Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  “I said shoot us, not ask us to dance!” Bryn shouted.

  “I can dance with you later, if you wish,” Byern called.

  Bryn punctured another strawman, and her brother leaned out of the chariot at a precarious angle, scooping up a small stone off the track with his free hand. Mia scowled, trying to shake the feeling she was being made a fool of.

  “All right, fuck this . . . ,” she muttered.

  Mia began firing, shot after shot as the pair galloped around the track. And though her aim was true, she soon realized Bryn and Byern were both masters. Byern’s shield was impregnable, and his skill at driving his horses was almost equal to his sister’s archery. At the most humiliating point, Byern blocked a shot whistling straight for Bryn’s throat, while simultaneously leaning out of the chariot to scoop up a stone, holding the reins in his damned teeth. Meanwhile, Bryn peppered every strawman with a dozen shots, pausing occasionally to make Mia dance by loosing a shot at her toes.

  Nine laps later, the pair pulled to a stop in front of her. Byern hopped out of the chariot, bowed low. “Do you prefer the waltz or the balinna, Mi Dona?”

  Bryn punched her brother’s arm again, smiled at Mia. “Fine shooting. You almost got me there, once or twice.”

  “Liar,” Mia said. “I never came close.”

  Bryn winced, nodded sadly. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Our da raised horses,” Byern said. “And Bryn’s been a daemon with a bow since she could walk.”

  Mia shook her head. She knew she shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t get close. But truth was, she liked this pair. Byern’s easy smile and Bryn’s self-assured swagger.

  “How did you come to be here?” she asked, looking at the track about them, the silhouette of Crow’s Nest in the distance. “This place?”

  Bryn sniffed. “Bad harvest. Three years back. Village didn’t have the grain to pay our tithe to the Itreyan administratii. They locked our laird in irons, had him and his whole familia flogged in the stocks.”

  “We didn’t like that,” Byern explained. “Me and Bryn were too young for our da to let us go, but anyone big enough to swing a sword marched up to the magistrate’s door. Dragged him down to the stocks and gave him a flogging right back.”

  “He didn’t like that,” Bryn said. “You can imagine what came next.”

  “Legionaries,” Mia said.

  “Aye,” Byern nodded. “Five centuries of the bastards. Killed every rebel. Burned every home. Sold everyone left standing. Sis and me included.”

  “But you weren’t even involved,” Mia said. “Your da didn’t let you rise.”

  “You think the Itreyans care?” Byern smiled lopsided. “This whole Republic, the Kingdom before it, even. It’s built on the back of free labor. But now, Liis, Ashkah, Vaan, they’re all under Itreyan control. So where do the new slaves come from? When there are no lands left to conquer?”

  “They build a Republic that’s unfair in its bones,” Bryn said. “That benefits the few, not the many. But the few have steel. And men they pay to wield it, unthinkingly. So, when someone among the many rises against the injustice, the brutality, the system locks them in irons. Makes of them an example for others, and with the very same stroke, sends one more body to be branded. One more pair of hands to build their roads, raise their walls, work their forges, all for a pittance and fear of the lash.”

  Mia shook her head. “That’s . . .”

  “Bullshit?” Byern offered.

  “Aye.”

  “That’s life in the Republic,” Bryn shrugged.

  Mia sighed, strands of raven black stuck to the sweat on her face.

  All her life, she’d never questioned the rightness of it. Never stopped to look about her and see the people below her. The folk who’d walked like voiceless ghosts about their home, their apartments in the Ribs. The men and women who’d dressed her, made her meals, taught her numbers and letters. Her mother and father had cared for them, no doubt. Rewarded those who served well. But still, they’d served. Not because they wanted to. Because the alternative was the lash, or death.

  She felt as if scales were falling from her eyes. The true horror of the Republic she’d been raised inside unveiled in all its awful majesty.

  But still . . .

  Scaeva.

  Duomo.

  Their names burned like flame in her mind. Like a lighthouse, ever guiding her way no matter how dark the world became. The injustice, the cruelty of this system, aye, she could see it. But what in truth could she actually do to change it? Without risking all she’d worked for? Closing her eyes, she could still see her father, swinging on the end of his rope in the forum. Her mother in the Philosopher’s Stone, light fading in her stare as she pushed Mia’s bloody hand away, and with her dying breath whispered.

  “Not my daughter . . . Just . . . her shadow.”

  The memories brought rage, and the rage tasted good. Reminding her of who she was, why she was here. To defeat the greatest gladiatii in the Republic. To stand before her familia’s murderers triumphant and open their throats, one by one. And she was going to have a hard time doing that if she was sold off like a leg of beef at market.

  Excelling in the venatus at Stormwatch. That was her concern.

  Her first, her only concern.

  And so, despite the pain in her injured hand, she nocked another arrow to her bow and nodded at Bryn.

  “All right. Tell me what I’m doing wrong. And then, we’ll go again.”

  “So she’s apparently hocked herself to the eye teeth,” Mia said, dragging on her cigarillo. “And Arkades has convinced her to sell me to fend off her creditors.”

  Ashlinn leaned back in her divan, popped a grape in her mouth. “Bastard.”

  “After I killed a dozen people at Blackbridge. He’s got no thought for anyone on the sand, save Furian. ‘He is the champion of this collegium.’ ‘He will bring you your victory, Mi Dona.’ O, aye, he’ll bring her victory all right, you dozy fuck. Right after he brings her to climax. Should’ve heard the pair of them going at it . . .”

  Mia breathed a lungful of gray smoke as if it were flame.

  “Arkades stuck me on a leash in the circle, yesterturn. Near broke my hand with those ridiculous shields. Calling me ‘girl’ as if the word were kin for ‘dogshit.’”

  “Fucking bastard,” Ash said, eating another grape.

  Mia’s eyes narrowed at the girl sitting opposite her.

  “Look, are you just agreeing to humor me?”

  “Mostly,” Ash smirked. “But it’s good to get these things off your tits, Corvere.”

  “ . . . i trust you are feeling better now . . .”

  Mia looked at the not-cat curled on her shoulder. “You’re starting in on me too?”

  “ . . . moaning or thinking. which is more productive . . . ?”

  “It seems Mister Jolly and I agree on something for once,” Ashlinn said.

  “ . . . had i true claws, little viper, i would cut the tongue fr—. . .”

  “Eclipse and I have been snooping about,” Ash continued as if the shadowcat hadn’t spoken. “Your domina’s debts certainly aren’t common knowledge. She buys the finest at market. Dresses like a queen. I suspect that’s half her problem.”

  Eclipse raised her head from Mia’s lap, voice echoing through the floor.

  “ . . . TOO ENAMORED BY WHAT FOLK THINK OF HER BY FAR . . .”

  “Probably doesn’t want word getting back to her father,” Mia said, crushing out her smoke. “Doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggling.”

  Ash tossed a bunch of grapes to Mia, speaking around her mouthful.

  “So the way I see it, we have a few options,” she said.

  “ . . . THE SIMPLEST IS TO PUT LEONA’S CREDITORS IN THE DIRT . . .”

  “Aye,” Ashlinn nodded. “It’d take some asking about, but I know for a fact the only place she’d be getting her grain
is a merchant named Anatolio. It just so happens he’s fond of his whores, and I know exactly where he dips his—”

  “We’re not going to top some poor bastard whose only crime is extending a line of credit to my domina,” Mia scowled.

  “ . . . IT SOUNDS AS IF WE WOULD NEED TO END MORE THAN ONE . . .”

  Ash nodded. “She’s almost certainly in hock to the harbormaster. Maybe the builders who worked on the Nest. And her seamstresses wou—”

  “Aye, aye, I understand,” Mia said. “We’d probably need to murder half the Rest. Which we’re not going to do. If the collegium puts in a good showing, Leona might be able to secure patronage from some rich marrowborn bastard after the next venatus. So for now, it’s smarter to just turn our eyes to—”

  “Stormwatch,” Ash nodded. “Aye. The only way to ensure your place in the Remus Collegium is to win at Stormwatch venatus. And win grand.”

  “We don’t even know what shape the venatus there will take.”

  “ . . . NOT YET . . .”

  Ashlinn nodded. “That’s why you’ve got me and wolfie, here. There’s a ship bound for the ’Watch leaving amorrow. We can be there in a week, can scout the workings at the arena and know exactly what you’re in for. Then, we plan accordingly, give you a victory that will outshine even Leona’s little fuckboy.”

  “I’d never have picked it if I’d not seen it,” Mia sighed. “She acts far too proper.”

  Ash shrugged. “She wouldn’t be the first rich woman to pay for a fine stud to scratch her itches. Having to keep it secret is probably half the thrill.”

  Mia chewed her grapes, brow creased in thought. The fruit was delicious, and a welcome change from the endless array of stew and porridge the gladiatii were served for eve and mornmeal every turn.2

  “Good grapes, these,” she muttered.

  “Never let it be said I don’t love you, Corvere.”

  Mia looked up sharply at that, but Ash was leaning back in her chair, dropping grapes into her mouth. Her boots were up on the divan’s armrest, legs crossed, leather-clad. Her hair was getting longer, falling down her back in red waves.

  Red. Like the blood on her hands.

  And yet, here Mia was. Trusting her. She knew Ashlinn wanted the Ministry dead. And Mia and Mercurio were Ash’s best chance back into the Mountain to see the deed done. But was that mutual hatred of the Red Church enough? Was Ash playing a longer game? It wasn’t like she hadn’t done so before.

  Ashlinn Järnheim had lied to her.

  Ashlinn Järnheim was poison.

  So why had her lips tasted like honey?

  Mia ran her hand over her eyes, nodded slow.

  “Head to Stormwatch with Eclipse,” she said. “The more we know, the better the chance I’ll have at a victory Leona can’t help but reward. I imagine we’ll be arriving a few turns before the venatus begins. I’ll need to know everything by then.”

  Ash nodded, finishing her mouthful and wiping her lips on her sleeve.

  “So,” she said. “Leona’s stud. Furian, the Unfallen.”

  “ . . . THE DARKIN . . .”

  “Is he going to be a problem?”

  Mia shook her head. “Nothing you need worry yourself with.”

  “But I do worry.”

  “Because without me, you don’t get the Church, aye?”

  Dark eyes stared into glittering blue. Looking for the lies behind them.

  “Look, I know we’ve blood in our past,” Ashlinn said. “But there’s more than just red between us. I’m not just here for the Church. And I’m surely not holed up in this dingy little shithole for the glamor of it. And you must know that, or you’d not be here with me, no matter how many shadowolves you have watching over my shoulder.”

  Mia stared. Ashlinn’s eyes. Ashlinn’s hands. Ashlinn’s lips. The girl simply stared back, letting the silence ask her questions for her.

  Mia ignored them all.

  “Good luck in Stormwatch,” she finally said. “Keep an eye on the harbor. Send Eclipse when we arrive and let me know the lay of the games.” She stood swift, dragging her hair over her shoulder and avoiding Ashlinn’s stare.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  Mia nodded. “I’d best be off before I’m missed. Sidonius is a decent sort, but I’ve no wish for anyone else to find out what I am.”

  Ashlinn said nothing, watching Mia walk to the window, climb over the sill and disappear from sight. Without a final word. Without a parting glance.

  Shaking her head, Ash dropped another grape into her mouth.

  “That much is obvious, Corvere,” she sighed.

  1 Equillai are a subset of gladiatii, a tradition imported from Liis and adopted by the Itreyan Republic with enormous enthusiasm—equillai races are a highlight at any venatus, and the men and women who take to the track can win renown as great as any warrior on the sands.Equillai fight in pairs; a charioteer, known as the sagmae (saddle), and an archer, known as the flagillae (whip). Equillai contests are held on an oblong track, marked in the center of the arena, and traditionally involve four teams. The contest is run over nine laps of the circuit, and the winners decided on points accrued over the entire course.Points are scored in a number of ways. First, a kill shot on any of the prisoners in the center of the track. The prisoners are lashed to posts and cannot run, so the points scored are low—only two apiece.A successful lap of the circuit also earns two points. A wounding shot on a member of an opposing equillai team is worth three points, a kill shot, five. Laurel wreaths, known as coronae, are also thrown onto the track at random intervals, and an equillai team scores one point for every coronae scooped up from the dirt. However, a shot to the opposing teams’ horses is penalized by ten points—the contests are meant to be between the equillai themselves, and the soft-hearted among you will be pleased to learn attacking their mounts is deemed unsporting.Murdering fellow equillai as dramatically as possible is perfectly acceptable and, indeed, encouraged.

  2 In the weeks since Blackbridge, Mia had learned the emaciated cook who served Dona Leona was named “Finger,” though nobody among the stable seemed to know why. Most of the gladiatii assumed he’d earned the name by being finger thin, though Butcher insisted that he’d been a member of a braavi gang whose favored means of thuggery involved chopping off people’s less-essential digits and stuffing them in orifices not usually designed for stuffing.Whatever the origins of his moniker, Finger’s culinary skill was only slightly more impressive than a drunken blind man’s skill at finding the pisspot. His porridge had the consistency of runny snot, and one evemeal, Mia found a suspiciously human-looking toe bone in her stew.Needless to say, Fang, who always nosed about the table looking for scraps, was growing fonder of Mia by the nevernight.

  17: stormwatch

  Mia paced back and forth in her cage, eyes fixed on the sand.

  She, Sidonius, Bladesinger, Wavewaker and Butcher were all locked in cells at the edge of Stormwatch arena, sunken beneath the floor. Small barred windows let them watch the venatus while they waited for their turn before the crowd, Mia stalking about the cage and pondering the events that led her here.

  Just as she’d told Ashlinn, the gladiatii of the Remus Collegium had trained another week in the sweltering suns before setting out for Stormwatch. Mia’s hand was mended enough to go back to practice after a few turns, though for all the attention Arkades gave, she mightn’t have bothered—it was clear all hopes were being pinned on Furian, Bryn, and Byern to win their berth in the Venatus Magni. Eavesdropping on Dona Leona and the magistrae, Mister Kindly had learned inquiries were already being made about Mia’s sale. There were a few interested parties—a pleasurehouse in Whitekeep, a local magistrate in need of a bodyguard he could occasionally slip his cock into, and of course Varro Caito and his Pandemonium. Not a real sanguila among them.

  Mia’s entire plan hung upon victory at Stormwatch.

  They’d traveled to the city via the Gloryhound, arriving a few turns before the venatus was set to
begin. The port was abuzz with excitement, and folks had journeyed from miles about for the games; every inn, bedsit and outhouse was filled to bursting.1 Ashlinn had sent Eclipse to visit Mia in her cell, and the shadowwolf had spoken of all she and Ashlinn had learned about the upcoming games. Over the next few nevernights, passing messages via the daemon, Mia and Ashlinn had formulated their plan.

  Now, all that remained was to execute it.

  Mia watched the equillai roar around the track, the percussion of their horses’ hooves vibrating through the stone walls. Bryn and Byern were doing well—placed second with five laps to go. But if Mia thought the Vaanians were skilled, she was amazed watching Leonides’s team in action. Leona’s father fielded only the best, and his equillai were no exception; a Dweymeri sagmae whose lion-crested shield seemed impenetrable, and a pretty Liisian flagellae whose bowmanship was equal to Bryn’s, if not better.

  “Stonekiller and Armando,” Bladesinger murmured, standing at the bars beside Mia. “The b-best equillai in the Republic. The . . . crowd adore them.”

  Despite a stunning kill shot from Bryn on another team’s sagmae, the Lions of Leonides simply proved the better, and after nine laps, they stood the victors. Stonekiller and Armando dismounted their chariot together, fingers intertwined and hands held aloft in victory as the crowd around them thundered. It was well known that the pair were lovers, and their astonishing skill coupled with the affection they showed each other made them crowd favorites. The fact that they were undefeated didn’t hurt either.

  Mia felt bad for Bryn and Byern, worse that the Remus Collegium was still absent its third laurel. But, in truth, her mind was elsewhere. She looked sidelong at Bladesinger, the ghastly greenish hue of the woman’s skin beneath her tattoos.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Think s-so,” the woman nodded. “The w-worst seems . . .”

  Bladesinger’s eyes widened and she fell to her knees, once again vomiting all over the floor. Sidonius lay where he was, barely able to groan as the puke spattered his sandals. Butcher rolled away from the splashback, his own cheeks ballooning.