by K. Eason
“So he’s loyal. You want that, you have Briel.”
“It’s not just that. He’s—” The only person she knew who didn’t see half-blood, or woman, or not-quite-good-enough when he looked at her. He only saw her. Whatever she meant to him. Whatever made a man take on Taliri and bargain with ghosts. Unique in all her experience, Veiko Nyrikki, and precious because of it.
Stop. Swallow. Try again. “He’s my partner, yeah?”
Aneki grimaced. “So what will you do?”
“Hope I think of something clever before some godsworn kills me. Ask you for another favor. Maybe two. First one, the big one: we need somewhere else to stay. I know you’ve had Veiko crippling himself going up and down the stairs to repair the second-floor shutters. I know there’s an empty flat. Let us have that.”
“Right.” Aneki sighed. “For how long?”
“Until he’s healed. Until I figure what Tsabrak’s doing over there in the Warren. Until that highborn soldier and I figure out what to do about it.”
“And then what? You stop Tsabrak? Or the God? Or both of them?” Aneki shook her head. “You go off and get killed, how will you pay me back?”
“Ask Veiko. He talks to ghosts.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Snow was still out when Veiko returned from the grey world. He knew that from the silence in the room, and the peculiar empty of the flat without her. A man grew accustomed to that. She spent most afternoons out on the God’s business. On Tsabrak’s business, as if the burns hadn’t happened, as if there weren’t scars on her skin and deeper, too, that woke her up in the night. Whenever she had to see Tsabrak himself and talk to him. Then she dreamed.
A man might ignore that, for her pride’s sake. A partner could not. A partner got up and went to her when she woke and touched her as much as she could tolerate, so that she knew she was not alone. And he asked, every time:
How long will you do this?
And every time, she told him:
Until you’re healed. Until we’re ready for Tal’Shik. Until Ehkla gets to Cardik.
He was healed enough, anyway. Most of a month since Ehkla had marked him. He had only needles in his thigh now. A tightness in his knee beneath the bone. No great matter, and until today, the only progress they could mark. They still did not know Ehkla’s whereabouts, though Dekklis and Istel brought regular word from the garrison. Another village burned. Another flux of dispossessed Alviri through city gates. Getting closer, Dekklis said. The toadshit Taliri, working their way to Cardik’s gates one gutted village at a time. The praefecta wouldn’t authorize more patrols. A few villages was the price of raiding season.
Veiko sat up and blinked at the sunlight knifing through the dust. Aneki had, the morning after the God’s attack, moved them up here to the residents’ wing, onto wooden floors that creaked and groaned when he limped across them. The windows had shutters that did little to keep out wind or chill or svartjagr.
They might if you closed them, yeah?
Which he would not. He claimed it was for Briel’s sake, but it was as much for his own. He needed the open air. The wind coming off the mountains. The illusion, if he only looked up, that there weren’t walls around him.
Veiko levered upright, scooping one hand out to retrieve the cup on the floor beside the pallet. Stared at his knuckles while his body remembered how to wear bone and skin. A noidghe must loosen his grip on his own flesh to walk with the spirits. Easy enough if a body were weak or sick, if there were an apprentice to beat a spirit drum. Veiko had neither apprentice nor drum, weakness nor sickness. But there were other ways to loosen his spirit’s hold on his flesh, and his partner knew herbcraft.
Call it poison, yeah? Dekklis does.
The remainder of Snow’s potion clung to the sides and pooled at the bottom of the cup, skinned over and curling up at the edges. The smell made his stomach knot up in protest. They had tried more than a dozen before settling on this one. Its advantage was digestibility, which made the headache afterward a small price. The rest of Snow’s attempts had come out either as fast as they’d gone down, or later and with greater vengeance.
Going to kill you one of these tries, Snow had said grimly.
You will not. And once, only once: And if you do, you can call me back. You have that power.
He had hoped for that crooked smile. He’d gotten a scowl instead, the whole width of her lips drawn up and tight. You want to say why it’s so damn important you keep getting back to the ghost roads? What’s worth this risk?
Your life, he had not said, which was one truth. He gave her another: The ghosts have advice about Tal’Shik. I am learning.
And he was ready, now and finally.
Veiko crossed to the window and braced both arms on the sill. Closed his eyes and reached and found Briel half-blind in the glare off the snow. Higher than she liked to be
exposed
above the streets. Circling on the perpetual breeze cutting down off the mountains, over the S’Ranna as it ran through Cardik. It looked more like a ribbon from Briel’s vantage, one more source of silverglare in the sunlight. Patches of tile and thatch below her that Veiko knew were rooftops. Bright paint on the walls in designs that must be pleasing to the Illhari and looked garish to him. More people than Veiko had seen his whole life, making noise and stench that would shame all the herds of takin in the world. And the Bridge, the Bridge, the one wide as an Illhari road, arched stone and lipped with wooden planks. It might’ve been another street, except for the river cutting under it. Tents and kiosks lined its edges, vendors selling cooked meat that Briel wanted, badly. Her gaze kept snapping back toward it, dizzying shift that took his stomach with her every time.
A svartjagr’s vantage was nothing like a man’s, but it was better than Aneki’s descriptions of Cardik, or Snow’s idea of maps.
The S’Ranna divides Cardik, she said as she arranged cutlery and fruit on the table. That’s this knife. This, here, this spoon: that’s Market Bridge. It connects both halves of Cardik. On this side, we’ve got the governor’s mansion up here, and the garrison right under that. Down by Market—this pip—that’s Still Waters. The brothels stay on this side of the river. On the other side—and here she set an apple on one side of the knife—we’ve got the Warren. That’s where the tanneries and the abattoirs are, things that offend highborn noses. And that’s where people who can’t afford the Hill, or don’t want highborn neighbors, live. So, Alviri. Cartels. Refugees. And me once.
But not all refugees. There had been a sudden surge of Alviri in Aneki’s halls, all whispers and weeping. Bright new collars. Eyes pale as his own staring back out of faces nearly as white. Winter-gaunt and flinching at shadows, all of them, women and girls and boys. Refugee meant desperation, Veiko decided.
Briel changed angles. Leveled her wings and dove, dizzy-fast, so that Veiko held his breath and locked his teeth. She dipped low over tile and thatch until she found a ledge and beat her wings and stopped. And crawled, after, up the wall and onto a sloped tile roof. Warm on her belly, rough under claw and foot. She wedged herself under the eaves and snaked her neck around and settled. Satisfaction, warm as the tiles, when she got into the shadow.
Veiko took his eyes back and looked down into the courtyard. A man’s legs would break if he fell from this height. A dog would not survive. He did not like it, that he could not get out of this place except through the door, and down the stairs, and across that patch of grass and gravel. But it was no worse than a tiny cave, was it, and larger than any other space he’d shared with Snow so far. She had the bed, and he had a pallet, with the firedog and hearth between them. And Snow had put her own locks on the door and given him one of two keys that he wore on a thong now around his neck, beneath his clothes where Aneki would not see it. Snow had traced glowing shapes on the steel, too, that faded like cooling embers.
Wards, yeah? Someone tries to force the door, they’ll regret it.
He reckoned that a possibi
lity in this place. In a crofter’s hut, there were brothers and their wives and parents in residence, and only curtains between them. A man learned to ignore what wasn’t his business. But Aneki’s residents had no such restraint. Stares and whispers whenever he passed through the halls, and this woman or that man or any combination of them might happen to want their bath the same time that he did, in the same chamber and pool.
They’re curious, Aneki told him. No harm, yeah?
He hadn’t understood at first, until Snow explained. Curious, sure. And they’re making an offer. And added, unsmiling, It’s safe enough, if you want it. Your choice, Veiko.
Safe, perhaps, but not wise. It was one thing to take a girl out onto the tundra and know that she and her sisters would whisper about it later. It was quite another to have the entire village discussing his technique and measuring his worth accordingly. Aneki had made no further advances, but her people had. Any indulgence of curiosity would be in her ears by morning, and all over Still Waters by breakfast.
Logi watched him, chin on paws. Flattened his ears when he saw Veiko’s eyes on him, and sighed.
“Yes,” Veiko told him. A man could grow soft spending all his time in the ghost roads. He could grow weak watching Cardik through a svartjagr’s eyes, seeing brick all around him, tiled roofs and twisting streets. And he could go a little bit mad worrying after his partner.
Veiko crossed the room, crossed his own shadow, black as any Dvergir, where it stretched across floor and table. The room seemed dim after the bright of outside, all the color smeared to ash and dust. Grey as the scars the God had left on Snowdenaelikk.
He’d caught her scrubbing them in the bath once. Blood spidering through her fingers, where the scars had bled along the seams. He’d taken her hands and held them while she swore a stream of gutter Dvergiri and shook.
Tal’Shik, he promised himself, would be only the first god he killed.
Brave words, in his father’s voice. But a man wants more than pretty speeches. A man wants deeds. A man must act.
It would have been better, maybe, if his father had told him, a man wants thought before action. He had done little but think, and heal, and drink poison, for the past month. Best he remind himself what acting felt like.
He would not think Tal’Shik to death, and Snowdenaelikk thought enough for both of them.
The tavern door banged open, which was common enough. But this time the man—Alvir, dirty hair in a tail, in clothes more filthy still—paused in the doorway. Squinted inside, against the raw almost-spring afternoon leaking in from behind. His shadow sprawled large and dark on the smooth dirt-pack floor. His eyes roamed the room. Settled on Snow, finally, where she sat. Then he squared up and stalked inside, beelining for her with all the subtlety of a rutting bull.
So. Tsabrak’s contact was here. Finally.
Snow leaned back. Propped one boot on the edge of the table and tipped the chair onto its back legs. She’d practiced during her wait. Gouged the chair legs into the dirt until she knew it would hold if she had to kick the table. Hell of an embarrassment if the chair skidded. End up on her ass, on her back. Probably dead if this Alvir brought friends.
Which he had, and more than the woman slouching in his wake. Briel was certain of it. Snow dipped her eyelids and sorted Briel’s pepper-sharp impressions. Precise numbers were tricky with svartjagr. Briel knew pair well enough, but the feeling Snow got now was many, which could mean three or a dozen. She glanced around the tavern’s guts. Too full for midday, yeah, too many Alviri, even for this part of the Warren. Could be any of them, or all of them, or none.
Many.
Dirty-hair stopped beside her table. This man had aristo bones, and that tip-tilt cast to his eyes that reminded her of Veiko. Uncertainty in his face, hostility. A doubling of each when he got a look at her face. Alvir accent, thick as cold vomit: “You awake, half-blood?”
“Marl,” she said. “That’s you, yeah? Sit.” She kicked a chair at him under the table. Kicked a second at his companion, after a long moment’s consideration. “Exactly how many friends did you bring, when we told you come alone?”
Cold-burned cheeks turned redder, and cold-raw knuckles paled considerably where they gripped the table’s edge. He stayed standing. “Just Isla.”
“Don’t lie to me. Bad way to start a relationship, yeah?”
He closed his mouth. First sign he had any intelligence. Second sign, that he looked a little worried now, wondering how she knew. Damn certain this Marl didn’t know what her topknot meant. All he saw was Dvergir half-blood and—
“Didn’t expect to meet a woman,” he admitted. “I heard—”
“I know what you heard.” She flipped her hand. Flashed her palm and the godmark. Both Alviri looked at it. “I speak for Tsabrak.”
Marl grunted. Nodded. Sat, deliberately.
Briel prickled through her awareness. Many, getting up and walking out the tavern’s door. Many, melting away into shadow and street. A dizzy heartbeat, and the smudge and blur of a svartjagr’s vision. Would’ve blinded her once, but not since Veiko’d come back from the dead. That was a mystery and a blessing and still a half measure. The sendings still left a crater in her skull.
“How many friends?” she repeated as a draft snatched at the candles and the lamps.
“None.”
“Because they just walked out. Listen. Half a mind to tell Tsabrak you’re trouble, yeah? Tell him you’re too stupid to do business with us if you can’t count to one.”
The Alviri had different customs. Even now, even after the Purge, they had certain expectations. She’d disappointed this one in a half dozen ways, yeah, see that clear enough. Aristo eyes, aristo bones. Some watered-down highborn, this Marl, some descendent of thegns who’d never forgiven the Illhari legion, the
women
Dvergiri for being better soldiers, better strategists, for smashing his birthright from thegn to village headman. He puffed up like rising bread. Looked down that long nose.
“Maybe I take my business elsewhere if all I get are insults.”
Empty threat. She knew it. Smiled to show him she did. “Maybe you don’t try and threaten me, toadshit. Maybe you listen when you’re told come alone. Or maybe you send just her next time, yeah? She seems smart enough to follow instructions. Don’t,” as Marl started to get up. “You’re not in whatever motherless village anymore. You’re in Cardik. You’re toadshit nothing here. So why don’t you tell me what you want. Stop wasting my time.”
Another reddening of Marl’s fair skin. Snow glanced past him. Got her first glimpse of Isla’s eyes, grey as winter skies and startled round. Alviri women did not sit with men and deal for anything more dangerous than cook pots, and here this one was. Guess her merit, then. Confirmed when she laid a hand on Marl’s arm.
“Please,” she said, to one or both of them.
Marl settled. His chair squeaked and skidded on the smooth dirt. He reached into the fold of his shirt and plunked a fist-sized sack on the table.
“We want weapons.” And when Snow only stared at him: “The legion took ours at the gate. This city is not safe, do you understand? There are thieves. Killers. We need to defend ourselves.”
“Don’t see Illhari ink on you. There’re rules on the borders, yeah? No metal without ink.”
“I didn’t think you cared about legal.”
“I don’t. But it’s not me the governor will hang. It’s you. Damn sure she’ll ask questions, first, about where you got it. And if you tell her, then I get worse than hanging.”
He leaned over and spat onto the floor. “Fuck the legion. Fuck the governor. Fuck the whole Republic.”
“That’s a safer choice than you’re making.” Aneki’d had half a dozen new arrivals at her back gate just this week, offering themselves for sale, wearing bruises and desperation. Asking to sell themselves and serve those same troops, just like Aneki had.
And eat. And live.
And wear a collar. It was either that,
or buy weapons from the local cartel that happened to belong to the Laughing God. Risk a rope instead of a collar’s certain safety.
Ask Isla which she’d rather have round her neck, sitting across the table in a man’s too-big shirt and breeches.
Snow didn’t mind making trouble for the legion, or for Illharek. She’d done it more than half her life, yeah, had the godmark proof inked into her palm. Smuggling. Stealing. Murder, too, oh yes. She hadn’t flinched from that.
But there was making trouble, and there was this. These Alviri who’d never bought citizenship to Illharek and taken the mark, who’d never lived long inside walls with working sewers and the governor’s bread in long winters. These Alviri with grudges and pride and too much frustration, without collar or tattoo to mark them and nothing left to lose.
Weapons, oh yes. There were weapons for sale here today. Most of them walked on two feet. Marl, Isla, many. Tsabrak’s army of convenience. As likely to turn on their wielder as cut down their enemies. Like loosing a mad dog into the market and hoping it killed only cutpurses.
Snow drummed her fingers on the table. Pretended to consider while Marl fidgeted and Isla watched her sidelong. “Say I can get you what you want. You think you’ll have more luck against thieves than you did the Taliri?”
Sorry the moment she said it. Thought he’d come over the table, or simply burst, like a cold bottle dropped in boiling water.
“Witch,” he said. “They had a witch. Cursed magic, filthy half-blood—”Choked silent when his companion put her hand on his arm and squeezed.
“Who are you talking to, Marl? Who am I?”
He blinked. Turned the color of oatmeal. “You’re. I mean. You’re not her.”
Fuck and damn. If Tsabrak armed these people, she’d have to watch her back. Everyone would. Tsabrak wanted the legion tangled in civil disorder; Tsabrak wanted blood and fire. And if Tsabrak wanted it, the Laughing God did. But until now, the God had survived the persecutions and the Purge because he stayed to the shadows.