by Fiona Patton
“What?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
His gaze riveted on some inward peril, Spar could only shake his head, but when Brax caught him by the chin and snapped his fingers in front of his face, his blue eyes jerked back to focus on him.
“Is it us?” Brax demanded.
The younger boy managed to choke out a half strangled “No,” and Brax felt a sinking feeling grow in the pit of his stomach.
“Cindar.”
Without bothering to confirm his guess, Spar turned and ran for the marketplace.
Brax caught up with him just before he pelted into the open street and, grabbing him by the back of the jacket, yanked him behind a confectionary shop wall.
“Wait,” he ordered.
Gulping air like a stranded fish, Spar obeyed, his eyes wide and staring, as Brax craned his neck around the comer.
He saw Cindar almost at once, coming out of Uzum-Dukkan. He was already drunk and reeling, an earthenware jug cradled in the crook of one arm, and Brax’s lip curled in disgust. Beside him, Spar gave a jerk of renewed fear and Brax scanned the street, catching sight of a senior priest of Oristo, his richly brocaded robes stretching over a vast belly, chatting amiably with a troop of garrison guards about fifty yards away.
“Oh, crap,” he breathed and suddenly he could see what was going to happen as clearly as if he were the one with the prophetic sight and not Spar. If they moved now, right now, they could still intercept their abayos, distract him with whispered promises of shine and alcohol, and get him out of harm’s way. If they didn’t ...
Spar made to dart around him and, almost as if he was acting in a dream, Brax reached out and swung him back, pressing him against his body with one arm wrapped tightly around his chest to hold him back.
“No,” he said with almost preternatural calm. “It’s too late.”
He felt Spar tense in wordless protest, and then it truly was too late as priest and thief spotted each other at the same moment. Brax saw Cindar’s shoulders tense, saw his fists rise, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes as their abayos turned and, with a hateful sneer, snatched a jug from another customer just leaving the shop behind him. He flung the protesting man into the street, then turned to the priest and, raising the jug to his lips in belligerent defiance, took a deep drink as if daring him to do anything about it.
His eyes narrowed, the priest made a terse gesture and the garrison guards moved forward.
Cindar’s answering roar of fury echoed through the narrow streets. He flung both jugs toward them and, as the guards closed in, spears raised, Brax turned away to bury his face in Spar’s tangled hair, feeling rather than hearing the sounds of fighting through the younger boy’s slight frame as Spar jerked at the sound of every blow and shouted curse. Each time Spar tried to pull away and each time Brax held him back. When they finally heard a loud crack, he jumped and would have fallen if Brax hadn’t maintained his grip across his chest. He slumped then, his face white and, holding him up with one arm, Brax craned his neck around the corner again.
The guards were heading their way, dragging Cindar’s limp figure behind them. Two more carried one of their own and another supported the priest who had an ugly red mark across his face. There was blood on their weapons and blood on the suddenly misty ground.
His strength deserted him and, as the guards passed their hiding spot, Spar forced his head under Brax’s arm and came face-to-face with Cindar’s staring eyes, partially concealed by a mat of shadowy gore-soaked hair. He shuddered once then collapsed, and as he caught Spar instinctively, Brax knew. Cindar was dead. Back against the building, he slid to the ground, supporting Spar in his arms, suddenly unsure if his decision had been the right one but knowing now that it didn’t matter. For good or for ill, they were finally on their own and Cindar would never be able to come after them.
Two guards and an abayos-priest were waiting for them at the door to their room when they returned, not knowing where else to go. The priest took one look at Spar’s ashen features and guessed what had happened at once. Catching him around the waist, she thrust him, unresisting, into the arms of the older guard, then took Brax by the shoulder.
His first instinct was to fight like Cindar had done, but then his sense of self-preservation took hold and he forced himself to calm. Now was not the time, he told himself urgently. They had Spar and Spar couldn’t run. He needed to wait, to stay calm and to wait.
Making himself appear small and frightened, he shrank against the woman’s side in studied relief, allowing her to lead him down the dust-covered stairs and away from the only home he’d ever known, away toward Oristo-Cami and all the horrors Cindar had warned them of all their lives. As the Hearth God’s wrought-iron gates appeared before them, his heart began to pound overloud in his chest, but again he forced himself to wait.
By the time they reached the inner temple, he was almost shaking with the effort not to break and run. Spar had recovered enough to be set down, and the priest dismissed the guards, then led them along a wide, hushed antechamber to a wooden bench seated before a tall, mahogany statue of Oristo, hands held out in a position of, to Brax’s eyes, menacing welcome. Brax scowled at it, but said nothing as the priest ordered them each a cup of boza from an ancient protectorate hovering nearby.
As the priest turned, he suddenly recognized the woman who’d traded glares with Cindar from the temple steps not five hours before. The shock must have shown on his face because she attempted a stiff smile of reassurance.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re not in trouble. Just sit here quietly until I return.”
He nodded weakly as she headed down the hall in a swish of heavy brown robes; then, after accepting the cup held out to him, he waited until the protectorate shuffled away before turning to Spar. The younger boy was sitting on the bench clutching his own cup, his face still dazed and blank, and his eyes glassy. Brax knelt in front of him.
“Spar?”
He blinked but did not look up.
“Spar, I have to go see if I can hear what they’re gonna do with us, all right? I’ll be just down the hall. Just there, yeah?” He pointed but Spar did not move his head. “You can see me there if you look, and I’ll be right back. All right? Spar?”
The younger boy finally gave the faintest of nods and, after pushing his cup under the bench, Brax rose and tiptoed to the open door of the room the priest had disappeared through, leaning as far forward as he dared.
“He attacked Mavin, Sayin,” he heard the priest explain to an unseen superior, her voice hinting at a barely controlled anger she hadn’t allowed the boys to see. “Estavia’s garrison attempted to restrain him and he was killed in the ensuing struggle. His delon must have witnessed the event, for the younger of the two is still quite prostrate.”
Brax frowned, unsure of the meaning of the word. He glanced at Spar who’d laid his head against the back of the bench and closed his eyes again. He looked gaunt and sickly and Brax guessed that whatever prostrate meant it was probably a pretty good description. He turned back to the door.
“How old would you say the delon are?” a voice of privilege and rank that made Brax’s teeth clench asked from deeper inside the room.
“The older looks to be no more than eleven or twelve,” the priest answered, and Brax smirked. “The younger may be six, possibly seven. I can petition Oristo for more accuracy tonight if you wish it.”
“Do that. In the meantime, however, I see no need to involve Estavia’s people any further due to their obvious youth,” the voice said.
“Yes, Sayin.”
Brax released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, thankful as always that the two of them were so much smaller than others their age.
“I should imagine that the younger of the two has very little understanding of the life he’s led up until now,” the first priest continued. “We should be able to find him abayon willing to raise him without the fear that thievery has already twisted his nature. If not, I’m t
old that Duwan has been accepted at Oristo-Sarayi, so there’s room for another delinkos at Oristo-Cami in the Tannery Precinct ”
Brax stiffened.
“As for the older,” she continued, “if he can be placed in an honest, hard-working trade, he should be able to overcome his upbringing—with extremely close supervision of course.”
“Did you have a trade in mind?”
“Porter, perhaps, or cleaner, something like that, I should think. Their abayos left nothing behind to aid them in securing anything better.”
“Neglectful fool.” Brax heard the sound of a chair squeaking and knew the senior priest had stood. “Very well. Have the kitchens fix them something to eat, then have Evrin take the younger one to the Tannery Precinct Cami at once. The older can stay with the protectorates for the duration of Havo’s Dance and then...”
Brax didn’t wait to hear the rest. Making his way back to the bench as swiftly and as quietly as possible, he crouched before the younger boy, touching him lightly on the arm to rouse him.
“Spar?” he whispered.
The other boy opened eyes still dull and lifeless.
“They’re gonna split us up, Spar,” he said urgently. “So if we’re gonna run, we gotta run now.”
Spar blinked, his face twisted in uncertainty.
“I’m not asking you if it’s safe,” Brax continued, “ ‘cause it probably isn’t. In fact, it’s probably the dumb est thing we’ve ever done.” He took the younger boy’s hand, looking earnestly into his face. “And it’s all right if you want to stay. You’ll be safe and fed, and they’ll give you a warm place to sleep. It’ll be at the Tannery Precinct Cami for now, but they’re gonna try and find you abayon.” He swallowed. “Real abayon, not like Cindar or me. They might even teach you to read and write more than just a few words.” He paused, glancing down the hall with a nervous expression, then turned back. “I won’t make you come with me,” he said quietly. “Not now, not after ... what happened. But I can’t stay here.” He squared his shoulders. “I won’t stay here. And if I’m gonna find a place to hole up before Havo’s Dance, I gotta go now.” He took a deep breath. “So, will you come with me?”
Spar looked up. His blue eyes were shadowy and blank, but there was an intensity in his face that Brax had never seen before.
“Did you let Cindar die?” he asked bluntly.
The older boy took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He made no excuses and no apologies and after a moment, Spar nodded almost to himself, then stood.
Together, they broke for the main doors just as the priest came around the corner with a heavyset delinkos in tow. She gave a shout of alarm, but by that time they were already pelting down the steps and across the courtyard. Brax flung himself to the left away from the reaching arms of one gate guard while Spar dove under the legs of the other and then they were past the gates and disappearing into the crowded market street beyond. Ignoring the sprinkles of rain that were beginning to fall all around them, Brax allowed himself a sigh of relief as they slowed. For good or for ill, they were on their own now, but at least they were together.
In the city’s growing shadows, the spirits stirred in gleeful anticipation. The decision had been made. They had fed from the big man’s death, just a little, but enough to grow stronger. It was almost time.
Deep within Gol-Beyaz, Incasa flung His prophetic dice into the current, reading the streams of possibility as they fell. The spirits were naive if they thought He had no knowledge of their little spark. Like them, He’d watched it grow, flashing back and forth between four boys, each one with a different talent for creation and destruction. The next few hours would tell which would be the most useful to the spirits and to the Gods.
2
Kemal
THE FIRST MORNING of Havo’s Dance dawned wet and gray. The rain and hail that had begun in earnest just before dusk had beaten down on the city with such a fury that even the bravest of the sworn had fled indoors before the priest of Havo had finished singing the Evening Invocation. Not daring to return home in case the priests of Oristo had set a guard to wait for them, Brax and Spar had broken into a dilapidated rope maker’s stall in the western market, huddling together under the counter for warmth. It had been damp and cold, but it had been enough shelter to protect them throughout the night.
Now, as a dry, rustling sound caused Spar to stir uneasily in his sleep, Brax’s eyes snapped open. The stall’s owner was a drunkard, unlikely to return until well past dawn, and no shadowy immortal danger could reach them here, but there were wharf rats on the docks that ran in packs of a hundred, feral dogs, and even people driven mad by the storm beating on their shutters all night who might choose this spot for their own refuge.
Tucking Spar more firmly behind him, Brax worked his knife free as he stared into the darkness, but nothing moved. As the younger boy whimpered in his sleep, Brax worked one arm around him, his mind returning to their situation as it had for most of the night. They had no shine, no food, nowhere to live, and no one to protect them.
Should have thought of that before you let Cindar die, his mind supplied coldly.
He ignored it. What’s done was done and if the know-it-all hindsight part of his brain couldn’t come up with a solution on its own, it could just shut up and get over it.
Scratching absently at a tiny, red bite on his ankle, he brought his mind back to the problem at hand. He could petition the local factor to allow them to work, but the factor had hated Cindar because their larger and far more dangerous abayos had always sneered at his demands. He’d be expensive and they had nothing to bargain with. He would want the bulk of their take and they would still be vulnerable to anyone stronger than themselves.
“Which is everyone,” Brax muttered. Hissing at a pair of tiny eyes glowing in the faint dawn light, he drew Spar closer.
You could always go to Graize, his mind suggested.
No.
He’s successful.
He’s an arrogant little shit.
He offered you a place beside him once; remember that time when Spar was so sick?
He offered me a place, not us. He doesn’t want Spar. Spar knows he blows smoke through his arse most of the time. He doesn’t want anyone knowing that.
You could talk him into taking Spar. He’d do it for you.
Brax gave an audible sneer. I’d rather go back to Oristo-Cami.
No self-respecting thief would ever serve a priest.
Brax scowled as Cindar’s voice sounded overloud in his memory.
No self-respecting abayos would get himself killed by one either, he shot back, ignoring the lump in his throat. What are we supposed to do now, starve?
There was no answer and Brax hadn’t expected one. Cindar was dead. Even if he could have spoken with his delinkon, he wouldn’t have bothered. They were on their own.
And whose fault is that? his mind demanded again.
Shut up.
Outside the stall, the winds died down as the first, wavering notes of Havo’s Morning Invocation song filled the air. The sun had risen. Brax squared his shoulders. Whatever else he did, he had to find them someplace more secure than this to sleep; the Second Night was more dangerous than the First and Brax would rather indenture them both to the docks’ shine-grubbing factor than face the shadows that came out in the rain and hail to suck the life from the unsworn on Havo’s Dance; the shadows that were growing stronger with each passing year. No, he would find them a place, whatever it took, a place where they would be safe, protected, and never have to fear the streets again, that he would swear, but for now he had to find them something to eat. As the dawn sun cast a dimpling of light across the stall’s wooden sides, he reached over and gently shook the younger boy awake.
Far to the south, the waters of Gol-Beyaz stirred as Incasa rose from the depths, drawn to the future formed about the young thief’s peril. The spirits had found a way to coalesce about the boy’s desperation. They would feed on it and grow until they
could take on some murky, physical form like half-curdled milk, and with that form they would be able to reach the waters of Gol-Beyaz and the shining power that gave the Gods Their strength. Incasa did not doubt that they would do it any more than He doubted that it would be His hand that drew them in and fashioned them to a form that most suited His desires when they did.
Narrowing His snow-white eyes, the God of All Possible Futures considered the most important element necessary to bring this into being: the lake dwellers, mortal creatures of flesh and unclaimed power who had come to the shores of Gol-Beyaz so many centuries ago. The lake dwellers whose dreams and prayers had pattered down upon the waves like a constantly falling rain. As they’d built their homes, tilled their fields, and lifted the fish from the waters into their boats, the lake dwellers had prayed for knowledge that their crops would grow and that their children would flourish. From those prayers Incasa, the God of Probability, had been born, forming Havo, the God of Crops, and Oristo, the God of Children, in His wake.
More centuries had passed and, as the lives of the lake dwellers had grown more sophisticated, so had their prayers. Medicine, Learning, and Martial Prowess had soon joined Prophecy, Food, and Family in their pantheon and now it was time to bring yet another aspect of those prayers into being: Conquest and Expansion would join Prosperity, Culture, and Protection in the lake of power, but only under Prophecy’s very tight control.
Rising from the waters like a shining star, Incasa drew Estavia and Oristo up beside Him. As They broke the surface without so much as a ripple to mark their passage, He gestured, and the image of Anavatan appeared around them like a ghostly mirage. The three Deities danced along the dawn-lit streets, Incasa’s long white hair swirling half a heartbeat beyond Estavia’s flashing swords, and Oristo twirling along behind Them.