, camaraderie, us-against-the-outsiders hog-crap.”
“And that would mean I belong in the army?” Linciard shrugged. “Yeah, we hate the shit out of our enemies, and yeah, a lot of us jumped at the chance to strike back, but...” He trailed off, realizing suddenly that all of his brothers and cousins had joined up—many of them before the official recruitment age. His father and all of his uncles had been soldiers too, and their fathers before them. All who were still alive were up there in Wyndon, fighting on for the Gold Army or working in the army's mills, the army's mines, the army's camps. That was life in the backwoods, at the border.
He was the only Linciard who had left.
Pikes. I'm weird and I didn't even know it.
But he had known, hadn't he? He'd watched his comrades rush off after the bloody footprints, axes in hand, shouting taunts and war-cries while his steps slowed. While he took note of the size of the tracks they'd followed, barely the width of his palm. “You're saying I'm not like you?”
“You're not a team player. Sure, you talk a good line, I'll give you that. A grin and a friendly word will get you far. But you've got the eyes of an outsider. Must be why the captain likes you.” Vrallek smirked. “He's an odd fish too.”
Fallen from the Light? Linciard wondered, remembering Sarovy's exile. To judge by his reaction to the priest, though, the captain was still faithful—as faithful as the specialists. Maybe he had seen the Light at the Palace but been rejected.
No wonder he can't remember. That must have hurt.
Abruptly the door from the brothel's main hall swung open, letting in a crowd of new voices. Linciard looked over like the specialists and saw familiar faces everywhere: the men from the third and fourth sections of his Lancer Platoon, apparently just off-shift. In the back, trying to herd the mob, was Corporal Vyslin.
“No offense to you lot, but that's my team right there,” said Linciard, pushing up from his seat. Houndmaster Vrallek waved him away, and the specialists closed ranks behind him as he made for the lancers.
Specialists elsewhere were rising, flashing coins to snag the attention of the prostitutes as if afraid the newcomers would make off with them. More ladies and young men in gauzy bits of nothing followed the lancers in, simpering and preening. The Velvet Sheath had an extensive and well-paid staff due to its spot by the Civic Plaza, and Blaze Company's presence certainly hadn't caused a drop in business.
Linciard caught Vyslin's eye as he tried to arrange tables for his men, and the corporal grinned and beckoned.
Then a blond head interposed between them, and Linciard groaned inwardly.
“Sir, we should talk,” said Jonmel Stormfollower.
His earnest face was strained, so it was something important—at least to him. At this point in the day, though, Linciard would rather have thrown him through a window than listened. It was probably a gripe about Vyslin or the Drixi or the local women not consenting to marry him, the same complaints all the Jernizen had.
Except he vaguely remembered that this one had a girlfriend. A prostitute, yes, but one who saw him regularly, even during her off-time. Though perhaps the boy was deluding himself.
“Problem?” he said as he reluctantly let Stormfollower lead him out. They breezed through the fine-furnished entry-hall, with its divans full of cooing showpieces and the men negotiating their virtues, past the heavily-armed Gejaran mercenaries at the door and into the faded day.
“What is it?” said Linciard, but Stormfollower looked around the cobbled street warily, then beckoned him away from the door and the bubbly glass windows toward where the brothel abutted the Truncheon Tavern. Linciard sensed eyes from above and looked up to see one of the brothel's women leaning on a balcony, expressionless.
Then they were at the gap between buildings, and the Jernizen soldier halted and said, “Shadows, sir.”
“Shadows,” Linciard echoed, automatically tensing.
“You were looking to make a deal, right?”
Linciard nodded. For the past few days, he had been putting out his displeasure with the captain for cutting off his funds, and a few of the foreign soldiers had taken the hook. Cautious references to extra cash-flow, queries as to his devotion to the Light and the Army, oblique mentions of favors...
Not all that different from the specialists' grilling, just from the other end.
But not all of the conspirators were subtle. Case in point: Stormfollower.
“My girl Dhalyar says she could maybe get them to talk to you, but they don't trust you. They want you to do something for them first.”
“Like what?”
“Get information. They know the priest came over. He's got orders from the General, right? They want to know what those are.”
“And what, tell you?”
“They say you can whisper secrets to any shadow that's not warded-up and they'll hear it. They can probably hear us right now.”
That put the hairs on the back of Linciard's neck up, and he cast a sidelong look down the alley. There was nothing to see—it was kept clear for access to the trash-lot behind the tavern—but its gloom suddenly chilled him. “Are you serious? Just whisper it to any shadow?”
“Yessir. I've seen it work. Whispered into a corner and a piking silver coin fell out.”
Linciard resisted the urge to cuff him upside the head, or slam him into the wall and declare an arrest. The fact that the Shadows could listen anywhere made every step they took outside of the garrison incredibly dangerous, and the idiot boy had kept that knowledge to himself. These turncoats couldn't see the knives past the gleam of the coins.
I have to act like them. Have to learn more...
“So they'll drop me some money when they hear it?”
“Guess so, sir.”
“And Dhalyar, she's in closer contact with them?”
Stormfollower shrugged. He had a broad, open face, which made his protectiveness and prevarication easy
to read. “Don't think so. She just trades secrets like we do. Pikes, she said I can pay her in secrets. Do you think I should do that? I don't know the exchange rate on secrets—sometimes they pay silver, sometimes it's just tin—so maybe she's thinking she can cheap me? Or is it a discount?”
“I don't know the going price for sexual favors—“
“They have a list. I memorized it.”
He looked so proud of himself. Part of Linciard felt terrible about this. He knew the Jernizen had rough lives; they were all younger sons or bastards, disowned by their fathers and left to fend for themselves in a kingdom that considered them disposable at best and verminous nuisances at worst. That this lot had chosen to become Imperial soldiers rather than outlaws was a mark of their good intent—their desire to be citizens of somewhere, even if it wasn't their home. It made Linciard feel weirdly parental.
Didn't mean he didn't want to drown the boy in a rain barrel.
“Just...do what you can afford,” he said. “Are you still trying to marry her?”
“She said I'd have to quit the army first. I said hoi, being in the army is what makes me an Imperial citizen. She said that's not gonna matter soon.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I think they're up to something, Lieutenant. You'd better get on their good side.”
“Sergeant,” Linciard corrected automatically. It took all his strength not to squint into the shadows for eavesdroppers. They were there; he knew that now. He couldn't even pretend he didn't.
“Sergeant, right. See, sergeant? It's the best option. The Imperial Army's been good and all, but the Shadow Cult's the boss around here. We're just squatting on their turf.”
Treason, blasphemy and soliciting the same. Curse it, Stormfollower...
“I'll see what I can do,” he said. “In fact, I'll start now, before I end up in debt to the specialists for drinks. You go on in, enjoy your free time.”
Stormfollower grinned fiercely. “Yessir.”
A trade of salutes and the younger man skittered for the brothel entry. Linciard watched him go, then turned for the garrison house. If he was right, they needed to ward up more than just their headquarters; they needed magical defenses everywhere they usually went, from the council house to the plaza to the Velvet Sheath itself. The captain had been conservative with their arcane resources, expecting an attack from without, but Linciard couldn't imagine the Shadows laying siege.
No. They were already working their way in.
*****
Pleasantly soused, Specialist-Sergeant Presh wobbled up the stairs to the second floor of the Velvet Sheath, carrying the key to the sea-green door. Through other doors he heard the faint sounds of laughter or groans, some of which he recognized: his fellow specialists, who had preceded him here due to his post-shift meeting with the other mages.
He was no longer enjoying those. Before the arrival of Warder Tanvolthene, they had been pleasantly informal affairs between himself, Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei that mostly involved brainstorming better gestalt techniques and trading psychic jests. Neither Presh nor Voorkei could speak each other's native language, so Mako translated everything through thought-projection, which descended into the ridiculous and dirty by the end of each meeting. None of them was averse to a good bottle of wine, either.
It reminded him of his best years at the Taradzur Academy.
With Tanvolthene's involvement, the meetings had become actual business, conducted sitting at a table instead of lounging on the floor and with quill-pens and notebooks rather than wine-glasses and Voorkei's noxious pipe. Tanvolthene seemed pleasant enough—a gregarious thirty-something from Darronwy, one of the Imperial provinces close to the heart at Daecia—but his attention was persistent, his attitude cloying. The only blessing was his lack of mentalism, else Presh suspected that his prying good cheer would be inescapable.
He pitied Scryer Mako, who had to host Tanvolthene in her head almost constantly as the man understood neither Gheshvan nor Talishan and had trouble with Voorkei's accent. If Tanvolthene had his way, all four of them would be constantly connected—for 'safety and familiarity'—but Mako had refused to maintain the connection during sleep or when any of them was sexually engaged, and Tanvolthene had reluctantly conceded.
Thus, the brothel was one of the few places Presh could go to not be disturbed.
Sometimes he came for the company, sometimes for the bathing amenities on the lowest floor—nearly Taradzuren in quality—but at other times he came simply for the lack of intrusions. He would have slept here if not for the exorbitant pricing, so he usually just bought a mark or two in an empty room to breathe and collect his thoughts—and report to his master.
As he dropped his key yet again, he realized he had drunk too much tonight. That made his satchel a useless burden. His fellow specialists liked to speculate about what was in it and why he carried it to the brothel, but though there were shackles included, they were for elementals, not lovers. Though he wouldn't object if someone had an interest.
By law, he could be arrested for having this arcane paraphernalia, and for practicing magic while not wearing a Circle robe. Warder Tanvolthene didn't seem to care about his illegal status, though, and Presh thought perhaps his patron had applied some leverage. As a foreigner during a time of war, Presh could not join the Silent Circle, but he belonged to its Evoker Archmagus nonetheless.
Meditation, then. He could settle among the cushions and stare at the ceiling, arrange his thoughts in pleasant patterns, and let the stress of the day flow away. Every moment of peace was precious, especially if his patron's warnings came true.
He unlocked the door on the sixth try and pushed into the softly-lit chamber with a smile of relief. It was unoccupied, the bed piled high with pillows and the oil lamps modestly shaded, their light reflecting from the myriad strings of beads that adorned the walls. The air smelled thickly of perfume, this being a cheap inner room rather than a better balcony one. Still, the twining vines stenciled on the walls were appealing, the décor tasteful. A far cry from the rows of curtained beds in the women's barracks at base-camp.
Presh set his satchel down on a padded chair, took off his boots, then collapsed backward into the cushiness of the bed, ignoring the twinge of the scars on his belly. Compared to the bunks at the garrison, these beds were almost worth the price themselves.
He was just past the first euphoria of freedom and beginning to wonder why the lamp-light on the ceiling looked like eyes when he felt a wisp of cold, dry air lick across his face.
Ah yes, the wards, he thought vaguely. How neglectful of me.
Still, he had his personal protections and the elemental bangles beneath his sleeves, so as he levered himself laboriously to his elbows, he felt no concern. Especially when he saw the woman in black, alone, a dark scar marring her expressionless bronze face.
“Pajhrasthani?” he said, bemused.
“Yes, o wayward one,” she replied in Talishan.
Her honeyed accent—so like his own—hit him hard in the chest, and he jerked upright, searching her features for any further kinship. “Taradzurena? From the Academy?”
“I am no scholar,” she said as she glided closer, indicating her dark attire. He squinted; black-on-black, its details were hard to discern, but there was some suggestion of armoring in the leather. Straps, buckles, precise tailoring, but a loosened neckline. Another black scar curved up from there like a sickle.
More than a few weapons adorned her hips.
“No...no, of course not,” he murmured. “You are Kheri. Are you here to kill me?”
“You are not mine to judge, star-brother.”
He nodded slowly. Back home in Pajhrastha, the worship of Shadow was as common as any other. Men followed the Sun, women the Moon, mages and misfits the Disparate Stars, merchants and mercenaries the Shadow. All shared, all cooperated, and none would intrude on the affairs of the others.
Or such was the tradition. His scars spoke otherwise.
“You would bring me hom
e?” he said. “To have the other stars slay me?”
“I would know why you are here in the colors of the enemy.”
He had to laugh. “The enemy?” he said, laying back to work at the lowest buttons of his Crimson coat. “Perhaps they are that to you, shadow-sister, but not to me. No, not at all. They may oppose our garish Sun and seek to deny the Moon, to stamp out the Shadows, but my master collects us star-children like diamonds. Do you know why?”
Her eyes, full black, narrowed slightly. He could not help but grin at her distaste, and gave a drunken wiggle as he divested himself of his coat.
“You look like you would understand,” he said as he hiked up the undershirt beneath. “Your kind are quite familiar with violence.”
Her scarred lips curled, then flattened as her gaze traced the burns on his belly. Time had whorled them out of true, for once they had held the shape of the Sun Father Andar's judgmental eye. Now they simply described a tortuous oblong from the top of his breastbone to the base of his abdomen, a few inches below the gyre of flesh that had been his navel.
He chuckled at her reaction, still awash in the comfortable buzz of alcohol. “Pleasant, yes? A blessing from the Sun's children, for honoring them with my research. Do you know that the Sun Father no longer speaks to them? That the quality of his gaze has changed? I studied with the astronomers and historians of the Academy, and bonded with the winds and the flames so that I might see the face of the Father. Yet when I looked, I saw a mask. A mask!”
The woman frowned.
“They do not hear him, the Father's priests. They can not speak to him. I showed them my research; I thought perhaps it was a trick, an assault by another god—but no. He is not there, and they are liars. The other astronomers promised that they would speak no more of it, but I would not be silent. I came here to learn of this land's Light—to know if it was the same—but their Circle would not take me. And when I sought their sacred city...”
He drifted off, remembering the shards of his precious telescope scattered across the pavement, his papers trampled underfoot. The blank façades of White Flame helms, the feel of their armored fists. Another small stone room, another chair with shackles, so like the Sun's.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 50