by Jay Kristoff
Seated at a broad wooden desk, almost hidden behind a tottering pile of paperwork, Mia saw the bishop of Godsgrave, a quill held between his liver-spotted fingers.
“Maw’s teeth,” she breathed. “ . . . Mercurio?”
The old man looked up from his paperwork, pushed his spectacles up his nose. His shock of thick gray hair seemed to have got unrulier since she last saw him, ice-blue eyes framed by his perpetual scowl. He obviously hadn’t slept well in months.
“Well, well,” Mercurio smirked. “I thought you were the Quiet One, come back to complain some more. How do, little Crow?”
Mia looked at her former mentor with astonishment.
“What the ’byss are you doing here?”
“What’s it bloody look like?”
“They made you bishop of Godsgrave?”
Mercurio shrugged. “Bishop Thalles got ventilated when the Luminatii purged the city. Fuckers never hit the Curio Shop for some reason, but I couldn’t ever risk going back there. So, once the chapel got rebuilt, Lady Drusilla lured me out of retirement. Without the shop, I had bugger all else to do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were in Galante. And in case your bloody eyes have stopped working, I’ve been a trifle busy. So, without further foreplay, Adonai sent missive you’d be arriving. You got the particulars?”
Mia was a little taken aback. Mercurio had never quite gotten over the fact that she’d failed her final trial. Though he’d always be fond of her, he still seemed . . . disappointed somehow. Like everyone else in the Ministry, her old master could carry a grudge. It saddened her, no doubt—the old man had taken her in, looked after her for six long years. Though she’d admit it to no one, she loved the old bastard.
But still, she was a Blade and he was now her bishop, and his tone reminded her sharply where she was. Mia produced the scroll case Solis had given her. It was leather, so it could cross the blood walk—nothing that hadn’t once known the pulse of life could travel via Adonai’s magiks. Mia watched Mercurio unroll the parchment, pore over it with narrowed eyes.
“The Dona,” he murmured.
“Leader of the Toffs,” Mia replied. “They run down by the Bay of Butchers.”
The bishop nodded, picked up the character sketch of Mia’s mark. It showed a woman with a dark scowl, darker eyes. She wore a frock coat of a fine cut, hair styled into artful ringlets, as was the fashion among marrowborn ladies in recent seasons. A monocle was propped (rather ridiculously, Mia thought) on her right eye.
Mercurio dropped the parchment on his desk.
“Shame to bury a knife that sharp.” The old man took a long sip of his tea. This close, Mia could smell the goldwine in it. “Right. The particulars are detailed, you know where to start looking. You’ve got eight turns to end her and snaffle this map, and the hourglass is running. What do you need from me?”
“A place to sleep. Wyrdglass. Weapons. A Hand who knows the ’Grave as well as me and can move as fast as I do.”
“You’ve got your Hand, she’s standing right behind you.”
Mia turned to look at Jessamine. Back to Old Mercurio. The bishop was obviously unaware of the enmity that lay between the girls, and to bring it up seemed on the south side of petty. But Mia trusted Jessamine like she trusted the suns not to shine, and enjoyed her company the way eunuchs enjoy looking at naughty lithographs.
How best to broach this . . .
“Perhaps there’s someone with more . . . experience?”
Mercurio peered at Mia over his spectacles, his expression sour.
“Blade Mia. Godsgrave is the only Red Church chapel we’ve managed to rebuild in the eight months since the Luminatii attack. Thanks to Grand Cardinal Duomo and his god-bothering shitheels, I’m one of two bishops servicing the whole fucking Republic, in fact, and with Scaeva running for a fourth term as consul and Godsgrave politics all aflutter, there’s no end of bastards who need killing. So, given that I’m busier than a whorehouse running a two-for-one special, do me the honor of saying thank you, and taking what you’re bloody given.”
Mia looked her former mentor in the eye. She recognized his tone—the same one he’d use when she was a little girl and he’d caught her stealing his cigarillos. She glanced over her shoulder at Jessamine. Softly sighed.
“Thank you, Bishop.”
“My fucking pleasure.”
“May the Moth—”
“Aye, aye, black kisses all round. Now sod off, will you?”
Mia backed out of the room with a bow, trying not to take Mercurio’s mood too personally. He’d always been a sour old cur, and running the Godsgrave Chapel at a time like this couldn’t be doing his humors any favors.
Jessamine led Mia down a twisting passage, the Blade following close on her heels. Once they were safely out of the bishop’s earshot, Mia took Jessamine by the arm, turned the Hand to face her.
“Are we going to have problems, you and I?”
“Whatever do you mean, Corvere?”
“I mean it’s no secret we hate each other like fucking poison. But you’re my Hand now. I need to be able to trust you, Jess.”
The redhead’s green eyes sparkled as she spoke.
“I don’t like you, Corvere. You think you’re clever. You think you’re special. You poisoned Diamo and cheated me out of my spot as top of Songs. But I serve the Mother, I serve the Ministry, same as you. Don’t question my devotion again.”
The redhead turned and stalked off into the dark.
The shadows at Mia’s feet rippled, a cold whisper in her ear.
“ . . . you always had a talent for making friends . . .”
“ . . . WELL i AM QUITE FOND OF YOU, IF THAT MAKES A DIFFERENCE . . .”
“ . . . thank the mother i am not actually capable of vomiting . . .”
“ . . . SHUT UP . . .”
“ . . . such a witty riposte . . .”
“ . . . WIT IS WASTED ON THE WITLESS . . .”
“If you two are quite finished?” Mia asked.
“ . . . mongrel . . . ,” came a soft whisper.
“ . . . CUR . . . ,” came a softer reply.
Mia folded her arms, tapping her toe on the stone. Silence fell in the corridor, punctuated only by Jessamine’s receding footfalls.
“Hurry up, Corvere,” the Hand called. “The hourglass isn’t getting any fuller.”
Thumbs in belt, Mia had no choice but to follow Jessamine down the hall.
Darkin . . .
Mia stared across the courtyard at the gladiatii called Furian. The man met her stare, warm breeze blowing his long dark hair about his face. His eyes burned right through her with an intensity that . . .
Well, truth told, without Mister Kindly at her side, it frightened her.
But Black Mother, what might this mean? Mia had only met one of her kind before now, and Lord Cassius had died before he gave her any answers about who or what she was. Perhaps Furian knew something more? Perhaps he held all th—
The executus cracked his whip.
“Gladiatii! Return to training!” He turned to Mia, Sidonius and Matteo. “You three. Attend me.”
The gladiatii fell out, holding perfect formation as they marched down to the courtyard at the building’s rear. The executus limped after them, leaning on his lion-headed cane. As Mia followed, she saw him take a sip from a metal flask at his belt.
In the rear yard, where Mia’s father had once kept a stable of proud horses, she saw the grounds had been completely refitted. The ochre sands were set with training dummies, racks of shields and wooden weapons. The ground was uneven, scaffolds and pits dividing the space into different levels, from ten feet high to ten feet deep. A broad circle was marked with white stones, and sigils of the Familia Remus flew proudly upon the battlements.
The gladiatii paired off to spar. Mia saw different combinations of weapons, different fighting styles. The Vaanian girl hefted an ironwood bow and began peppering targets at the other end of the yar
d. Furian took up twin swords, began beating one of the training dummies as if it had insulted his mother.
The executus limped to the verandah, greeting a huge dog sitting in the shade. It was a mastiff, male, with dark fur and a studded collar. The dog was clearly overjoyed, and the big man knelt with a wince so it could slobber on his face.
“Good to see you again, old friend,” he murmured, patting the dog. “Been guarding the collegium while I was gone?”
Mia and her fellows sweated in the boiling suns while Executus finished making a fuss of the dog. It was the first time she’d seen the bastard smile in a month, though with that scar at his face, it was still a little hard to tell. Once he was done, Executus limped out into the stone circle, snapped his fingers.
“Maggot,” he barked. “Sword and board.”
Mia caught movement from the corner of her eye, saw a girl dash out from the shade of a small building in the corner of the yard. She was Liisian; skinny and tanned, with dark hair growing wild. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, but three arkemical circles branded on her cheek marked her as the highest tier of slave.
What skill is a girl that age prized for?
The girl ran to the weapon racks, picked up a wooden practice blade and a broad oaken shield, fetched them to the executus. The big man pointed the blade at Matteo.
“Come. Show me what you’re made of, boy. Maggot, fetch the lad a cock and something to hide behind.”
The girl nodded, ran back to the racks and returned with another wooden sword and shield. Matteo squared up, adopted a halfway-decent fighting stance.
“Attack!” Executus roared.
Matteo swung his wooden blade with a cry, but the executus blocked the assault with ease.
“I didn’t ask for a fucking kiss, I said attack!”
The boy scowled, launching a series of blows, head, chest, belly. The executus was strong as a bull, but he moved slow on that iron leg of his, and Matteo’s footwork proved surprisingly good. The boy pushed the older man back, sword cracking against sword, dust rising from their shields as they clashed. Mia noted the gladiatii were only sparring half-heartedly, watching the bout with interest.
Matteo grew more aggressive—like Mia, he’d obviously expected the executus to be a master bladesman. But in the face of the boy’s furious attacks, Executus was on full defense. Matteo landed blow after blow against the big man’s guard, utterly dominating, until the executus was pressed against the circle’s edge.
And then, like a bear too early from its slumber, the man came awake.
He shifted from back to front foot in the blink of an eye, moving swift and graceful despite his iron leg. And in the space of a few seconds, he’d knocked the sword from Matteo’s hand, cracked his blade into the lad’s gut, and left him sprawled in the dust.
Executus loomed over the gasping boy, only a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.
“What did you learn?”
Matteo grasped his bruising belly, too breathless to speak.
“The sand is no place for brawlers,” Executus said, his scar creased in a scowl. “It is checkered board. And on it, we play the greatest game of all. A wily opponent may feign weakness. Allow you to exert yourself and learn your patterns, all without breaking a sweat. Overconfidence has ended a thousand fools who’d name themselves gladiatii. Mark this, or it will be the end of you. Now get off my fucking sand.”
Executus turned to Mia, pointed his wooden blade.
“You next, girl. Show me how many of those thousand priests you’re worth.”
The girl named Maggot handed Mia a practice blade and shield with a shy smile. But Sidonius snatched the weapon from the little girl’s hand, shoved Mia aside.
“Fuck that,” he growled. “No bitch steps onto the sand before me.”
Perhaps it was the heat, or three weeks of eating shit from this man at sea. Perhaps her legendary temper coming out to play without Mister Kindly to keep her in check, or Furian’s dark eyes, following her across the yard. Whatever the reason, Mia found her hands on the big man’s shoulders, and her knee buried in his bollocks.
“Bitch, am I?” she whispered.
Sidonius’s eyes bulged as he doubled up. Mia locked her fingers behind his head and brought his face down into her knee. She was on top of him in a heartbeat, fists pounding his jaw, teeth clenched, blood in her—
Crack!
The whip etched a line of agony across her shoulder blades. Another blow sent her scrambling away with a gasp, twisting out of range. Laughter rang among the assembled gladiatii. Executus glared at her, lash unfurled in his hand.
“That is your domina’s property you just damaged, cur. If he falls now in the Winnowing, will you pay her the forfeit of his life?”
Mia rubbed the welt on her shoulder, growling. “No man speaks to me that way.”
“He is not a man!” Executus spat. “He is a slave. As are you. And both of you forget your places. Until you survive the Winnowing at next venatus, you are less than nothing. Now pick up those weapons and show me a scrap of the promise your domina sees in you, before you truly test my patience.”
The girl called Maggot helped Sidonius to his feet, and with gentle hands, led the him out of the circle. Executus coiled his lash at his belt, took another swig from his flask as Mia scooped up the sword and shield with a black scowl. Fury burned in her belly, teeth clenched tight. Mia could feel Furian watching her with those dark glittering eyes, that hunger and sickness coiled in her gut.
And without a word, she struck.
Her attacks were vicious, blinding. Dancing across the ochre sands, sliding between the executus’s blows. But during her training in the mountain, she’d spent most of her time learning Caravaggio style, fighting with a sword in each hand. It wasn’t likely a Blade of the Mother would be traipsing about with a great bloody shield strapped to her arm, and so in all her time, Mia had never trained how to use one.
It was deadweight. Each impact jarring her elbow, her shoulder. And as desperate to make an account of herself as she was, she was still aware enough to know that the executus was toying with her. Letting her dodge and weave and grow wearier by the moment, all the while studying her patterns and setting her up for the kill.
But she was no worthless punching bag or training dummy. She’d be damned if she let him treat her like one. And so, looking to show this man what she was truly capable of, she narrowed her eyes and reached out to the shadows at his feet.
None would have marked it—the executus’s shadow barely rippled. Mia couldn’t quite grasp the iron peg; the suns out here were too bright, her grip on the shadows too weak. But she held the sole of his boot well enough, just as she’d done in the Pit and the Mountain and a hundred times before. The executus’s eyes widened as his stance failed him. Mia swung at his throat, tightening her hold on the shadows and fixing to teach this man who thought her less than nothing exactly what she was worth.
And then she lost her grip.
The shadows slithered from her hold like sand through her fingertips, releasing the big man’s boot. Executus slammed his shield into her face, knocking her backward. Mia tried to twist aside, cried out in pain as his sword smacked across her back, sending her into the dust. The wooden sword crashed down beside her head as she rolled aside, slinging a handful of dirt. But the executus raised his shield with casual ease, countering with a vicious kick from that iron peg, right into her belly.
Mia doubled up and retched, blinded by the pain. Executus skewered the sand beside her head with his practice blade, looked down at her and growled.
“A thousand silver pieces? I’d not have paid a one.”
Mia clawed her way to her knees, dusty hair stuck to the vomit on her chin. The other gladiatii dismissed her with sneers on their lips, returned to their training. Mia slung the shield off her arm, spat blood into the dust.
“Again,” she demanded.
“No,” Executus said. “I sought your measure. And now I have it in spad
es. Go wash off your defeat. The hour grows late. Your training begins amorrow.”
Matteo walked forward slowly, helped Mia up from her knees. Standing with a wince, she stared across the dusty yard, rage burning inside her. She’d had a grip on the executus’s footing, sure and true. A trick she’d performed countless times before—she should have bested him easily. But something . . . no, someone, had wrested control of the shadows, and saw her bested instead.
Furian looked up from beating the stuffing from his hapless training dummy, sweat gleaming on his beautiful face. Long dark hair blowing in the warm breeze. Silver torc glittering. Dark eyes fixed on hers.
“Bastard,” she whispered.
The Unfallen returned to his training without another glance.
8: prayers
“Well, this is going to be tricksy.”
Mia took a long drag of her cigarillo, looking down on the pleasurehouse from their room in the taverna opposite. Jessamine stood at the window beside her, eyes narrowed as she watched the brothel door.
“You were expecting the leader of a braavi gang to just wander down the street with the map in her hand and fall onto your sword, Corvere?”
“You know I love your sarcasm more than anyone, Jess,” Mia sighed. “But we’ve been cooped up in this room a week and I could use a change of tune.”
“I know we’ve been up here a week, I’m the one who has to put up with your incessant fucking smoking.”
“ . . . well, perhaps we could quarrel ’til the morrow and miss our opportunity entirely . . . ?”
Mia glanced to Mister Kindly, licking at his translucent paw on the bed.
“Your commentary is always appreciated.”
“ . . . and freely given . . .”
“You’re a little prick, you know that?”
“ . . . o, well and truly . . .”
Seven turns had passed since she’d arrived in the City of Bridges and Bones, and the only thing keeping Mia’s belly from dissolving in a puddle of nerves were the passengers riding her shadow. Asking around her old haunts in Little Liis, Mia and Jessamine had tracked down their mark after a turn—the Toffs’ headquarters was known to most of the lowlifes who peopled Little Liis. But finding their lair wasn’t the problem. It was getting inside that was going to be the riddle.