Of the Abyss

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “Then you’ll have to wait a little longer. Warm up. Take food if you want it. No one will notice you. I will be back.”

  He turned and disappeared into the main tavern hall.

  Xaz’s willpower lasted perhaps a heartbeat, and that was only because she was still unconvinced that no one would notice her, especially now that Alizarin was gone. Her shivering body and empty stomach swiftly vanquished her fear of being caught, as well as any vestigial desire to obey the law, and she edged past the kitchen matron in order to serve herself a bowl full of the stew being kept warm on the back of the stove.

  There was something fundamentally unnerving about being in a room with someone who was absolutely oblivious to her presence. On the other hand, it was far preferable to being in a room with Quin guards who were aware.

  She snatched a piece of bread before retreating to the fire. She wondered what the matron did see. Surely she would have noticed floating food, or if the things Xaz took just disappeared.

  Those thoughts didn’t last long, as Xaz began to scarf down the food, burning her tongue on the thick venison stew, nearly choking on a piece of bread as she inhaled the nourishment she so desperately needed—­as well as the blessed, blessed heat.

  She had finished the bread, and was down to only an inch left of soup, when a pile of clothing fell with a fump to her right. “I had to seduce a barmaid out of it,” Alizarin drawled.

  Xaz turned, prepared to say something witty in response, but her mind went blank as for the first time she actually looked at the Abyssi she had pulled through a rift and onto this plane. She hadn’t been able to see him when they had been in the coffin, and she hadn’t been aware of much of anything besides how cold she was when they first got to the surface.

  She knew Abyssi had fur, fangs, claws, and tails. That was an intellectual kind of knowledge. What she had not known was that they looked like this.

  He stood just over six feet, and was mostly shaped like a man. His chest had muscles as well-­defined as a lifelong sailor’s, which could be seen despite the soft pelt of fur that covered him everywhere she could see. The fur itself was shiny, mottled blue and green, like the plumage of exotic birds. It was thick and luxurious like a short-­haired cat’s fur along most of his body, but shortened until it was the texture of moleskin on his palms. She had actually stood and reached out a hand, drawn to touch it and learn if it was really as soft as it looked, before she realized what she was doing.

  His face looked almost like a man’s, though it was androgynous, slender, with high cheekbones and full lips. His almond-­shaped eyes were surrounded by lashes that were actually white, making the iridescent orbs stand out that much more. Atop his head, the fur changed to hair, which was inky black with highlights the same colors as his fur; it tumbled to his shoulders in a waved mass.

  His tail twitched, wrapping his body, drawing her attention downward, at which point she found herself grateful that he, too, had found at least some clothes. He was wearing oiled black suede breeches, of the style that was common among men who worked down on the docks, though he had slit the back a bit in order to accommodate his lashing tail. He had not chosen to add shoes to the outfit; his feet were also covered in only short, fine fur, and he stood balanced on the balls, catlike, apparently comfortable that way.

  “Like what you see?” he asked.

  It wasn’t until then that she realized she had been standing, staring, one hand half lifted. She shook herself and took a step back, trying to resist the continued instinct to touch him, to lean against him and rub herself along that so-­soft looking fur.

  No, she chastised herself. This attraction was a lie crafted by Abyssal power. She didn’t have to give in to it. Instead she turned away, picking up the clothing he had brought.

  “You weren’t joking about seducing a barmaid, were you?” she asked, looking at the clothes. They were not badly made, but they were rough, and Xaz was certain the bodice had been designed for a woman with more curves than she had, and more of a desire to show them off. On the other hand, they were clean, and included an outdoor underskirt, and a heavy gray woolen cloak with a border of black fur. Last in the bundle were a pair of soft leather boots, also lined in fur. “Thank you,” she added. The dress was more risqué than she normally chose, but overall the clothing was practical, and fit better than she would have imagined. He must have made an effort to find someone the right size.

  He seemed unconcerned about her gratitude. It was also quickly evident that he did not intend to look away to give her privacy to dress. She suspected that asking him to do so would only invite one of his dismissive remarks, so she turned her back on him instead and tried to pretend he wasn’t present. After she dressed, she looked back to see that he had wandered over to the counter of food, and was looking at it skeptically. He picked up a cheese pastry, sniffed it, and then threw it at the cook. He hit her on the top of her head, making her start, and wave at the air beside her head as if to discourage an annoying fly.

  Xaz couldn’t help snickering, which made Alizarin smile. “There may be hope for you yet, Mancer.” He brushed flaky bits of pastry from the tips of his fingers. “So. What now? Do you run and hide? Smite those who have wronged you? Clear your name? Or just stretch your metaphysical legs, and see what you can do with them? Because, in case you are not aware, you currently have access to more power than you have ever had in your life. There’s no knowing yet exactly what you’re capable of—­a Numenmancer tied to the Abyss. But I, at least, look forward to finding out.”

  Having for the moment nowhere else to go, Xaz sat in front of the fire, enjoying its warmth but not her own thoughts. Alizarin lounged next to her, his body bending in a way that suggested bones and joints not quite identical to a human’s.

  “I don’t know,” Xaz admitted. “I’m being hunted. I cannot return to my own home.” For the moment, the demon was keeping her from being noticed, but his kind was not known for consistency. As soon as something distracted him, she would need to fend for herself. “We killed—­I don’t know how many guards we killed. They will not stop searching for me. I will have to find a way to change my appearance. Flee to the countryside. I—­” She brushed his tail away as it wrapped around her, and tickled her nose. “Stop that.”

  “You’re being dull,” he remarked.

  “I’m answering you.”

  “The soldiers have already found their prey,” he reported. “The spawn saw to that. He fed them an Abyssumancer to appease their bloodlust.”

  “What?” Xaz had heard of spawn before, but had never met one, and certainly never earned one’s friendship or loyalty. “Why would one of them help me?”

  “Not you,” the Abyssi answered, rolling onto his back and stretching like a dog who wants its belly rubbed. “The guard who led the hunt for you. The one who poisoned you. He summoned the spawn and had a second boon of him. The spawn’s reply did not clear your name completely, but many believe the words against you and the Numenmancer’s tools found in your home were an Abyssumancer’s trick, to lure the guards close and make sure they prepared to face the wrong power.”

  “They believe that?” she asked, incredulous. How would an Abyssumancer have acquired such belongings as they would have found in her home?

  “It is easier to believe in an Abyssumancer’s plot,” Alizarin replied, his grin revealing sharp teeth, “than to believe a Numenmancer breached the Abyss, and a loyal guard meddled with blood-­magic. That would be unthinkable.”

  He sprang to his feet in a fluid movement that seemed to reveal shadow and flame beneath his otherwise beautiful, almost disarming, form. Xaz flinched back instinctively, and in the next moment he was gone. As she pushed herself up and looked around, it seemed that the cook turned at the sound; Xaz hurriedly sought the door, and as she pushed through it, she heard the cook call, “Hello?”

  Likewise, back in the main room, she was once again
visible. One man swatted her on the backside and called for a meal, mistaking her for a woman working in the tavern, but she kept moving until she was back outside.

  Where did you go, you foul little blue beast? she wondered.

  No matter what assurances he had given her, she knew she needed to get away from the docks. She was too well-­known there, and if Cinnabar was the one who had reported her, then the gossip that she was a mancer had surely made it through the entire Order of A’hknet by now.

  Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Cinnabar and Cadmia Paynes walking together; she ducked back into the shadows of an alley as they passed, and only remembered to breathe once they were well away. She kept her head down as if against the cold-­blowing wind, and tried not to give anyone reason to look twice at her as she cut through the outskirts of the city. There was no firm plan in her mind except to flee those who would gladly turn her over to the soldiers again.

  CHAPTER 12

  It had been too long, Cadmia realized as she walked through the market with Cinnabar.

  Unlike the central market, the one by the docks was loud, crowded, and rank. The brine of the ocean mingled with the smells of fresh and rotting fish, and the inescapable odor of sailors who had been too long without a proper bath.

  A sealing ship was loading casks of salt in preparation for its journey north. The captain of a Tamari vessel heavy with rice, coffee, and assorted luxury goods was arguing loudly with a customs officer, while the mate of a Silmari vessel was soliciting crewmen for its next trip out.

  The noise, smell, and general commotion was overwhelming now, though Cadmia knew that there had been a time in her life when this had been commonplace. Certainly Cinnabar had no problem with it.

  They stopped at Mother’s cart-­based shop. Though she carried some useful items like herbal remedies—­the ones for hangover were always the best sellers there—­most of Mother’s trade was in trinkets and gifts suitable for a sailor returning home to a sweetheart he hoped to find waiting.

  She smiled warmly when she saw Cadmia.

  “If it isn’t Scarlet’s girl,” Mother greeted her. “It’s been too long. Is life in the violet order not treating you well?”

  “It treats me fine,” Cadmia answered. “I had an impulse to come down here. I have missed you. I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often.”

  “They say an impulse you can’t explain is caused by the Others whispering in your ears,” Mother remarked.

  “Hm.” There was no good way to reply to that. Cadmia’s education with the Order of the Napthol had covered concepts like that, but she was not supposed to discuss them with anyone outside the order. “How has business been?” she asked instead, deliberately changing the subject.

  “Better when the Quin aren’t down here stealing from me,” Mother griped. “Those boys think they own the city.”

  Not any more, they don’t. The thought struck Cadmia like a kick in the guts, but again, her knowledge of the attack, the arrest, and Hansa’s protestations of innocence weren’t things she could talk about.

  She was searching mentally for another subject when Mother nodded to someone in the crowd, and said to Cinnabar, “Looks like someone’s looking for you.”

  Cadmia and Cinnabar both looked up and caught sight of the man Mother had noticed. Handsome, well-­groomed, and immaculately attired, the dark-­haired gentleman stood out in the crowd of sailors and mongers. He was working his way deliberately through the crowd, his eyes on Cinnabar.

  “Do you know him?” Cadmia asked, under her breath.

  “Never seen him in my life,” Cinnabar murmured. But he didn’t look down. Instead, he boldly met the other man’s gaze, and smiled.

  Cadmia took a step back, uncomfortably recalling why she generally didn’t come here, even for a brief visit. Even though it was barely a twenty-­minute walk between the docks and the city proper, location of both the Quinacridone Compound and the Cobalt Hall, this place fostered a disregard for the laws of the land. Too many foreign sailors, unfamiliar with or flat-­out disdainful of Kavet customs, turned the port into a morally gray place.

  For example, Cadmia had no doubt that Cinnabar had already balanced his desire to be friendly with Cadmia and the risk of getting arrested against the likelihood that this stranger had as much coin in his pockets as his attire suggested. He hadn’t exactly put his back to Cadmia, but he had shifted position so they didn’t appear to be together.

  “Are you Cinnabar of A’hknet?” the man asked, once he was close enough not to need to shout over the crowd.

  “That’s me,” Cinnabar answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “So very many things,” the man said, bright blue eyes raking down Cinnabar’s body before returning to his face. “But right now, it’s more about what I intend to do for you.”

  “I’m flexible.”

  “I’ve heard that.” Time to leave, Cadmia thought, knowing her face was bright red at the verbal byplay. When she started to try to slide unobtrusively back into the crowd, however, the man unerringly caught her gaze and said, “You may wish to stay, Cadmia. Our conversation might interest a Sister of the Napthol.”

  Cinnabar tensed, obviously reevaluating his impression of this man, and his assumptions about what he wanted.

  Mother broke in, asking, “Are you here to buy something, or to be a pest?”

  The man quirked a brow, then reached into his pocket, and dropped a pair of silver coins on top of the shelf she had set up across the wagon handles. “The red silk shawl there.”

  Mother looked at the coins, then the shawl. She took the former while wrapping the latter in white paper, then handed the merchandise over without bickering about the price, which meant that her customer had just offered so much money that she didn’t want to risk having him realize his mistake.

  “A gift for a special lady?” Cinnabar asked.

  “An engagement present for a friend’s fiancée.”

  “Men who buy red silk for their friends’ future brides usually aren’t terribly interested in preserving the friendship,” Cinnabar observed.

  “That all depends on how you define friendship,” the man said. “You and I, for example, could probably have a lovely one, assuming you don’t rot in a Quinacridone jail, or have your guts torn out by an Abyssi.”

  “Excuse me?” All Cinnabar’s practiced flirting disappeared in the face of the stranger’s blunt words.

  “Your testimony against Dioxazine led to the deaths of nearly a dozen Quin guards. They think you misled them deliberately, sent them into a trap against an Abyssumancer. The mancers, of course, just think you report to the Quin.”

  “Who are you?” Cadmia demanded.

  “Someone who’s willing to help out your friend . . . and yourself.”

  “They captured the mancer,” Cadmia asserted, a little less certainly than she would have liked.

  “They captured an innocent man and you know it. The Quin know it now, too, which puts the two of you in an awkward position. They wouldn’t dare cause trouble for a Sister of the Napthol, but they wouldn’t think much about using a monger as a scapegoat.”

  Cinnabar had gone pale, but that wasn’t where Cadmia’s gaze was locked. Instead, she was looking at blue eyes. Electric blue.

  “I thought you deserved a warning,” the man said to Cinnabar, who nodded without a word. “I also happen to know of a Silmari trading vessel shipping out soon that’s still looking for an extra hand or two.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Cinnabar asked, pulling himself together. “I don’t even know you.”

  “I would hate to see a man punished for daring to do what he thought was the right thing,” the blue-­eyed man answered.

  Or he’s trying to remove a witness, Cadmia thought. Instinct, or paranoia? She remembered what Hansa had said about the creature who had helped him. All he saw was b
lue eyes. They seemed to glow. This man’s eyes weren’t exactly glowing, but they were brighter than she had ever seen.

  “Can you tell me what exactly has happened?” she asked, trying to keep her tone calm and nonjudgmental. “I think I’ve missed something.”

  “Well . . .” The man paused, as if he needed to think about it. “Hansa Viridian has been released, but I suppose that’s no surprise to you, as the Sister who interviewed him.” Did he see her shock and ignore it? Or was he so certain of the truth of his statement that he was oblivious to her response? “The Quin discovered the real Abyssumancer, and in interrogation he admitted to planting a Numenmancer’s tools on Dioxazine so the guards would walk into his trap unprepared.”

  “What about Viridian’s wounds?” She wasn’t thinking about Cinnabar any more. She was thinking about what she had seen, and heard . . . and said. Could she have spoken against an innocent man?

  “What wounds?” the blue-­eyed man responded, innocently. “The only person who claims to have seen them was Hansa’s hysterical fiancée.”

  It was at that moment that Cadmia became stone-­sure that there was more going on than this man was reporting.

  Cinnabar, like any good child of A’hknet, shook his head and said, “Doesn’t matter to me if he is or isn’t guilty. What’s the name of that ship?”

  “The Tally-­ho. I’ve already spoken to the captain on your behalf, but the sooner you report, the more he’ll probably like you.”

  “I . . . thank you.”

  The blue-­eyed man smiled once again, and said, “Maybe I’ll look you up onboard later.”

  “Any time.” Cinnabar’s smile was a ghost of its usual stuff. “Caddy . . . I’ll see you around.” He kissed her cheek, barely a peck, said goodbye to Mother, and then hurried off as if Abyssi were chasing his heels.

  Maybe they were.

  The stranger started away from Mother’s cart, and Cadmia followed.

  Softly, she said, “I saw the tools they took from Dioxazine. No one but a Numenmancer would have had them. An Abyssumancer wouldn’t even have been able to acquire them.”