by Sam Sykes
“Where did you get that letter?”
“It doesn’t concern you,” Asper replied.
“Subjects that concern the Brotherhood concern me a great deal, shkainai. What you ask for is not something we give away lightly.”
“But you will give it.”
“The couthi honor their debts.”
The rest of the trip continued in silence but was mercifully short. Man-Shii Kree came to a sudden halt. She narrowly avoided bumping into him as a door creaked open ahead, releasing a soft green light.
Asper entered a cramped room and glanced around. A hundred eyes looked back at her.
Beakers, vials, jars of various sizes; her reflection stared at her from countless containers. The room was alive with glass and the substances they contained. Red fluids, blue sludge, green slime that oozed and bubbled, various fetal creatures floating in embalming fluid—some still and some still twitching. The reek of low-burning flames and chemical stink filled her nostrils, made her gag.
But she swallowed her bile back down. It wouldn’t do to vomit in front of one’s hosts.
Especially those that thrust knives in her face.
In one fluid motion, a figure hunched over a nearby table looked up, saw Asper, and whirled on her, a long blade clenched in one of its four hands. The couthi turned its portrait upon her, the tasteful landscape in its frame at stark odds with the weapon thrust in her face.
“Calm yourself, Yun.” Man-Shii Kree stepped in front of her, placed one of his larger hands on his fellow couthi’s, and guided the blade away from Asper. “She is permitted here.”
“We did not discuss interlopers,” the other couthi growled in the same guttural clicking voice as Man-Shii Kree. “You should have warned me, Kree.”
“I won’t be long,” Asper said, taking care to take an extra step out of the couthi’s reach. “I’m simply here to pick up a delivery.”
“Delivery,” the other couthi hissed. “The Bloodwise Brotherhood does not make ‘deliveries,’ shkainai.”
“You will have to excuse Man-Khoo Yun,” Man-Shii Kree said, stepping past his associate. “He was returned to our company in rather poor condition.” The couthi glanced over his shoulder at her. “Though he was returned. Thanks, in part, to your companion.”
Asper blinked. “What?”
“The shict. What was her name? I can’t remember. They all look the same to me.”
“Kataria?” Asper looked to Man-Khoo Yun. “You saw Kataria? Where? Is she all right? What about Lenk?”
“Dead,” the couthi replied. After a moment, he shrugged with all four limbs. “Or not. Maybe wounded. Maybe sick. Maybe eaten. I have no particular desire to know, one way or the other. I last saw her in a camp full of her wretched kin and have no desire to know her fate.”
“Still,” Man-Shii Kree said as he busied himself at a nearby table. “It is thanks to her that the Brotherhood did not lose a member. It hardly forgives the sins of her vile race, but a debt is a debt.”
“And the couthi honor their debts,” Man-Khoo Yun said.
Asper barely heard them. The sound of her heart thundered in her ears. Kataria was alive, or at least, she had been. Lenk might be, too. It had been months since they separated. Lenk and Kataria had left the city in pursuit of an end to the war. Dreadaeleon and Denaos had left her in pursuit of their own ends. And Gariath had simply left. She had feared to wonder at their fates—almost all of them, anyway—but the thought of them brought old fears rushing back to her.
A sudden stab of pain returned her to her senses. Her chest began to tighten, as though the excitement was simply too much for it. She forced herself to calm down, to breathe deeply.
Lenk and Kataria might be alive. They might not be. They might need her help.
But so did thousands of people.
“Your delivery, shkainai.”
She looked up. Man-Shii Kree extended to her a square object wrapped in brown paper and secured with red twine. A box, she surmised, no longer than a hand across and half a hand tall.
“This is it?” she asked.
“This is what the letter specified. All components are accounted for.”
“I was just expecting something a little … bigger.”
“Your letter was very specific. Did you not read it yourself, shkainai?”
“Er, yes. Of course I did.” She reached out, snatched the package from him, and tucked it under her free arm. “Thank you, gentle …” She fixed the two couthi with a puzzled look. “Men?”
“We clear our debts with you and your associates with this,” Man-Khoo Yun growled. “And with this wretched city, as well. I cannot wait to be rid of it.”
“The situation has become more unstable than profitable. Our fleet of merchant ships shall be making its way to Cier’Djaal on the route to Muraska,” Man-Shii Kree said. “We and our assets shall depart with them.”
“Hence, if you are dissatisfied with your deal, do not come looking for us,” Man-Khoo Yun said. “And do not seek our services again.”
“Unless,” Man-Shii Kree added, “you should be ready with fair compensation.”
“Gods willing,” Asper said, “we’ll never have to see each other again.”
She turned and headed toward the door when a voice caught her attention.
“Priestess.”
It was neither the guttural clicking sound nor the chilling monotone; Man-Shii Kree spoke in a voice that was shaky, unused to softness. Yet it sounded plaintive, almost piteous. Enough so that she stopped in her tracks and faced him.
“Do you think you can save them?” he asked.
“What?”
“We know, priestess, about the tulwar.” His portrait betrayed no emotion, yet his voice quaked. “Is it true? Are there thousands at the gates?”
She opened her mouth to say something to reassure him, to soothe his fears, as she had soothed the fears of so many before. But something inside her just didn’t see the point.
“Not at the gates,” she sighed. “Not yet. Nor do we know how many there are, exactly. But there are many.” She closed her eyes. “And they are coming.”
“And if they come …”
“Then they’ll burn Cier’Djaal to the ground and kill everyone inside its walls.”
“You are certain?”
She was, if she knew Gariath. She had seen the look in his eyes. She could still feel his claws around her throat.
“What’s it matter to you?” Asper asked with a sneer. “Aren’t you leaving?”
“We are, priestess. However …”
His larger hands slid up inside his hood. His smaller hands slid the portrait away from his face. Asper held back a gasp at what peered out at her.
Against bone-white skin, fist-sized eyes the color of coal shone brightly against the fires in the lab. His mouth was separated at the bottom into a pair of mandibles that clicked anxiously. And yet all the horror of his features was nothing compared to the map of twisted, hateful scars that covered his face. She knew scars like those, knew the kind of hands that made them.
And she shuddered.
“We couthi,” he chittered, “have experience with seeing our homes burn.”
“The shicts took everything from us,” Man-Khoo Yun added, sliding off his portrait to reveal a similarly flayed face beneath. “Our maidens, our armies …” He gestured to his scars. “Our very flesh. We who were not fortunate enough to be killed by their arrows were treated to their knives.”
“Only when they had painted our homes with blood did they see fit to burn it all,” Man-Shii Kree said. “We have nothing left but this.” He gestured to the beakers and vials around him. His smaller hands held up the portrait. “And these.”
“Then stay with us,” Asper said, stepping forward. “Stay here and fight. I have a plan. It can work.” She held up the package. “This is a part of it. We can survive this, if we only stand together. Stand with me. Fight with me.”
Man-Shii Kree exchanged a glance with h
is companion. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head.
“Long ago, I would have, shkainai. In the days when I was young and had a taste for blood, I would have grabbed my spear and charged with you. But I see their knives in my dreams, I hear the screams of our maidens still, and when I feel a breeze, I stiffen, waiting for the arrow to follow. I have given so much to war. I have nothing left to give.”
“Without our maidens, the couthi are left to dwindle,” Man-Khoo Yun said. “We cannot waste what few lives we have left.”
There was some part of her that wanted to scream at them, to call them cowards, to demand what made them think they were above this in hopes that, maybe, she could just scream loud enough and make them do what she wanted.
But another part of her, an older and exhausted part, heard them all too clearly. That part of her also heard screams in her sleep and had held too many men’s hands as they went limp in hers. That part of her couldn’t smell soap without thinking of washing blood from her hands.
That part spoke for her.
“I understand,” she said, sighing. “The city is dangerous. I can’t send anyone to help you out.”
“The couthi survive,” Man-Khoo Yun replied as he replaced the portrait over his face. “The couthi endure.”
“And, of course, we have every faith in your ability to succeed, priestess.” Man-Shii Kree did likewise. “But, should you not …”
“Fight to the last,” Man-Khoo Yun said, his voice slipping from its guttural growl. “No one ever survives the war, even if they live through it.”
“And should ultimate tragedy befall you”—Man-Shii Kree’s voice resumed its droning monotone—“this one hopes you will consider leaving instruction with dearest loved ones to seek us out for preservation of your corpse. All due information has been included with your package. Reasonable rates.”
“And you’re all right?” Aturach asked as they made their way through the streets.
“For the last time, yes,” Asper growled.
“They didn’t … do anything to you, did they?” the young man pressed. “I’ve heard tales that the couthi take samples of people’s flesh as a price and they put them in vats and—”
“I was down there for less than half an hour,” she snapped back. “And as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”
“It’s just that you’re walking a little slower, is all, and—”
“Fuck’s sake, Aturach, would you let it rest?”
The moment she raised her voice, she knew that was a mistake. Or maybe it was when she suddenly fell against the wall of a nearby building, breathing heavily. It was hard to tell, harder to think. Pain flashed through her body, ran up to her skull on explosive legs, robbed her of sight and sound.
She had overdone it.
“Asper!” Aturach called out, rushing over to steady her.
“Easy, boy,” Dransun said, holding him back. “Give her some room.” He fixed a glance at Asper. “You shouldn’t do things like that.”
“Really?” she replied with a sneer. “Thank goodness you told me. I’d never have guessed on my own.”
“I just mean that—”
“I know what you mean.” She nodded, waved him away. “I’m sorry. It’s fine. I just …” She chuckled; it hurt. “I guess I got my ass kicked worse than I thought.”
“It’s not fine, priestess.” Dransun’s voice was as dire as his face. “People saw you get your ass kicked, but they saw you get back up. They believe in you. They rely on you. And the only way we’re going to fight off the tulwar is with you. We can’t have you going off into shady deals with four-armed miscreants like the couthi.”
“The couthi are the only way we’re going to win,” she replied. “Trust me on that. And this city will need more than just me. It needs all of us.” She looked intently at Dransun. “It needs you, especially. Go back to Temple Row. Make sure preparations are under way. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Catch up?” Aturach asked. “We can’t leave you here.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “You need to be there, too. We have people ready to fight, but we need them to be ready to run, if the time comes. You two can make sure that happens.”
“But—”
“If she says she’s fine, I believe her.” Dransun waved the young man over, guiding him away from her. “And so should you.” He cast one final glance at her, frowning. “Precious little left in this shithole to believe in.”
She managed a weary smile as they took off. She watched them round a corner, waited until she couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, then waited a few moments more.
Only then did she allow herself to collapse.
The pain wrapped itself around her spine. She would have screamed if she had any breath left to do so. As it was, everything inside her came out in a hacking cough as her body shuddered. She wiped her hand across her mouth. It came back red.
Blood.
She was coughing up blood.
Oh my. Inside her, a voice not her own purred. The voice of the pain. Of the curse that fed. That doesn’t look good, does it? Her left arm burned as something stirred inside her body. Yes, things are rather a mess in here. I suppose your friend treated you a fair bit more poorly than you thought, didn’t he? But don’t worry.
She looked to her left arm. Beneath her sleeve, her skin glowed a faint, dull red. And within her flesh, she could feel the curse inside her look at her and smile.
I will take care of everything, Amoch-Tethr, her perpetual pain, the curse that ate flesh and bone and spirit, hissed.
“You ain’t lookin’ too good.”
Asper immediately shot to her feet, despite the pain, and whirled around. A tall, thin woman stood before her. Wrapped in dusty leathers, she stared at Asper with a sneer through a long face. She shifted the massive crossbow strapped across her back, snorted, and spit on the street.
“Course, you’re lookin’ better’n most.”
“You took your time,” Asper muttered, stalking toward the woman. “I was told you’d have given me a signal to let me know you were coming.”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” the woman grunted. “Don’t get much clearer’n that.”
“I had thought the Jackals would be a little more professional, is all.”
Only at this did the woman’s face deepen into a scowl. “Ain’t no more Jackals. Not anymore. Just us left. Just Sandal …” She tapped her chest. “And Scarecrow.” She glanced over Asper, looked to the package tucked against her sling. “That it?”
“Yes. It took some doing, but I managed to—”
“Give it here.”
Asper muttered a curse but obliged, handing the package to Scarecrow. The woman tore open the packaging, revealing a square satchel of hardened leather beneath. She pried its flap open, looked through the assortment of vials within, most of them a sickly green-and-yellow color, and nodded.
“Everything’s here,” she grunted. “Just like he said it would be.”
“Who?”
“Ain’t pay me to tell you shit.” Scarecrow let her fingers run across the vials before she selected a thin one filled with blue liquid. “This one’s for you. Be at the Karnerian garrison tomorrow to use it. We’ll take care of our part tonight.”
“You think it’ll work?” Asper asked.
“The shit the couthi gave us?”
“The plan.”
Scarecrow snorted. “Ain’t pay me to think. But if I had to lay odds …” She secured the satchel at her belt. “I’ve heard a’ worse plans’n this.” She pointed at Asper. “Karnerian garrison tomorrow. Later, the better. Sainite garrison after that. We need you, we’ll be in touch.”
“Who will be?” Asper asked. “Can’t you give me a name? I’m already trusting you enough by agreeing to this plan.”
“There’s your first mistake, lady. Trust is for idiots.” She grinned. “I hear you ain’t an idiot.” She turned and stalked off. “You want to save Cier’Djaal, you better hope I
hear right.”
“Wait.”
Scarecrow let out a snarl of irritation, but she did come to a halt. Asper was aware how she was reaching out, as if to touch the woman with trembling fingers.
“If the Jackals aren’t …” She paused, swallowed something cold. “Tell me, what about Denaos? Is he … is he all right?”
Scarecrow chuckled blackly as she resumed her walk. “Take a look around, lady. Ain’t none of us all right.”
And within a few moments, she was gone. And Asper was alone.
THREE
THE LANGUAGE OF VIOLENCE
The key to any advance upon the city is the Green Belt.”
“Right.”
The old tea scent of parchments, rolled up and unrolled, shuffled across the table.
“Cier’Djaal doesn’t lend itself well to defense. The walls are low, the gates are open. Makes the city more inviting to trade. Once we get the city in our sights, it’s as good as ours.”
“Uh-huh.”
The copper pungency of ink stains, smeared across paper before it was dry in greasy thumbprints.
“The city receives much of its food from the Green Belt, situated in a shallow valley here. The dunes form natural walls around it, into which there are only three entrances. They are wide, to accommodate caravans. The Djaalics don’t keep these guarded, usually, but we can assume that’s changed since we made our intentions known.”
“Mm.”
The perpetual stink of pipe smoke, stale embers dying in the air and filling his nostrils with the odor of old hair.
This was not what Gariath imagined war would smell like.
He knew the scents of battle: the white-hot reek of fury, the blood-clotted stink of fear, the heady smells that made him dizzy just before he tightened his hands around someone’s throat.
He imagined war would be like that, only greater. And maybe it would, after all the planning, tactics, and strategy.
Assuming that part ever ended.
“Are you listening to me?”
The pipe smoke became particularly pungent. Gariath looked up into a pair of eyes ringed by dark circles. Above a long beard, a wrinkled, simian face looked back at him through two yellow eyes beneath a furrowed brow. The creature’s apelike features—long nose, sloping brow, scars of thick flesh across its face—were softened by age and weariness, though annoyance shone through quite clearly.