by Marc Turner
Romany scowled, but she could hardly disagree with the Spider’s sentiments. Had it been any other empire in the stone-skins’ sights, Romany would have been the first to wash her hands of it. “In Olaire you told me the Augerans had outlawed the worship of any god. If they win here, you might find it hard to play your games with pieces of just one color on the board.”
“And if I neglect my other concerns in order to fight the stone-skins, you think my enemies in the Pantheon will go easy on me? Maybe even join me to repel the hated aggressors?”
This was getting Romany nowhere. Trying to make the Spider look past her own interests was the definition of futility. “So you’ll do nothing, then?”
“I didn’t say that.” The goddess’s fingers drummed against the bench. She looked about the courtyard, apparently considering her next words. “I am minded,” she said at last, “to lift my judgment on Mazana Creed, at least for now. Even if Fume’s influence continues to grow, I suspect the emira will be too busy trying to avenge Uriel to worry about me.” The goddess watched Romany closely, awaiting her reaction. When it did not come, she said, “What, no objections? In Olaire you were adamant she must die.”
“Circumstances change.”
“But the woman’s a monster! A monster, I tell you! Or at least I think that’s what you said.”
“But a monster on our side.” It felt a betrayal to speak the words, but a betrayal of what, of whom? Who was Romany to judge Mazana? And how might someone judge the priestess’s own actions of the past few days? “The stone-skins are coming. If you won’t challenge them, someone has to.”
“How admirably pragmatic of you.” The Spider’s voice had a note of approval in it that might have lifted Romany another time. “And since you seem so keen to oppose the Augeran threat, I assume you’ll have no complaints about returning to the emira now. Where better to meet that threat than at Mazana’s side?”
Romany nodded. She’d expected the goddess to send her back. What she hadn’t expected was to find herself not entirely distraught at the prospect. “Is that to be the sum of your aid against the stone-skins? Giving me to Mazana?”
“Isn’t that enough? High Priestess, you do yourself down. And those are words I never thought I’d say.” Her fingers fluttered. “As it happens, I’ve been considering how best to raise Mazana’s spirits after her brother’s death. I was thinking a change of scenery might help. A trip to somewhere farrr from Gilgamar, where she can put all this death and conflict behind her.” The Spider gave a dark smile. “Somewhere like the Forest of Sighs, for example.”
Romany stared at her. The Forest of Sighs?
The goddess gestured, and a hazy image appeared before the priestess. It showed Mazana on a dais, crouching. There were blocks of stone around her, an upturned rusty throne to one side. Mayot’s throne, Romany realized. The emira used a hand to brush away the grit on the floor. She must have located whatever it was she was looking for, because at that moment her hand stilled. The lines about her dead eyes softened a fraction. With Uriel gone, that was probably the closest she would get to an expression of satisfaction.
Romany squinted. What had Mazana found? A fragment of the Book of Lost Souls? Some token from one of the powers who had fought in the dome? No, there was nothing on the ground. Just a blotch that looked like dried blood. Mayot’s blood, perhaps? Would Mazana be able to steal some of his power from it? That didn’t seem worth a journey of two hundred and fifty leagues, even if that journey would have taken her only heartbeats along the Spider’s web.…
Her breath caught. For suddenly she knew whose blood it was—remembered him cutting his own palm to seal a deal over the fate of the Book of Lost Souls.
Shroud.
Romany swallowed. The blood of a god. And Mazana a blood-mage who had taken in part of Fume’s spirit.
The emira extended a finger toward the stain. This time when the blood was absorbed into her skin, it turned the flesh not crimson, but black.
Abruptly the image faded. Lexal approached, and she halted before a still-shaken Romany. “There’s a man outside the temple,” she said. “A Guardian called Senar Sol. He wants to speak to you.” She looked from Romany to the Spider. “To both of you.”
* * *
Ebon leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting over the common room. A line of men sat at the bar, laughing and banging their glasses down in unison. Ebon wished he could have some of what they were drinking if it would stop his hands trembling. He didn’t trust the barman to serve him what he asked for, though, so instead he put his hands in his lap. It didn’t hurt to look edgy, he decided, just as long as he held his nerve when the time came.
He had asked to meet Tia on neutral ground in the Lower City, but he’d already recognized her tongueless minion at a nearby table, engaged in a drinking contest with two scantily dressed women. Doubtless there were more of her crowd scattered among the tavern’s other patrons. Certainly Ebon was drawing a lot of looks for a man sitting alone minding his own business. Everyone in the room seemed to be carrying a weapon, all except a raggedy-haired girl who shuffled among the tables with palms outstretched.
Behind Ebon, Vale coughed to signal Tia’s arrival. She halted at the door to inspect the room before making her way toward Ebon’s table. Her hair was piled atop her head, and she wore a shimmering black gown, as if she’d stopped off on her way to a ball in the Upper City. Fifty sets of eyes followed her progress across the polished clay floor.
She sat down across from Ebon. “Ah,” she said, looking between him and Vale, “if it isn’t the two heroes from the wall. Word of your exploits has reached us even here. I can’t tell you what an honor it is to see you again.”
Ebon did not respond. He’d resolved to say as little as possible until he saw Lamella and Rendale. Less chance of mistakes that way.
Tia glanced at the empty floor under the table. “You seem to have traveled light.”
“Ten thousand sovereigns would have been a bit heavy to carry through the Lower City.” Ebon took from his pocket a flat leather case a handspan long and put it on the table. “Instead I brought stones. Dawnstones, to be precise.”
“Notoriously difficult to value, those stones.”
“Which is why I took them to a jeweler in the Upper City this afternoon.” He nodded to the leather case. “In there you’ll find an envelope sealed with wax containing both the stones and a certificate of value. For ten thousand three hundred and fifty sovereigns, if I remember rightly.”
Tia looked from Ebon to Vale, then back again. “Sounds eminently reasonable. Assuming I can rely on the integrity of this jeweler, of course.”
“Yes,” Ebon said, “so hard to find people you can trust these days.”
The woman laughed. “Who is he?”
“Tattagill. He seemed confident you would have heard of him.”
“Tattagill, yes.” She paused. “I must say I’m impressed you managed to raise ten thousand sovereigns so quickly. Makes me think I didn’t charge enough to get you into the Upper City.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Three thousand sovereigns to be betrayed sounds about right.” Tia watched him, still waiting for an explanation, and he added, “I had some change left over from the assets I liquidated to raise the three thousand. I also received a reward from your Ruling Council for the part I played in defending the city. Apparently they think Gilgamar owes me a debt—something you might like to consider when you get a chance.”
The woman snorted and reached for the case.
Ebon put a hand on it. “After I see Rendale and his … partner.” It stung to say those words. Could he blame them, though, if some feeling had developed between them? Doubtless they both thought him dead. Who knew what they’d been through these past three weeks? Who else but each other could they have turned to for comfort?
Tia sat back in her chair, searching his eyes. Then she scanned the common room as if she’d misplaced someone. Was she about to change the terms of their agreement? De
mand more money? It was just a matter of time, surely.
A man sidled over and put a glass of spirits on the table in front of her. She took a sip. “You know,” she said to Ebon at last, “there’s something about this that bothers me. After our first meeting, I thought you were a fool to trust me with three thousand sovereigns. Then I found out from that Mercerien prince—Ocarn?—that you were a prince yourself, and I realized three thousand sovereigns meant nothing to you. To come here now, though, after I betrayed you the first time…” She tapped a finger on the rim of her glass. “Remind me why I shouldn’t grab you and ransom you and your brother to your father. Because I’m having trouble remembering myself.”
“I wouldn’t advise trying,” Ebon said.
“Really? Oh, Ocarn warned me about your timeshifter friend here, but I have to say he’s looking a little peaky right now. Still suffering from the after-effects of that wound he took on the wall, no doubt—yes, I heard about that too. Is he fast enough to match six of my men? Ten?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But he’s certainly fast enough to get to you before anyone stops him.”
“And how about the man holding a knife to your brother’s throat at this moment?”
This was not going as Ebon had hoped—as he’d expected perhaps, but not as he’d hoped. “So you’ve got a knife to Rendale’s throat, and I’ve got a knife to yours. You could roll the dice if you like, see what numbers come up. Or you could take the ten thousand sovereigns on offer, and congratulate yourself on a good day’s work. Seems a simple enough choice to me, but maybe the view’s different from your side of the table.”
Some of the people at nearby tables were moving away. Either they’d overheard the conversation or they could sense the tension bubbling up like a pot coming to the simmer. The tongueless man interrupted his drinking game with the two women to lift an ax from below his chair and place it on the table. Across the common room, Tia’s other minions could be picked out from the way they started edging closer, or put their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Maybe ten of them in all.
Good of them to identify themselves like that.
The beggar girl chose that moment to approach Ebon’s table. She held her hands out to him, and he placed a coin in them. The girl turned to Tia, and the woman ruffled her hair … then took Ebon’s coin from her hands and pocketed it. The girl smiled and moved away.
“Should I deduct that from the ten thousand?” Ebon asked.
Tia’s mouth did not so much as twitch, but a little of the tightness had eased from her expression. “How do you deduct a sovereign from a dawnstone? Scratch it with your nail?”
She had a point. Ebon put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together. “Where is my brother?”
The woman held his gaze before gesturing to a black-haired man by the door. He disappeared outside. “He’s close,” Tia said in answer to Ebon’s question. “You’ll forgive me if I felt the need to keep him somewhere safe until I had a chance to look around and make sure you hadn’t done something stupid. Like dress up a few Gilgamarian soldiers in civilian clothes and plant them in the room. Someone tried that once, if you can believe it. Thought I wouldn’t notice. But soldiers have a particular smell that sticks out in a place like this. Of course, you’d never do anything so stupid as to invite soldiers to a private gathering.”
“What would be the point? I’ve seen how your Gilgamarian soldiers fight.”
Tia smiled—not so much at his words, he suspected, as at Ebon himself. His voice had a tremor to it, hope and anticipation and dread all squeezing the breath from him as if he were wrapped in a boa’s coils. It didn’t seem possible the next people to enter the room might be Lamella and Rendale. But would Tia let them walk out with him afterward? His knife at her throat lasted only as long as she sat at this table. Who was to say she wouldn’t swap the captives for the jewels, get up and move out of Vale’s range, then order her men to take the Galitians captive?
The door opened, and Black Hair reappeared.
Behind him came a haggard-looking Rendale. He caught sight of Ebon across the room and stopped, blinking stupidly. But just because Ocarn and Tia knew Ebon was alive didn’t mean they had shared that information with Rendale, or told him why he was being brought here. Lamella came next, shuffling on her twisted leg. When she saw Ebon the color drained from her face. She put her hands over her mouth. Her strawberry-blond hair looked a shade darker than Ebon remembered it, her eyes more deep-set, and there were lines to her face he didn’t recognize. His skin was flushed. He felt a prickle all over. But even then, he realized he was watching her to see if there was guilt in her look to go with the shock and relief.
He tutted his disgust.
Lamella’s shoulders shook silently, and Tia cocked her head. “My, my,” she said to Ebon. “Look what you’ve done to the poor woman. And I thought it was just me that had that effect on people.”
Ebon hadn’t known how he would react to seeing Lamella again, or she to him, but he had never imagined this. He forced himself to break her gaze. If Tia was to guess there was something between them … Behind Lamella and Rendale, Peg Foot entered the tavern, grinning as if he were the one Ebon had come to free. He grabbed Rendale’s arm and muscled him forward. Lamella followed with Black Hair. More people drifted away from Ebon and Tia’s table, while the men at the bar watched them with expressions gone sober.
“That’s close enough,” Tia said to Peg Foot when he had closed to within ten paces. Her gaze was still on Ebon. “At least until I’ve seen these jewels you’ve brought.”
“Of course,” Ebon said.
He had to buy himself time now, so he scratched an imaginary itch on his leg, then pretended to fumble at the clasp of the leather case before finally pulling it open. They were all watching him, even the beggar girl. Just how he wanted it. With exaggerated care, he unfolded the case once, twice, three times to reveal … nothing. The case was empty.
He looked at Tia.
She looked back at him.
Silence.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” Ebon said.
“What?”
“I seem to have left the stones behind.”
Tia stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Then she bared her teeth and gestured. Around the common room, her minions drew their weapons. Peg Foot produced a knife from somewhere and held it to Rendale’s throat. What little conversation remained in the room now died away. An overturned glass hit a table, and Ebon heard the drip, drip of spilled liquid falling to the floor.
Tia said, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it won’t work.”
“You misunderstand—”
“Let me guess, your reward from the Ruling Council included the hire of some soldiers, and they’re on their way here now?”
“Please, you’ve got it all wrong.”
Tia’s eyes burned. “You don’t think I guessed you might try something like this? You don’t think I’ve got men watching every damned road leading here?” Her voice shook with fury. “By the time your friends arrive—”
“Please,” Ebon cut in, raising his hands, “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t have any friends on their way.” Then he leaned forward and added, for Tia’s ears only, “That’s because they’re already here.”
Before he’d finished speaking, a woman behind Peg Foot had grabbed the man’s hand holding the knife at Rendale’s throat and twisted it behind his back. A sweep of Peg Foot’s leg, and he was on the floor, face pressed to the clay. Black Hair, meanwhile, took an elbow from another man that snapped his head back. He dropped like a stone. The tongueless man reached for his ax, but one of the women he’d been drinking with—the twins—had already snatched it up. The other sister rose and delivered a kick to his forehead that sent him toppling backward in his chair. Around the room, Tia’s other minions were being similarly disarmed and subdued by the Revenants.
Ebon had not moved. He was watching Tia. The woman sat upright in her
chair. Points of color had formed on her cheeks. The muscles of her neck stood out as she swallowed.
“Well, this is a turn up,” Ebon said. “It seems your nose is sensitive enough to sniff out soldiers, but not mercenaries. Hardly surprising, since I’ve found these particular mercenaries to be an altogether superior breed. Allow me to introduce Twist, commander of the Revenants.” Twist sauntered in close and drained Tia’s glass of spirits. “If you look hard enough, you might just be able to see him under all the bruises.”
Twist pulled Tia to her feet and patted her down for weapons, found a knife in her boot, and slung it away. “We ready to move?” he said to Ebon. “Seems a shame to turn in early, but I reckon we’ve outstayed our welcome.”
“The men she said were watching the roads…?”
“Dealt with.”
“Then let’s go.” Ebon pushed back his chair and rose.
“What do we do with her?” Twist asked, pointing at Tia.
“Bring her with us. At least as far as the Canal Gate. She can be our hostage against her men’s good behavior—in case any of them think to try and follow us when we leave.”
The commander nodded, then looked at Vale. “You feelin’ better, Endorian? Hope you ain’t forgotten that duel you owe me.”
Vale grunted. “How could I, with you reminding me every quarter-bell? Though I am struggling to remember ever agreeing to it in the first place…”
Ebon stopped listening. He was looking at Lamella and Rendale. Rendale rubbed his neck where Peg Foot’s knife had touched it, his expression pained. Lamella wiped her eyes. Whatever strength had sustained her since she’d fled Majack must have been leaching away, for she swayed on her feet, had to reach out to a table to stop herself falling. They were both watching him, and he looked at them in turn. Not the joyful reunion he’d imagined, but sometimes when you’d wanted a thing for so long, the reality couldn’t live up to the expectation. He thought of all the ways he’d let Lamella down in his search, all the half measures he’d taken.
But his doubts melted away as she came shambling toward him. A faltering smile broke out across her face as she closed the distance between them and buried herself in his embrace.