“It’s a surprise for us both,” Konrad had said on the way to the chamber, his smirk playing beneath eager eyes. “You’ll do spectacularly. It’s for the Days of Seed, they say.”
Anna glanced up from the dusty and bloodstained tiles, her vision crawling between lamp-lit rings until she spotted Konrad. Beside him was the tracker and his companions, who were all distracted with twine-wrapped bottles and herb-stuffed pipes, their faces swollen and red from arak.
Closer to the circle’s inner ring was the orza, who appeared skeletal in the lamplight. Grooves of stress and sleeplessness scarred her young skin, while her eyes sank into their sockets, untouched by the beauty of ceremonial paint. Even her gown, a trailing mixture of silver thread and crimson, was merely draped over weary limbs and knife-jagged collarbones. As always, the woman’s attending scribe revealed nothing beyond a pink network of scars beneath her hood.
Anna’s gaze circled the crowd.
Bora’s stone face was a beacon among chaos. She stood among men, camouflaged by a harsh stare and shaven head. Her brilliant white cloak was all that marked her, glowing through the grit and smoke that encircled her.
Anna focused herself to the task at hand. They’re here to see me, she reminded herself. I’m their gift to the world. Her hands grew slicker as those truths set in.
“Rein it in!” screamed Teodor.
A sudden wave of murderous voices crashed upon Anna. Her breaths congealed in her throat, and her vision shifted, blackening at the edges and racing across the crowd for refuge. Yet Konrad was fixed on Teodor’s hollering, while the orza glanced down with bruised empathy, and Bora had disappeared from her standing place.
Focus, the thinking mind whispered, worming through her consciousness and soothing primal thoughts. You’ll not die here. It will come to you, but not here.
Anna’s heart slowed. She locked her eyes on Teodor, watching the ridiculous man stumble back and forth before his cadre, his too-large boots twisting beneath fat ankles and crooked knees. He was as much a mockery of grace as the warrior spirit he’d once embodied. He was a broken, bitter old man.
“Down, down,” Teodor spat, met by pockets of laughter. He had a way with the men, settling them like raucous dogs with a mere drink from his flask. “We’re drawing up on the northern festival. Days of Seed, they are. Have you boys earned some rest, then?”
A thunderous no descended from the farthest heights of the scaffolding, reverberating through the chamber as the decree of a dead god. No, no, no, no. . . .
“Fucking right,” Teodor called. He paced within the circle of lamps, retaining a comfortable distance from Anna. “Thinking about your cut of farmland in the south yet? Putting the heft back in your stones, dreams of your future wives? The ones in the beds of traitors, this very moment, while you bleed in the sand?”
Laughter and wretched screams and jeering filled the chamber. Nacek and Josip shared a golden flask as the tracker stared at Anna through ragged slits.
Anna stared back.
“You korpy are a strong lot, no two ways of it,” Teodor continued. “You’ve served your goddess well.” He swung his mug toward Anna, sloshing dark liquid across the floor. The crowd stamped and chanted Anna’s name, pulsating the floor and the cartilage within Anna’s chest. Teodor gave a wild shout to cease the clamor. “You’ve put an end to it, boys. You’ve cut the fucking head off their serpents, ripped the hearts from their babes while they slept!” Teodor waited for the cycle of applause, shrieking, hushing. “This city was the start. Rzolka knows our fucking names, and they think they’re ready for us. They think they can spot our numbers a thousand leagues away, like we paint ourselves as Hazani whores.” He took a deep breath. “Even if we did, we’d still run up on them and fucking gut them!” The cheering rose, punctuated only by stamping boots. “Hang them from oaks, burn them in groves. Fuck them! Fuck the cities!”
The room’s energy seeped through Anna, far more pervasive than a winter morning chill. Something dangerous was in the air.
“Blades are pledged,” Teodor shouted. “Patvor is the fire at sukry’s doors. Some tuck their young ones away, laughing at the idea of old wolves rising in the sand. Fifteen, twenty, thirty thousand blades are pledged across Hazan. How many of the half-spines in the south will pick up new crests when they see our banner, eh?” Teodor crossed his arms, the mug dangling limply in his grip. “Tonight, you’ll burn because you can. You’ll bleed them because you fucking can. Whatever your sick stones desire, you’ll take. Earned this city, korpy. This night, you keep what you seize. This is your prize. Sink into your fruit before the new harvest, you mutts.”
Pommels and clubs and tacked boots drummed over the tiles. Their voices were a hum of rage and ecstasy, a collective energy, mounting and primal and spiteful, with no outlet except the mad calls of a beast.
Anna fought the shaking in her legs, as well as bristling of small hairs along her arms, but it was futile. Her body was as much a slave to the room’s fury as those around her, and though her thinking mind worked in a shell beneath the chaos, none of her thoughts or mental tricks stayed the terror. She stood before men intent on a prize. There were no limits.
She realized how right Bora had been, how strong the desire to live truly was.
She looked to Konrad, and the southerner stared back at her. His eyes were an oasis in the lamplight. The world moved in torrents around him, but Anna ignored it all.
“What are mutts without handlers, though?” Teodor cackled. Several boos sprang up, but the man brushed his wicker hat in dismissal. “Our dear goddess has brought us so far. The dream of Rzolka’s still bright in her pretty fucking eyes.” He pointed to Anna. “Road ahead will have its lumps, but she’ll be there. You’ll never stop being her blades, her shields, her sows for slaughter, if she craves it. But she serves Rzolka well, and it serves her back. If the gods didn’t want us to burn the sukry, they wouldn’t have sent their punishment our way, ah?” He ended his question with a scream, his face blood-red and lips darkening to purple. His hat cast ragged shadows over his brow. “So she serves Rzolka tonight, before the true war begins. Before the cities burn and the traitors bring offerings to her fucking feet, kissing flesh and praying for mercy from the wolves. Before she warms her proper throne.”
Even Konrad’s eyes shriveled. He glowered and shot sidelong glances at Teodor. Whether or not Teodor had shared his plans with the others on their council, it was clear that the Dogwood were ignorant. The surprises of a madman were never welcome.
Bile oozed through Anna’s gut.
The lamp-lit movement of burlap drew Anna’s attention. The tracker was nodding with a frantic pace, but Anna was certain that his vigor didn’t stem from bloodlust; what may have seemed like agreement to outsiders was really a furtive plea.
Do as he says, the shakes of his head screamed. Do as we planned.
“Patvor,” called Teodor with a cupped hand against his lips. “Hobble over here, you cunning korpy.” He aimed a crooked finger at the tracker, laughing. “And you. You stay. You’ve had your time.”
They want me to mark them. The realization bit into Anna, and all of a sudden the blade in her hand felt formless. Her body resisted. For once the two minds stood in unified opposition. The feeling mind conjured visions of these men torturing innocents in dark, hidden dens, forcing themselves upon their wives and young girls, spending nights vomiting up barrels of liquor that would kill lesser men, all funded by the salt of their people. Deeper still, the thinking mind foresaw their corruption. It saw excess and rage and anarchy in their eyes, waiting to be unleashed with the promise of immortality.
Victorious conquest turned all men to monsters, Anna knew, but there was no telling what became of conquerors who’d already transformed.
Beyond her veil of thoughts was the ever-present nodding of the tracker, pleading with her.
Mark them.
As the three men gathered in the inner circle, fed by the screeching of the Dogwood men and dancing shadows among the scaffolds, Anna looked to the orza and her scribe. She could hardly read the orza’s face, which was angled so far down that not even a sliver of her eyes emerged.
The wicked men stood in formation. They smirked at her, drunk and brash and hideous in lamplight, their features slurring together and mutating into black scars with the every shift of their lips.
These men will save Rzolka, she told herself. It was not a reassurance. It was a mockery of the truth they told, and the absurdity of their claims. I could do better.
And from that the cogs of her mind locked in place.
I could do it.
The wicked trio before her were intermediaries, stepping stones to a cause, holding lanterns as Anna did the hard work of splitting timber. They were attendants to a goddess.
Anna slid the blade into her belt. “I will not.”
Amid the murmurs and hollering, her whispered voice was lost on most of the outer circle. Only the three before her, close enough to hear her words over the din, had any discernible reaction.
“You fucking what?” growled Teodor. His lips curled back to reveal crooked, wine-stained teeth. “You take out that blade, girl.”
Those in the first rows noticed the commotion, their voices growing softer, their cheers less animated. The drug-dulled eyes of the Dogwood fell on Anna in slow waves, and silence followed in turn.
“She must be toying,” Josip laughed. He glanced at Nacek and Teodor for assurance, but received only the unbridled fury of their stares.
Anna held her ground, even as Teodor stole a step toward her. Even as she felt his shadow slinking over her, drowning her.
“Right now,” Teodor hissed between his teeth, spraying a mist of wine and drool in the lamplight. Still her hands rested idly at her sides. “You fucking pup. Take it out.”
Nacek folded his arms and surveyed Anna, then flashed a pointed look at Teodor. “Are you glad you never smothered her flame, brat?” His eyes were serpentine, dark, unblinking slits.
Through it all Josip kept up his nervous laughter.
Teodor’s face grew redder and sweat-streaked as Anna kept her peace, but the crowd was quick to respond. Some of the Dogwood men cackled, drinking swills of beer and spraying out mouthfuls like surfacing whales. Others gave mock jeers in the old tongue or flatspeak. Those among the scaffolding released the most grating laughter, their joint hysteria circling the chamber and bearing down on the humiliated men below.
A wry smile crossed Anna’s face. She spotted the tracker between a pair of lamps, but the man was no longer nodding. In the time she’d spent at his side, she’d become adept at reading him through ragged eyeholes and the slump of his shoulders.
His eyes were extinguished, his shoulders hanging in ruined slopes. An unsettling air of helplessness hung over him.
Once again Anna’s throat went dry.
Teodor shouted something restrained and half-muffled, but Anna ignored him. She was busy looking to Konrad, whose usual charm had ceded to fear.
Even the orza’s gaze had risen from shame, examining Anna with dreadful prescience. It was the stare given to those marching to the hanging hill, to those with cuts too deep to be stitched. Her lips parted, as though whispering, then trembled. The orza sealed her mouth and watched with an ashen face.
“From every pillar in this fucking keep,” Teodor was hissing, having drawn even closer to Anna in her distraction. “Do you fucking hear me?”
She glared back at him. “You won’t have it.”
“The ceremonies are finished,” the orza called. She faced the entire crowd, arms outstretched and eyes hardened to cuts of opal. “Gather with your captains and disperse.” Bouts of mumbling and disorder spread through the ranks, but the orza was quick to clap her hands above her head and drown out the noise. “Gefahl sha’hur!” she ordered. At once, the Dogwood mobilized in a cascade of footsteps and clinking metal.
Teodor remained. He scanned Anna up and down, the hatred smoldering in his eyes. One hand, wrapped tightly around his mug’s handle, was a patchwork of red and white, the other a shaking fist. His every word was acrid, dragged up from his throat and choked free. “She got to you, didn’t she? The fucking northerner.”
Anna watched the orza directing the masses away from the scaffolding and outer circles, but was quick to return her gaze to Teodor. She thought intensely about where Bora had gone, and while she intended no disrespect, there was little to be lost. “Which one?”
“Traitors have their day,” spat Teodor. “We’ll give the runts something to scream about, girl. Mark those words.” He turned away from Anna and stalked toward his comrades, spiking his mug into the side of a lantern as he went. Curses in the grymjek filled the air long after he convened with the others.
“Come, panna,” Konrad’s soft voice said. He stood by her side, his armor’s sand coating dazzling and starry in the lamplight, and cast a hard look at Teodor. “We need to get you back to your quarters.”
Anna’s eyes fell in the same direction, but she thought nothing of Teodor. Instead she met the tracker’s gaze and felt its frigid touch across the circle. In spite of the things he’d done to her, he was an honest man, and there was danger in disobeying the advice of an honest man.
“Let’s go,” Anna said. She headed toward the lift with Konrad in tow, half-expecting the plunge of a Dogwood knife through her spine with every step. But her concerns were far from her own wellbeing.
She thought only of the runts and their screams.
Chapter 26
Before Anna could close the door to her quarters, Konrad caught the edge of the slab and held it in place. “It might be best if I stay for the night, panna.”
Anna searched the captain’s eyes for the rash energy so many soldiers were unable to resist, and found only concern. There was none of his charm or flourish as he glanced down both lanes of the corridor. The courtesy of seeking her approval was enough, she supposed.
“Come in,” she said, taking a step back. She waited until Konrad had sealed the door, then folded her arms. “What are you so afraid of?”
Konrad reached down to his belt and undid the fastenings of his sheath, placing a leather-bound short blade on a nearby table. “Bruised pride,” he said darkly, next removing a knife strapped to his lower back, a pair of blades along his shins, and a sling in one of his pouch pockets. By the time he was finished the table resembled a weapon merchant’s shop display. “I promise you I’m here for the proper reasons.”
Anna looked over the blades, all of them polished and fitted to worn handles, before peering up at Konrad. “I believe you. But do you really think they’d come here?”
Konrad shrugged. “Not by themselves.”
Over the past few cycles Anna had grown close to some of the Dogwood men. Speaking with them was rare, but they often recognized one another, and occasionally gave her sweets or flowers. It was hard to believe they’d be swayed to violence so easily. Against innocents, even. “If they wouldn’t go after me, what about the foundling hall?”
“My men are good men,” Konrad said. “The men under most of the captains are respectable too. But let’s keep the source of the salt in mind. Even if their only allegiance to Patvor is a pouch per cycle, it’s a strong bond.” A mournful smile cut his lips. “Could be nothing, of course. Teodor’s prone to his fits, and when he wants a few of us to do something against our grain, he’d have better luck kicking an old hound into a hunt.” A touch of Konrad’s boyishness returned as he grinned down at the table, surveying his motley of weapons. “Just in case. The Alakeph can handle the little ones.”
Anna could hardly understand the threat. Despite their scorn for Rzolka’s filth, it took surprisingly little for the trio to turn on their own, or on innocents who had nothing to do with their war. There was n
o telling whether they’d employ a beating or murder. Whether the Dogwood would pick her lock, or blow the very hinges from her door. Whether Teodor was lashing out like a spoiled child or planning her demise carefully.
The unknown made Anna shudder. “If they come, will it be tonight?”
“The iron is certainly hot,” Konrad said, making his way back to Anna’s door and inspecting its magnetic strips. “If we don’t hear anything tonight, then, with stars’ guidance, the old prick might’ve forgotten about it.”
“Was it right to do?”
Konrad faced Anna. “What?”
“Denying them. Was it right?”
He gave a mischievous grin that somehow eased the tension. “It doesn’t matter to me, panna. I’m not your judge.” His grin deepened to a full smile as he stared into the larger portion of Anna’s quarters. “Is there an escape here?”
“There’s one way,” Anna said. “If we need it, we’ll be fine.” She thought of using the balcony path to alert Jalwar immediately, but she couldn’t risk betraying her holdout to anybody else. Not to mention the eyes that surely combed the foundling hall now, waiting to strike.
Konrad’s eyes flitted around the room, searching for the possible route, then turned back to Anna. “So we will.”
“Do you really think it’ll come to that?”
“No,” Konrad sighed, “but my old field warden would see me hanged if I didn’t ask in advance. Always have a way out, dead men wish to tell the living.” He rolled his eyes, verging on laughter. “More words of advice from the honey-blossom himself.”
Certain things were only humorous to men who’d known death and befriended it, Anna supposed. Despite all of her training she was terrified of meeting her end amid the rage of a wicked man.
“Anna?” The gentle voice preceded the hush of a door on magnetic hinges Shem stood in the half-darkness between his quarters and the main chamber, lamplight penetrating the outer layers of his flesh and diffusing rainbow shades across the tiles. His burning eyes tracked Konrad. “Why is he here?”
Scribes Page 27