by Alexey Pehov
“You prefer boys.”
“Slander.” His eyes were laughing. “At any rate, no more than girls. So?”
“She’s pretty,” she answered dryly. “You educated her well.”
“Education is something you have never lacked. She would do anything to please me. If you want, she can die.”
“It makes no difference to me.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. I still haven’t played with her enough. I want you to cut your face,” he snapped at his handmaid.
She eagerly bared her knife and without a moment’s hesitation drew it from her temple to the corner of her eye and down her cheek, passing though her lip to her chin. Blood began to flow. A lot of blood. The Je’arre smiled, oblivious to the blood and pain. She was happy that she pleased her lord.
He didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the winged girl. Instead, he watched Tia intently the whole time. She lived up to his expectations; Pork made a contemptuous face.
“I’m always amazed that such a repulsive maggot like you could have had such a remarkable brother,” she said bitterly.
Rovan’s beautiful features contorted instantly, and his brown eyes flashed with fury.
“You filth! Don’t you dare talk about my brother!” he roared, jumping to his feet and grabbing his sword. “Retar was the best of us and he died because of you! You stupid, insignificant painted whore!”
His pale face was flushed, and he took out his fury on the Je’arre. The unfortunate girl’s head rolled under the table, her body collapsed to the floor, her wings were shorn off, pouring blood over the satin pillows and the expensive carpet. Rovan stood over her, breathing heavily, trying to control himself. He succeeded. He ran his hand over his face, tossed the bloody sword into the farthest corner of the tent and shoved the body away with his foot. He sat down and said, drawing out his words, “Let’s get back to our conversation.”
“You’re a pervert, Rovan.” Tia shook her head. “But I’m sorry you ruined your toy.”
He smiled tightly. “A trifle. I’ll find myself another.”
“One would think you had an entire regiment of Je’arre.” She deliberately led the conversation astray.
“Well … for some time I did.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The flyers came over to our side. Their elders sold out their own people.”
“That’s news.”
“Yes. They provided us with a little help at the Isthmuses, where they struck the Imperials from behind. But a few days ago there was a little trouble—the birds got into a serious argument with the Shay-z’ans. You know how they have their history. The Burnt asked for blood. I consider the Shay-z’ans more important than the feathered. So now the numbers of the Je’arre are a bit, shall we say, curtailed. But I’ll find something for myself.”
Typhoid gritted her teeth. What an idiot! He’d grown stupid from the smell of blood and decay. How could Leigh have entrusted the leadership of an entire army to him? He couldn’t just play the two formerly unified peoples against each other and deprive them of new allies! Now others, knowing what fate befell the Je’arre, would think ten times before moving to the side of the Overlords.
“I want you to help me with Al’sgara,” Rovan said suddenly.
“Did I just imagine it, or did you really just say that?” Typhoid didn’t know what to think.
“Don’t make me ask twice,” he replied, his blond eyebrows converging.
That would be fun, Tia thought to herself, but just said, “What do you want?”
“I want you to sneak into Al’sgara before the rumors fly that I’m coming to visit. You’ll open the gates for me.”
“A single set of fallen gates won’t do you much good. There are many walls in the city.”
“I’ll think of something. Just do it.”
“What do you want?” asked the Damned a second time.
He drilled her with his eyes for a moment and then said, “A book.”
“I don’t understand.” Hearing this from Rovan was a novelty.
“Don’t play the fool. I need the same thing as Tal’ki does, or else Leprosy wouldn’t have sent you there, still in that form. I need a book. I need The Book. Have you got it? I want to know where it is when we storm the city. It would be a very bad thing, if we unknowingly burned down the library. Don’t you agree?”
“What reason do I have to help you?”
“You’re not helping me, but yourself. If the library burns down, every Overlord will lose a great deal. Plus, I’m willing to share with you if I get there before Tal’ki. We can help each other.”
“I simply don’t recognize you.”
“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten.” He smiled promisingly. “I haven’t forgotten or forgiven. You hate me, and I pay you back in the same coin. But right now we should work together. I give you my word that we’ll divide everything evenly, and I won’t stab you in the back.”
“How very generous of you.”
“Have I ever broken my word?” He frowned.
“No,” she said, and finished to herself, In this you and your brother were always alike.
“Then I want to hear your answer.”
“If it’s possible,” she replied cautiously.
“That’s enough for me. I hope you won’t waste time. When I arrive, I’ll contact you.”
The mirror darkened, and the water flowed back into the river.
Typhoid clenched her teeth. The Abyss take her, but what was going on here? Melot knew what kind of book, what library? What was the maggot talking about? What had Tal’ki told him? It was obviously something important if Rovan, who considered Tia to blame, albeit indirectly, for Retar’s death, had decided to enlist her support for the first time in all these centuries. She had to know. And quickly.
It took her a lot of effort to create the Silver Window. Leprosy answered almost instantly. Typhoid saw her sitting on her bed in a cap and nightgown. She had clearly just been woken up, but there was no resentment on her face over the late Summons. Her faded blue eyes studied Pork steadily.
“I see, my dear, that you are handling him well. And you’ve even tuned him up a bit. He’s not as ungainly as he was before. You’re making progress. That. I. See.” She narrowed her eyes and with a plump hand pushed the cat sleeping on her legs to the side. “I see that some of your power has returned to you. But you can only use it when you’re in a dead body, am I right? How did you manage that?”
“The same way you did.” Tia was angry. “When Ginora and Retar died, you drank up their power. I just took back my own.”
“Very good.” Tal’ki was not going to deny anything. “Very good, my dear. I’m happy for you.”
“You didn’t even tell us, Tal’ki!”
“Why should I have done that?” The Healer was sincerely amazed. “We all have our little secrets. Did you wake me up for this?”
“No! I just had a conversation with Rovan! You told him about me!”
She didn’t even raise a brow.
“Not all that much. He knows that you are near Al’sgara and that you changed bodies. As for the fact that you are as weak as a kitten, no one but me even suspects.”
“But why did you need to involve him in our affairs? You know how much he hates me!”
“Well, he’s hated you for five centuries, so you’re coming to your senses far too late. He still can’t forgive you for his brother. That boy always thought he loved him far more than you did. I don’t see why I should explain this to you. You think that I blabbed to him for nothing? What do you take me for, a silly, gossiping old goose?”
Typhoid was choking on her indignation, but Tal’ki curtailed her wrathful tirade with a question. “What did he want from you?”
“He offered me a deal. He needs a book.”
“Naughty boy.” Tal’ki bit her lip in chagrin. “And what would you get in return?”
“He’s prepared to share.”
“Well �
� that’s not so bad. I hope you agreed?”
“Yes.”
“A wise course of action.”
“Perhaps you could explain to me what it is we’re talking about?”
“Mitifa is still stuck in the library of the Walkers at the Six Towers. She’s a smart girl. She found much that is interesting. This includes what may very well be the Sculptor’s notes.”
“How did the Walkers miss them?”
“You wouldn’t be all that surprised at it if you saw the state they keep the books in. The parchment was practically impossible to handle. It crumbled. But Mitifa read a part of it.”
“I’m quivering with anticipation to hear what was written there.”
“It seems that the Sculptor hid his old journal in Al’sgara. It tells how to create the Paths of Petals.”
That explained a lot. Including the fact that Rovan had decided to make a deal with her. Such knowledge would mean vast power. Enough power to become higher than the other Overlords. To create new Paths to replace those destroyed by Sorita. To rule the entire world. If it was true, there would be a real hunt for the book.
“I don’t believe my ears!”
“I too did not believe at first, my dear. But then I thought about it for a bit, and why not? It’s entirely possible.”
“Where is the journal located?”
Tal’ki smiled sadly. “Do you think if I knew, I would tell you? The book is somewhere in Al’sgara. In the older buildings, possibly in Hightown. What makes you smile so, if I may ask?”
“Mitifa’s idiocy.”
“There’s nothing to be done about it—she’s terribly naïve when it comes to such matters.”
The stupid fool! If Typhoid had found such a parchment, she would have kept silent about it. Not a word to anyone. But her? She instantly spread the news around the entire world!
“Who did she gossip to?”
“Only to me. I’ve always taken care of her, so she trusts me a bit.”
“How did Rovan find out?”
“I mentioned it in passing, but he’s a clever boy. He understood.” Tal’ki was smiling contentedly, but Typhoid could no longer keep up with the thoughts of the mad old hag. “Well, I also said that you had gone to Al’sgara. Of course, I couldn’t be exactly sure that you were headed there, but what is said cannot be unsaid. You understand.”
The old witch! Of course, all it took was mentioning the book to Consumption and hinting that Tia had already been sent to search for it, for him to immediately head for the city. He would have no desire to give Typhoid and Leprosy such a valuable prize. The latter didn’t have anything to lose. The city was vast, and the secret cache of the Sculptor had not been found for a thousand years (albeit no one knew about its existence to this day), so Rovan would not find anything right away. It had to be well planned out, but Consumption was incapable of that. He was a warrior, not a thinker. Retar, yes. Retar could have done it. But not his brother. So there was no need to worry about the safety of the book that spoke of the creation of the Paths of Petals.
Tal’ki had acted wisely. With the help of a false rumor she had made Rovan decide to do that which had been put off for so long—the assault on Al’sgara. No one wanted to start it, fearing to break their teeth against the great walls, and so the city had not yet been touched, had been left for later. But now Consumption would brave the whirlwind, and perhaps he would be lucky. In any case, he would be kept busy and wouldn’t hinder Leigh and Alenari from breaking through the Steps of the Hangman.
“Very well done,” approved Tia.
“Thank you, my dear. I knew you would appreciate it.”
“And what about Mitifa?”
“She’s at the Towers. Finishing her work.”
The Abyss! Rubeola really was a complete idiot, for still choking down book dust after revealing such a secret. In her place, Typhoid would have been rushing toward Al’sgara like a lunatic.
“The Son of the Evening is sure that you know where the Sculptor hid the book, and he said as much. He offered me half. What do you offer me?”
Tal’ki coughed out a dry laugh. “I think the same thing he offered you—nothing.”
“That’s not very generous of you.”
“But honest. Rovan doesn’t know where the book is. You don’t know where the book is. I don’t know where the book is. It could take us a century to find it. So all his promises are empty. Right now you should have little interest in the Sculptor’s secrets. You’ve clearly forgotten that you are in no state to go chasing after phantoms. Judging by the fact that you are already at the great city, you haven’t managed to catch either the Healer or that talented girl. And yet they are your only chance for getting back your strength and a satisfactory body, if, of course, that is what you still want. I see that it is. So redouble your efforts. They, not the book, are your main goal. You’ve gotten around just fine for five centuries without the Petals, and you’ll live as many more, but without your power and a body, even Mitifa could crush you. You’d agree that would be a humiliating way to end such a long life. The Healer. The Healer, my dear. You can even forget about the girl, she’s not that important, but the boy—bring him to me alive and unharmed. He is your only hope. Is he in the city?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“Find out! And don’t waste time! When the army arrives, madness will ensue. It will be very difficult to escape.”
“Escaping is not the problem. Getting in will be virtually impossible.”
“I suppose. But the harbor is always more poorly guarded. You should try a boat, my dear.”
“I was thinking that. That’s just what I’ll do.”
“Wonderful. Everything is ready. Bring the Healer and I will try to return what was lost. I found one interesting weave in the old books. It will help make it so that your ward’s eyes are a normal color. You agree that white pupils would attract too much attention to you. Look.”
She drew a few fine lines in the air.
“Thank you. That will help.”
“I have no doubt. Good luck, my dear.”
Without waiting for a reply, she liquidated the window. Tia muttered a curse, forced Pork to his feet, and set off in search of a boat.
19
“Alms for a poor cripple. A-a-a-lms for a poor cripple.”
Since morning, I’d drawled out the same exact phrase about a thousand times. Pretending to be a cripple was difficult of course, but a pound of dirt, tattered and vile-smelling clothes, a hood pulled down over my eyes, and a clay bowl with a broken rim lent credence to the idea that I was in need of money. Or that I was too lazy to work, however you looked at it. At any rate, the townsfolk completely ignored me. Though a few tenderhearted souls dropped a coin or two into my cup.
Over the course of three hours sitting on the pavement, I’d earned twelve coppers from my honest panhandling. The role of a lowly beggar had its benefits.
However, it also had its downsides. First, a group of the watchmen who patrolled Cucumber Quarter became interested in me. The lads offered me two choices—I could either get sent to the slammer, or I could share what I earned. Without thinking twice, I slipped two sols into their clutches and they left me alone for a while. Then came the local beggar, a hulk whose like I’d never seen and, of course, a true cripple. You could plow half the Empire on his hunched back. The man was very offended that I’d taken his rightful place, and he grabbed me by my lapels and vowed to beat out my soul. I had to get angry and press my dagger against his manhood. He shut his trap, unclenched his fists, and made himself scarce, which suited me just fine.
The sky was overcast, and it was drizzling from time to time, on the verge of turning into a downpour, so the hood over my head didn’t cause any suspicion. Joch should be passing by soon, making his way to the arena where the Fights would be held this evening. This was why I had to resort to the attire of a beggar. While I was begging the nice folk of Al’sgara for money, Layen had gone to Second City to c
heck on how Joch’s lair was guarded.
I hadn’t seen the yellow mug of Threefingers since I’d deprived him of two of the fingers of his right hand. Since that memorable day, the man’s dislike of me grew stronger and a few times he had tried, by various means, to get to me. But he was not successful. At that time Joch did not have the power to confront the guild, and for a while he got off my back. But he forgot nothing. Now he was sure in his safety and had decided to try his luck. A good time for it, especially if you’re friends with the Viceroy, whom you bribe well. Threefingers was the shadow advisor to the Viceroy, the organizer of displays and balls for the upper elite, the sponsor of festivals and celebrations. He’d also taken control over gambling, the Fights, the whores, and the petty thieves.… He started small, and finished big. The Viceroy’s “best friend”—it’s a most remarkable title. No one would bother him while he held it. Perhaps only the guild would dare, but then again, it’s unlikely. Those in the guild are people, too, and they have no desire to be in that much trouble with the authorities, even less with the Walkers.
While Mols quietly conducts his business and eliminates people the Council deems undesirable, they look through their fingers at a series of other murders, a benefit of having the majority of contracts come from the stewards of this world. Plus, a portion of the well-earned sorens regularly finds its way into the pockets of the City Council, the head of the Guards, and other luminaries. And so for the time being, they know nothing, but should Mols overstep the line, they’d have him by the throat right quickly. Right now my dear baker so desperately wants to get rid of Joch, who yearns to subjugate the guild and to take a cut of the money, but if she does it with her own hands there would be a whole heap of trouble, including the Viceroy’s dissatisfaction. He too knows everything, but he always forgets to give the necessary orders to his subordinates.
But then Layen and I turned up for Mols. If the affair went south, guess who the scapegoats would be? That’s right. It’d be us. This was exactly what Mols was counting on. Joch would be sent off to feed the worms, and the hands of the guild would be clean. We didn’t have a choice—we had to put Threefingers into the ground or else, as I had already said, we wouldn’t be left in peace for the rest of our lives. In former years I would have killed myself for ten thousand sorens. What can be said about others?