Ally: A Dark Fantasy Novel (On the Bones of Gods Book 3)

by K. Eason

  “The motherless shit who vivisected Briel?” Dekklis shrugged. “Can’t say I fault her choice there.”

  “No one did. He was a foul little wretch, here on his House’s reputation. But his mother was not so understanding when he disappeared. They never found his body. Quite a scandal. People said he ran off with some toadbelly—girl or boy, depending on the teller. I think his skeleton is somewhere at the bottom of the Jaarvi, probably in a great many separate pieces. In any case, all Snow got was a reprimand. No writ of censure. No real punishment. Show better judgment, that’s all that anyone said. And for that, she storms out of here. Of course, it was another year or so before she left Illharek.” Belaery tilted her head and let a smile drip into one corner of her mouth. “Bet she hasn’t told you about what happened to Proconsul Ta’Avt Torag during that year. Now that death, if they’d pinned it on her, would’ve meant her execution. Traitor’s death, yeah? Weights on her feet and a long swim in the Jaarvi. Not that the old hag Torag didn’t deserve it. She had some unsavory habits. And she’d owned Tsabrak’s contract from childhood, all ten years of it, so it’s not like Snow had no personal motive.”

  “The hell are you telling me this?”

  “Because sometimes I think you forget who she is.” Belaery straightened on her stool. “She didn’t cypher that message to you, did she?”

  “No.”

  “Because you can’t read cypher. I could have, and I could’ve translated for you, but she wants you to know what she’s saying. She could protect you, Dekklis, by keeping you ignorant, and she isn’t even trying.”

  Belaery was a clever woman. Smart, oh foremothers, grant her that. But she hadn’t grown up in a highborn House. Hadn’t had politics for breakfast since infancy. Hadn’t learned to match what people said against their motives since she was old enough to fall victim to her sisters’ maneuvering. Hadn’t got sick of it and run off north, either, with a legion sword in her hand.

  And Belaery, in that moment, reminded Dekklis very much of dead Maja. Mad as a cornered caverat, wasn’t she, because she’d wanted a letter in cypher. Wanted that information, all of Snow’s warnings, for herself, to dole out in parcels and pieces. That would be power for the adepts and the Academy. And, plain as sunlight, Belaery thought Snow owed the Academy more loyalty than she owed Szanys Dekklis.

  Dekklis folded her arms. “I don’t ask Snow to protect me. I ask her for honesty. She knows that.”

  “Mm.” Belaery threaded a smile. “Well. Good on you, then, for getting Snowdenaelikk to do what you ask. Must have some witchery of your own. But yes. These glyphs. I compared Snow’s questionable calligraphy to everything I could find. There were two that might mean svartjagr. Or dragon. And one definitely means poison.” She glanced at Briel. “There are glands in their jaws and the base of the tail-spike. In svartjagr, the jaw-glands are less potent. An adult might get sick from a bite, but she will rarely die. The tail, however, is almost always deadly. Even a scratch. I’m surprised Snow never mentioned that to you. The Laughing God’s assassins love svartjagr poison. Kill a woman, leave her in the tunnels, blame the svartjagr. Of course, that only happened before the Purge, yeah? I’m sure it’s never happened since, since the God’s people are such peace-loving sorts.”

  Dekklis held tight to her temper. Reminded herself she needed Belaery’s good will. “Go on.”

  Belaery poked a scroll out of the pile on her desk. Narrow thing, obviously ancient, its ends carved with shapes long since worn into mystery. “This is volume six of Kainen Siik’s account of life in the land-above-trees. She lived among skraeling, you see, for a few winters. Studied them. Wanted to know why they weren’t like all the other Alviri tribes. It’s interesting reading. Tell you, Dekklis, it’s given me some insights on Snow’s partner and his supposed powers.”

  “Volume six.”

  “All the volumes, really. There are nine. But six talks about their religion. Their, oh, what was the word for their godsworn?”

  As if Belaery didn’t remember it perfectly. “Noidghe.”

  “Exactly. Noidghe. Thank you. Volume six is about how these noidghe bargain with spirits to heal and cure diseases. And sometimes—to cause them. The spirit offers its power in exchange for something else. In Tal’Shik’s case, we can imagine that when she gets enough blood and worship—prayers, sacrifices—she lends the dragon shape to her godsworn. Thus, we have an avatar. This mass sacrifice that Snow found must work on similar principles. A great deal of blood, in an exchange for a great deal of power. Blood sacrifice is popular in Tal’Shik’s worship, for a variety of purposes. But using the dragon poison to kill the victims—which the glyphs that Snow found imply—suggests some new layer to the ritual. Some significance.”

  Dekklis mourned the days when trouble could be met and dispatched with good Illhari steel. She squinted against the ache behind her eyes. “Meaning...what?”

  “I have no fucking idea.” Belaery grimaced. “That is exactly the problem. There is no precedent for what Snow’s describing. And she’s damn light on details, so foremothers know if I’m chasing the right theory. I need Snow here. I could ask Ari what he knows about godsworn power, but the man’s barely literate. All he ever does, when I ask questions, is quote Tsabrak at me. And let me tell you what I think about that man—”

  “The God is Tsabrak now. Snow says Tsabrak’s ghost...killed the God. Became him. I don’t quite understand it.”

  “Ah. Interesting.” Bared teeth, not quite a smile. “Kainen Siik talks about something like that, in volume seven. So, now Tsabrak is the Laughing God. That’s fucking fantastic. Of all the motherless toadshits to get that job.”

  “Not just Tsabrak.” Dekklis wished that unsaid in the next breath, when Belaery looked at her. Foremothers, this must be what it was like to stare down a dragon. Unblinking stare, eyes hard and yellow. Imagine a mouthful of teeth, all that was missing, and wings.

  “What does that mean?” One beat, two, then, “Listen, Szanys Dekklis. Snowdenaelikk asked me to learn things for which I can be executed. You asked me to learn further illegal things, proscribed things, all to save this Republic from Tal’Shik and the Taliri. So, it’s in my best interests to know everything so that we win, yeah? Because if the godsworn do, we’re all dead. And I don’t need to tell you what they do to their enemies.”

  “It means,” Dekklis said slowly, “that you should talk to Istel.” Guilt soured the back of her throat. Snowdenaelikk hadn’t

  warned

  told her about Istel and the God. Maybe this was the reason why. Because Belaery couldn’t know it. The adepts couldn’t. But Belaery was an ally, Belaery was a weapon, and Dekklis couldn’t let one blade stay sheathed for fear it might cut someone.

  “Listen,” she said, as if she didn’t have Belaery’s undivided attention already, “Istel should have died last spring. Snow bargained with the God to save him. The God’s in him, sometimes. Like an avatar.”

  Belaery stared at her. “That’s how you survived Toer Valiss. You didn’t kill her. He did.”

  Briel hissed. Sharp glass fingers stirred in Dek’s brain. Warning. Anger. Then Briel twisted on the sill, like some living knot untying itself, and leapt. Dekklis heard her wings snap open. Heard her keen echo off the stones. Then she was gone. Sudden cold in Dek’s head, and a silence as heavy as stones.

  The door rocked on its hinges. There was a sound like oil in a hot pan, and the faint smell of burned meat.

  “The wards,” said Belaery as she came around the table. She cocked her right wrist. Damn sure she didn’t mean to punch anyone. Dekklis unsheathed her sword partway. No idea what good plain metal would do against anything that could test an adept’s magic, but hell if she’d just stand there.

  The door thumped a second time. Fingers of smoke curled under the crack.

  Once, up in Cardik, Dekklis had watched the garrison’s blacksmith break a blade over his anvil. The door made the same sound now and rocked open. Istel stood in the gap, his hand curled in
a mirror of Belaery’s. Trick of the firedog that made his eyes flicker, sure, believe that. Believe that scout-out-of-Cardik Istel could crack the lock on an adept’s door and leave shards of metal on the stone floor.

  Belaery didn’t. Shock splashed over her face. Then her features reassembled themselves. All courtesy now; let the highborn take lessons. “Istel. Please come in. The First Legate and I were just discussing—”

  Istel bent his lips into a sneer’s bastard child. “Me. I know. Later, Adept. I need Dekklis now.”

  He brushed past Belaery. Kicked the door shut in passing. Crossed and stopped in front of Dekklis. Almost Istel, when he squared his shoulders. New scuffs on his scout-plain armor, new stains, and a muddy crust on his boots. And blood on his hands. Oh, foremothers.

  “What happened?”

  “We found the tunnel. Took a look down it a little way. No sign of Snow’s refugees. But when we came out, we got hit with an ambush of metal and godmagic. No uniforms,” before she could ask. “But they’re not cartel and they’re not Taliri. Rurik ordered me to report.”

  “Godmagic?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you left the fight?”

  “On Rurik’s orders. What else could I do?”

  You’re the Laughing God. Kill them all.

  And if the God did that, the Senate would forget all their quarrels and unite behind a new Purge. Rurik knew that. Rurik had sent his best weapon away because of that.

  “Godmagic,” Bel said softly, “means there are Houses involved in this. Probably several.”

  “I know what it means.” Foremothers rot them, highborn and godsworn and heretics. Dekklis could choke on this anger. Could imagine all the Tiers burning and not regret the vision.

  She blinked the red haze away. “Belaery. Will you help?”

  “The adepts stand behind you, First Legate.”

  “Then let’s go retrieve my First Tribune.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dekklis made her first stop at the garrison. Collected what was left of handpicked troops, which was just Neela and her squad, Per having gone with Rurik already. Picked up the rest of the Sixth, too, that Rurik hadn’t taken with him. They were the veterans.

  The Sixth’s acting commander was a grey-streaked optio named Ville, scarred and built like there was skraeling in his near ancestry. He shouldered past Neela and asked, “Where’s Rurik?” as if she were still Dekklis and he were just Ville and they were sharing drinks at The Javelin’s Rest in Cardik.

  Istel interrupted, sliding his voice and self between Optio Ville and Dek’s uncoiling wrath.

  “Rurik’s in trouble. Sent me to get help,” in his thickest northern accent. “Fucking godsworn jumped us, Ville. Got to run.”

  “Huh.” Ville’s eyes narrowed. He jerked a nod at Dekklis. “We’re with you, De—First Legate.” The he whipped round and barked the Sixth into order. Of course they’d believe one of their own, never mind that Istel was god-man and not flesh-and-bone woman.

  “Northern manners,” Neela muttered. “Men’s manners.”

  The way the Sixth had always been under Rurik.

  “Shut it,” Dek said, teeth tight together. “Let’s move.”

  Foremothers, she sounded more like Rurik every day, all snap and bluster and there was no time for patience. Except Istel was gazing after Ville with a very un-Istel curl to his lips, and Dek’s stomach took a hard twist.

  “Istel!”

  “First Legate?” Guileless eyes, Istel’s eyes, as the God suddenly fled.

  “Take us down there.”

  “First Legate.”

  “Move,” she told Neela. “Let’s go.”

  Dek’s body remembered the pace. It had been Rurik’s habit to run his cohort up and down the road that led to Cardik. Patrolling, he called it, and the soldiers had hated him for it. The same soldiers who ran now, no complaint.

  Her Illhari troops had no such memory. Istel had warned her, hadn’t he? Soft as rabbits. Well. Time to make them pretend to be wolves, and hope she didn’t run them to paste before they got to the battle. Hope that Rurik could hold out that long.

  She remembered Belaery at the first bridge. Doubled around and went back—and there, yes, the adept was running easier than the troops, in spite of her flapping robes. Grim-faced, scowling, mad as a wet cat.

  “No. Dignity. Damn. You,” with a breath between each word. Her topknot bounced like a baby goat’s tail.

  It wasn’t politic to laugh at your allies. Dekklis turned her face away. Good thing: the line of troops had slowed down, no, damn near stopped. She jagged a hard right rather than mow down an unfortunate mila.

  “Move aside!” Ville’s bellow, meant to carry across a training field. A man’s voice shouting orders, here in Illharek. Dekklis winced. Stretched stride to get back to the front—because Ville’s shout meant some obstruction, meant some

  highborn

  fool who wouldn’t yield ground. Bondies and servants had wit to get out of the way of armed troops, but a matron’s entourage

  are idiots, Dek

  wouldn’t bother.

  Sheeoop, and Briel dove low, skimming a handsbreadth over the troopers’ heads. A svartjagr in Illharek wasn’t unusual, but a svartjagr hunting and diving in a busy street was. There were shrieks up ahead.

  Dekklis caught up to Ville and Istel. Set herself at the head of the troop, lent her voice to Ville’s. “Move aside! Move!” while Briel keened and cut loops overhead.

  It was a matron’s entourage, some minor House, who promptly yielded the street when she saw the First Legate, but she was only the first obstruction. By the time Dekklis had her troops across one bridge and down a twisting stair, across and down the long, narrow Arm, which connected Third Tier with the Riverwalk, she’d gone hoarse from yelling.

  She expected to cross the Riverwalk and continue to follow the streets to the Suburba. But then Istel pulled a hard left at the Riverwalk and cut back along the Jokki’s bank. This was the rocky side of the river, uninhabited, narrow and wet-walled and slick. Fingerling streams bled through the cave walls and trickled into the river. Unconjured, wild stone, and too dangerous for running through in the half-lit dark.

  Istel threw her a grin. Slowed to a rational walk. Dek managed to get her hand up and signal back to Ville. Turned, as the line ground to a halt, and pointed at one of the forerunners. “Get me the adept.”

  Belaery came quickly enough. There had to be conjuring holding her topknot in place, not a hair straggling loose. She took a breath, scowling at the rock and the river. Then she raised her hand. A witchfire burst into being overhead. Roiled and spread like flames on spilled oil. An adept’s witchfire, oh yes, five times the size of Snow’s little globes, and whiter. Brighter, finding each crack and split, each crumbling edge, each stalagmite thrusting up like a bleached tooth.

  Dekklis pitched her voice low. “This is a dead end.”

  “No. It’s not.” Istel’s eyes drank the witchfire. Gave them back red as embers, red as Briel’s, and where had that damn animal gone, anyway?

  “Sss.” The svartjagr scuttled upside down on a slick-looking bulge of stone. Headache rippled behind Dekklis’s eyes. Fear. Anger.

  “Peace,” Istel whispered. “Allies, yeah? Me and Snow. You and me. Trust me.”

  “You talking to Briel or me?”

  Istel grinned a second time and held up his right hand. Thrust forward against the dark. But it wasn’t the dark that gave way. The witchfire did: fractured and sparked and drowned in new shadow. Istel changed angle and strode forward toward the darkest crease. Toward the wall. Through it, down shadow’s very throat. Istel was going to skip the streets altogether and go straight to the fight.

  Or he was going to drop them all straight into the Laughing God’s hell. There was a thought.

  “Fuck and damn,” said Ville. For the first time, the veteran came up short. “Did you see that toadshit?”

  “It’s conjuring,” Dekklis said loudly. “Why e
lse do you think the adept’s here? Move. Follow Istel. He’s not afraid.”

  Ville rolled eyes at her. Might have argued, but then Neela shouldered past him—Neela and her breathless squad, all shiny in their Illhari-issue uniforms. Shoulders up, chins high—terrified, maybe, but running. And then Ville, last and mad now—shamed by a First Legion southerner. Dekklis pitied whomever he met on the other side of Istel’s shadow-road.

  “You know it’s not my doing, yeah?” Belaery murmured. She grimaced at the pool of shadow. She cradled the dim and miserable witchfire in one palm. “That’s godmagic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he could do that?”

  “No.” Dek offered an arm to Briel. “You coming?”

  Briel hissed. She felt Briel’s fear, and her anger at that fear. Her pride, that prickled and squirmed because she was afraid of this darkness, this shadow, when she flew into dark shadows every day. When she had flown the ghost roads—at least that was what Dekklis thought she was sending: a blur and chill and a big grey dog—those did not frighten Briel. But this darkness belonged to

  fire-eyes

  Istel

  knife-in-the-dark

  and she would not risk it. She launched off her perch. Swerved back toward the wedge of distant city lights.

  “Well. That’s not encouraging.” Belaery grimaced. Shrugged and stepped into the shadow. “Come on, Dek, how bad—”

  Then gone. Silent. Through the passage or already dead, hell. Dekklis followed, stepped through

  cold and black and oblivion and nothing and water and silence

  into screams and banging metal. Into the bleach-blue light of Belaery’s witchfire, bright as winter noon. This was the tunnel of Belaery’s maps, of Snow’s warnings. Rurik’s troops had brought lanterns, some of which lay in scattered pools of burning oil. Others, more fortunately dropped, stayed upright and carved out islands of light in the cave-black. Dekklis marked a scatter of bodies, uniformed and not, still moving and not. There was Per, blood-spattered and swinging metal. She heard Ville howl a Sixth battle cry, saw him launch into the fight. Saw Neela, grim-lipped, at the head of her troops.