by Jeff Wheeler
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
There was a Romani saying that came often to Hettie’s mind: He who pays the piper calls the tune. She had learned it as a child, over and over again. And she had heard it more recently when Kiranrao arrived at Evritt’s cabin in the woods. That day had shattered her peace and left her desperate.
A mass of swirling guilt consumed her as she hurried north along the plains toward Kenatos. It was like clutching knives into her bosom, each one a lie told to preserve the illusion. Her entire life was a lie. Even in her best days, she could barely discern truth from tale. Lying was important. Deception was crucial. If one believed in them enough, not even the Arch-Rike’s ring could unmask them. Her mind had been subverted as a child—a drip and drop of lies and deceits woven into a fabric that smothered her. Yes, the best lies were half-truths. Just enough honesty to flavor the falsehood. Yes, she was very good at flavoring her words.
She was miserable as she walked. Events had almost spun completely out of control. She had been so close to capturing the blade. Somehow, the Druidecht spell that had vaulted them away from the Alkire into the lowland plains had taken time to wear off. With that, her plan to steal the dagger from Annon and then flee had been ruined. Instead, Tyrus had arrived and claimed it. Tyrus! Her cursed, scheming uncle had spoiled the opportunity for her. How she hated him!
Her fingers tingled with heat and she forced the emotions down. She walked swiftly, trying to cover as much ground as she could. Kiranrao would be furious, of course. Not in a blustery way, but in a deadly calm way. She knew that not even a Fear Liath could kill him. Its arrival had ruined the first opportunity to steal the dagger. But she knew he was alive and that he would seek her out again, demanding the tune once more. Betray her uncle and steal the blade.
Hettie hated herself the most. She had played her part too well and had earned the trust of Annon and Paedrin. They were such fools. Such simpletons. They knew not the ways of the Romani or the Preachán. A thousand deceits spun around them like gnats, yet the lies were totally invisible. It amazed her how people could be so blind. She even thought she might have Tyrus fooled, though Kiranrao had warned her never to assume that. Tyrus was cunning. He saw through every trap.
She clenched her jaw in fury, summoning all of her despair and self-hatred into a bubbling cauldron of feelings. Annon was so naive. Paedrin was clever, but he was also a fool. She clamped the feelings down with brutal willpower, slamming the lid on the cauldron and wrapping it with chains. This was her life. This was the way of the Romani. Deceive the world into giving you want you wanted.
What did she want? Freedom. But she knew that she would never get it. She had lied to Paedrin during their midnight conversation. She had said she did not know how the Romani controlled their women. It was a half-truth. No one had told her, specifically. But when she was five she had seen it happen. Romani were excellent poisoners. They knew the properties of every plant with deadly or harmful aspects. Some poisons killed quickly. Some made you blind. But the worst by far was monkshood. It made you wish you were dead before it killed you.
She had seen a young woman be disobedient and then watched as her food was tainted with monkshood. Being so young herself, she did not realize it until after the meal when the girl had started retching violently and was unable to control her bowels. She screamed for help. She pleaded her repentance. Still, they just stared at her coldly, letting her experience the full effects of the poison. When she was almost dead, she was given the antidote. Seeing that had shocked Hettie at how merciless they had been to someone ten years older than her.
So Hettie had grown up knowing that even if she ran away from her fate, a Romani would poison her with monkshood and let her die. She would not know who it was. She could not know when. There were so many subtle ways the poison could be added to her food. Too many to consider. Freedom was something she wanted more than anything else. And Kiranrao had promised it to her in return for her help. Of course that was a lie as well. But it was better than the prospect of being bartered off as a wife.
She kicked a stray scrub away as she walked, scanning the sky as thunderheads threatened in the north. She was not cold, not at the pace she was keeping. Her heart pounded with the rhythm of her walking. The breeze was scented with wildflowers. She still waited for the sour smell of the city, which would be the first indication she was getting close to Kenatos.
In her mind, she thought over the events of her current plight. Evritt had indeed purchased her when she was eight. Kiranrao had allowed the sale, of course. He more than suspected that Tyrus’s hand was behind the purchase, even if it could not be proved. Rather than force the issue of her theft then, Kiranrao would force it later. Everyone knew that Tyrus was one of the wealthiest men in Kenatos. Yet he was miserly and rarely parted with ducats for anything except for purchasing his equipment and exotic spirits. The Romani whispered that he had even paid an enormous sum for a monstrous oak tree to be excavated and brought inside the city walls to the Paracelsus Tower because he fancied the shade. It was dead and rotting now, but the rumor was famous amongst the Romani. If he would pay that much for a tree, how much would he pay for a niece?
Kiranrao had told her before Evritt had taken her away that he would visit her again and demand an accounting of any interactions with Tyrus. In the nearly ten years since that time, her uncle had not visited her once. Her entire life was given over to training to be a Finder. It was a handy skill for any Romani to learn, and she had enjoyed the years living away from the traveling caravans that used wagons and steeds to transport goods throughout a land riddled by Plague.
He had warned her to stay in good health and take pains to keep herself physically attractive. All Romani girls were expected to be beautiful and cold. The more mysterious and alluring, the higher the value to prospective buyers. She had dyed her unfashionably red hair and made it a brown instead, disguising the trait that might have revealed her fireblood. Her lifestyle in the woods had kept her fit and trim, and she wore her clothing tight deliberately. Other Finders sought out Evritt, not so much for his wisdom and experience but for a glimpse of his Romani-girl, Hettie. Some of the younger men had tried to win her eye. But her instructions from Kiranrao were plain. She was to be Tyrus’s undoing. She would be the one to trick him into revealing the blade’s hiding place.
She understood fully well that Evritt’s life was at stake if she did not comply with Kiranrao’s plans. He did not threaten the old man, but it was implied as surely as water freezing into ice during winter. He coached her in what to say, what to reveal, and what not to reveal. Just enough truth to flavor the stew. Not to ask for his money but for a way to prove herself worthy of his trust. She was furious with herself for even caring. What had her uncle ever done for her?
Tyrus had seemed genuinely pleased to see her, willing to help. Was it because he, as a man, simply could not resist helping a beautiful girl who had come to him for assistance? Kiranrao had warned her not to be fooled. Tyrus was not an emotional man. Yet he had seemed so convincing. He had summoned a Druidecht boy and claimed him to be her brother. They were as unlike as syrup and milk, yet there was a blood connection between them. She had felt it in Annon’s presence, just as she did in her uncle’s. They were family. Despite the lies, that mattered.
She had not expected to be sent to Havenrook to look for Drosta’s treasure. It was the last place she wanted to go, to be surrounded by Preachán and Romani and the hive of deceit. She suspected Kiranrao was startled to see her so soon as well, which was why he had summoned her to his table. The conversation they had with their hands masked completely the conversation they employed with their voices. Even their words had multiple meanings, meant to confuse and deceive Annon and Paedrin while giving Kiranrao the useful information he needed.
She warned him about the deaths on the road, of course, and the trouble that would come. She had told Paedrin and Annon that the men hiding in the trees were Romani and had exaggerated her
hatred to add conviction to her ruse, but, of course, she never would have willingly killed a Romani man. She knew they were all Preachán and their lives were worth little more than the money they gambled with. She had given the Preachán on the wagon a subtle hand sign to see if he would let them pass, but he had either not noticed it or was stupid enough he didn’t care.
Hettie sighed deeply. Paedrin and all his chatter and talk. His entire outlook on life was almost comical. Just walk away from the Romani. The imprisonment was only in her mind. She wanted to believe him. But how could she expect him to understand that defying them would mean she would never have a moment’s peace the rest of her life? Every crust of bread, every swallow of wine could contain monkshood. Just enough to kill her and anyone else eating with her. She would spend her days in mortal suspense, wondering which dish would be her last.
If it was freedom she truly wanted, only Kiranrao could ensure it. And he wanted the blade Iddawc. All of his thoughts were bent toward locating it and claiming it as his own. The most powerful weapon forged by a Paracelsus. A weapon that would not lose its power in a thousand years. Kiranrao did not want it in the hands of a Kishion. He wanted it for himself.
She wondered if she should stop by the temple and see how Paedrin was faring when she arrived. Her uncle’s task to find the bag would be ridiculously simple. All she needed to do was show her carnotha, ask the right question, and all of Kiranrao’s resources would be put to her use. If someone had found it already, they would be able to trace it and give it to her. If not, every thief in the city would be scrambling for a chance to do Kiranrao a favor. All she needed to do was wait the appropriate amount of time, to make the discovery seem convincing, and then travel to Silvandom with the missing stones.
Her uncle had given her the clue to finding him again. That alone would be worth a sizable fortune from Kiranrao. And the assignment to bring the bag of stones would give her a reasonable excuse to approach him again, to win his trust.
There was a strain in her heart as the kettle of emotions rattled again, surging with the force of shame and guilt. She refused to let the contents leak out. It was a vicious world. Every day, people were murdered for nothing more precious than a fistful of ducats. The more ducats, the better the chance of surviving the next bout of Plague.
She wondered if that was the real reason Kiranrao wanted her near him so much. She had the fireblood. It was said that those with it could never be harmed by the Plague. Was there some distant connection between her ancestors and the origins of the Scourgelands? Some riddle remaining with no one living who knew the answer to it?
Hettie rubbed her forehead, smelling the first hint of fetid air. She would reach the lakeshore before midnight. Good. It meant a warm bed to sleep in unless she went to the temple again and slept on a pallet on the floor. The sound of Paedrin’s arm breaking made her stomach clench in revulsion. His injury would hamper him for many months. Perhaps she should bid him good-bye.
It was a strange compulsion, actually, and she wondered at it. Why should she care a bushel of figs about saying good-bye to Paedrin? He was a haughty, arrogant Bhikhu who had less sense than a sheep. Why bother? It nagged at her that he had saved her life amid the dangers of Drosta’s lair. Of course, she had gone down there in the hopes to steal the blade while he fought the creature. But when she was struck by it, he had come to save her.
She bit her lip. What a foolish boy he was. He had no idea at all that she was using him to her own ends. Most males were blinded by beauty. Start off angry and contemptuous. Treat them with apathy and revulsion. Then slowly dribble out a compliment or favor them with an occasional smile. They would become your servants for life. It was the way of the world. For certain, it was the way of the Romani.
What harm would it do, though, to stop by the temple and see him? She did not care for him. She did not care for anyone, even her brother.
A part of her had died, she realized, when she saw her father poison her sister over an act of disobedience. Maybe that part of her was still dead. But for some reason, she wanted to see Paedrin again. It was a foolish thought. She had probably derived a small flicker of pleasure arguing with him. That was probably it. She decided not to see him. It would be better for him, after all, to never see her again. She was rather sure that Kiranrao would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.
“A wise leader, a past King of Wayland actually, wrote this in his personal history at the end of his very successful reign. I found his advice in the Archives and think it some of the wisest advice ever written: ‘Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.’”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Most of the main streets of Kenatos were named. There were major thoroughfares that connected the different regions of town inhabited by the different races: Aeduan, Preachán, Vaettir, and Cruithne. But the streets themselves were a blend of the different cultures. The higher elevations of the city were dedicated to the founders of Kenatos; this area included the Paracelsus Towers and the Temple of Seithrall. The temple was the largest structure in the entire city, occupying the entire upper heights—a fortress hewn out of stone carried from Stonehollow and ferried across the lake. It had taken nearly a generation in its construction. Hettie had heard it whispered that Kiranrao was the only man ever to have plundered the fortress.
Keeping her sights on the enormous structure, she wove through the streets leading to Gracesteeple Gate and entered it. Rubbish littered the streets and beggar children approached her instantly, but with a subtle hand sign, they dispersed. The sun had already set and the lights were aglow in the streets, spewing no fumes or smoke and casting the stone with a silvery hue. Only the main streets were lit at night; Hettie marked her way down a side alley that was surrounded in shadows. The smell of offal was oppressive, and she wrinkled her nose. She found one street further in littered with the homeless, hunkered beneath tattered blankets. A few moaned at her passing, but she ignored them. At the final crossroads, she turned to the right and saw a candle in the window of a shop. It was the solitary shop on the street.
Hettie approached it cautiously and then rapped firmly on the door in a sequence she had learned. She waited a few moments, then knocked again. The lock turned, and a burly young man opened the door. His face was pockmarked and his chin full of wispy tufts. His hair was a dirty brown, though his eyes were a stunning hazel. He looked at her warily; he opened the door wider and let her in without a word when she showed her carnotha.
The smell of bird droppings choked the air and the sound of dozens of different species filled the room with exotic sounds. A woman waddled between the cages, stuffing little crusts between the haphazard bars. Her hair was obviously dyed, and her clothes too tight-fitting for one of her girth. A silver cane was gripped tightly in her left hand, helping to steady her as she maneuvered between the vast cages filled with rainbow-hued parakeets, canaries, finches, and warblemoss. Little playful finches ducked and bobbed their heads and sang in trilling tunes at her as she entered.
The young man shut the door behind her and bolted it.
“Thank you,” Hettie said. He shrugged, finding his way back to an overstuffed couch that was split at the seams and spilling its stuffing.
“Yes, and here is your dinner, little Apathy. And yours too, Vengeance. My, aren’t we hungry tonight. Craven and Meek, you are lovely. Tsk, tsk. Don’t be rude. Yes, I know. I know. She is weeping next door again. Curse her. Always weeping and chanting spells. Look at you, Glutton. If there was ever a parrot which lived up to its name, it is you. You should be more like Meek. And now we have Precious and Sated. There you are, my lovelies.” She reached into a pouch belted to her waist and stuffed another cracker into the slot between the bars. The birds pecked at each other, and the woman clucked her tongue at them.
“How are you, Mondargiss?” Hettie said, running her fingers down the firm metal bars of a cage. The finches trilled
at her and bobbed their heads furiously, looking for crumbs or seeds from her.
“Well enough, child. Well enough,” she said disdainfully. She cooed at more of the birds. “Pretty Vespers. I like you the best. What a lovely song you have for me. If only…” She stopped, scowling, and stamped her cane on the ground. “Cim! She is weeping again! Can you not hear her? I am all fury with the sound of it.” She stamped her cane again. “Cim! Go next door and bid her be quiet!”
Cim stared at the woman, his eyes full of loathing, and did nothing but wait. In a moment, Mondargiss straightened, her eyes shifting from cage to cage as if she could not remember where she left off. “Pout, did you get a cracker? I do not believe so. I can’t remember. Here is another one. You are not as fat as Glutton, so maybe it will be all right if you had more. And look at you, little Cheer. How quaint.”
Hettie let the reek of bird scat wash over her and she sighed, waiting for the ritual to be over. She did not advance deeper into the room until invited. It took quite a while, for Mondargiss was thorough. When she had visited the last cage with a compliment, she turned at last to Hettie. Her eyes narrowed.
“You returned sooner than I suspected. Did you fail, girl?” She started wobbling toward her, face painted as if she were ready to perform on the stage. A dribble of smoke-colored sweat trickled down her cheek.
“I did not fail,” Hettie replied coldly. “There is a new assignment from Kiranrao.”
“Ahh, you failed then. Pretty thing. He will forgive you your blunder. You are too pretty to be cast aside. Too young. Only one ring in your ear? Poor lass. Would that we could trade places.” She parted her honey-dyed hair and revealed six gleaming rings in her own ear. “What I would not give to be useful again. Useful and young.”