“I’ll be needed.”
Setting his glass down, he headed toward the door. Although requiring no formal goodbye, Marta found it odd that he did not meet her eyes. Chances were he held a secret from her, but this was nothing new; she kept at least a dozen from him. Storing secrets was nothing strange, but something about his behavior was. With all her heart, she wanted to give him her full trust, but Marta found herself calling after him:
“For what?”
“The car’s still headed for Gatlin. I need to intercede if it’s going to reach Ceilminster.” What he said was true enough, and he met her eyes directly. She was no master of spot-the-lie like both her siblings, but Marta knew the tell of acting too sure when one was afraid to let something slip, so she fell into the old strategy of changing the argument.
“There’s a chance they already know our ultimate goal, so we should throw them off by remaining true. We’ll stay on the train all the way to Gatlin and take the Theade River down to be sure.” The route made no sense, and Marta watched Cyrus carefully.
“Quite wise, quite wise.”
Though his head nodded like a puppet’s, Marta remembered Carmichael’s lessons of spot-the-lie and looked to Cyrus’ feet. They still aimed towards the door, a sure sign where his mind really dwelt all along.
Seeing her eyes drift, Cyrus sighed at seeing his tell-tale feet. His shoulders slumped, the man finally meeting her gaze with resignation in his eyes. “I haven’t played in quite a while, and it cost me dearly.”
Marta’s words failed her. She hurt too much to form words. Cyrus seemed to understand as he squared his shoulders and spoke with authority honed over years as the clan’s head of Nahuat.
“Surrender yourself to the Home Guard, and I’ll do all I can to ensure he does not punish you too harshly.”
“You side with my brother over me? Over father?”
Cyrus wore his torment plainly as he extended his phantom blade. “We have no choice. We never did.”
She heard Luca’s lockblade click and saw Isabelle lower her stance from the corner of her eye. Marta stared dead ahead, her eyes on the man between her and the locked door. If he made it through, they were done for: an army of Home Guardsmen was stationed along with the Newfield army occupying the Oreana train station. But Cyrus’ feet turned away from the doorway to aim at Marta as his fatal phantom blade gleamed.
He had taught her all the stances to answer such a challenge, all of which demanded her own phantom blade to parry his. Marta shook her head.
“There’s more than one way to top the mountain.” She said it as an offering to the man who had loved her truer than her own family, a plea that perhaps they might both walk away.
“No,” Cyrus answered, his voice as cold as hers. “Not this time. Not anymore.”
Marta did not need to summon the rage or clarity that came with it. It roared in her head, bringing with it the plans for her impossible Armor. The imposing form coalesced around her instantly, swallowing her in its horrifying shell. To his credit, Cyrus hardly flinched as his eyes flicked from her to Luca then to Isabelle. She was glad they never aimed at Caddie and knew if they did, she would have no choice but to tear out his throat.
Cyrus’ assault took her aback. Surrounded by superior numbers, he attempted to end it immediately by putting Marta down with a fatal blow. Any and all advantages lost to him, Cyrus attacked with pure savagery as his sole chance at salvation. His phantom blade aimed straight for her heart, and even in her odd Armor, she was too slow to deflect his onslaught.
Her exuded Breath saved her, his blade capable of passing through any inorganic material biting deep into her Armor. It cleaved her formation as if it were flesh. The pain was tremendous as was the shock that her Breath could absorb the fatal stroke of the phantom blade. More shocking was watching her Armor knit itself back together after he withdrew his weapon.
Cyrus did not pause to reflect on the miracle as he attacked again and again.
Her very essence enflamed by the pain, Marta’s defense consisted more of instinct than training as she turned aside each of his slashes with her oversized paw. He still pressed her back, Luca and Isabelle slower than normal, but closing rank to flank him. Seeing himself surrounded, Cyrus launched left to remove himself from their circle.
He set his back against the wall. In one hand, he still held his phantom blade, it thinner now as he drew some of his extended Breath away to form a gauntlet on his right. When they sparred in her youth, this was one of Cyrus’ favorite ploys: the man right-handed, but pretending to favor his left, only to suddenly switch weapons and stances to take his opponent off guard. Unaware of his feint, Luca and Isabelle closed in.
“No,” Marta bellowed in a voice far too deep for her frame.
Luca and Isabelle halted, Cyrus turtling farther into his defensive pose. Marta knew it well, a stance meant for prolonging a battle by deflection rather than offering any offense. Realizing his intent, she pounced. Grazing the ceiling on her leap, she came down with all her momentum, Cyrus’ blade thrusting up to intercept her fall.
Marta did not know why she let his blow land, her arms more than capable of slapping it aside, but she opened them wide as if to embrace him. Again, his insubstantial blade bit, and again the pain nearly blinded her as the Armor turned the lethal strike aside. Freed from parrying, her arms latched to each of his wrists. He sought to protect his left with his own Armored gauntlet, and Marta felt his Breath easily give way under her power, followed by his bones granulating in her grip. His disgraceful scream alone meant he was defeated, but Marta felt greater pleasure in that his Cildra Armor deserted him to retreat back into his body.
He had been her teacher and surrogate father for years, but in the moment, she saw no more than the enemy. Grabbing both shattered wrists in one massive hand, Marta hoisted him aloft. Through her exuded Breath still stinging from his attack, she felt his quickened pulse as she closed her other hand around his neck, her inhuman fingers not yet closing to end his life.
Instead, she looked to her master.
The thought again registered incongruous; Marta was torn from the moment by the foreign idea. As she did, the clarity of her rage returned, Marta realizing she stared at Caddie. Caddie’s blue eyes bored into her own, and Marta saw no mercy there as the girl’s hands mimicked her own, grasping air rather than Cyrus’ throat. The motion the girl made was the same inescapable crack she gave Creature’s neck.
Marta’s hands ached to obey, Marta fighting against the impulse with all her will. Her former father threatened the girl and, as such, needed to be punished. But she knew, deep in her bones, the man who had raised her did not deserve death. Gazing into the girl’s pitiless blue eyes, Marta realized the cause of her pause: Caddie only reflected what she had seen from her. Marta only dealt death in the girl’s presence, and now that was all Caddie knew.
Cyrus moaned when she set him down, the man attempting to cradle one shattered wrist with the other injured limb. His whine showed weakness, and in the moment, Marta hated and pitied him in equal measure. But she thrust both emotions aside as she dropped her Armor to squat next to Caddie. She met the girl’s gaze on her level, Marta speaking in a tone of explanation rather than reproach.
“We don’t kill kin. That there’s a sin that will stain your Soul and follow you into the next life. So we don’t kill kin.”
The girl gazed blankly, no comprehension there before her eyes began to break away. Marta caught her jaw, forcing her blue orbs back to meet her brown. “Repeat that to me. We don’t kill kin.”
Caddie had only answered her the once, but Marta poured all her will into her words. The child still did not seem to understand, and Marta tightened her grip.
“Repeat it or I break your sticks.”
“We don’t kill kin.”
The girl’s words came haltingly, as if tasting them for the first time. They came under duress, but Marta counted them as a victory.
Marta left the girl to examine he
r vanquished foe. Cyrus moaned again, and she suspected nothing could be done to save his wrists. They were forfeit to her fit of pique, but his life still remained, and she counted this as a small gift. A Shaper, Cyrus might not hold a cup of tea in his human hands again, but he would also not be entirely bereft.
His Shaper talents still deserved concern, the man still capable of exuding his weapons despite his useless hands.
“Tear the sheets for bindings. And bring me as much liquor as you can carry.”
Isabelle set to the sheets while Luca picked through the contents behind the bar. When he arrived, Marta noted he had brought the most expensive bottles.
“No, the cheap stuff.”
“Why?” His question did not slow his return to behind the bar.
“Because a waster is a wastrel, and this is poor man’s ekesh.” She uncorked the least expensive bottle. Clasping Cyrus’ nose, she poured the contents down his throat. He fought best he could, but swallowed nearly a quarter of the bottle between gasps for air. “It may not cut him off from his Blessed abilities, but if he summons them, it won’t amount to much.”
Luca grinned, bringing over the lesser bottles as Isabelle arrived with the makeshift bindings. “Then what?”
Marta pondered. Their ultimate goal was still Hendrix in Ceilminster, but Cyrus turning against her changed things. She had never been good at divining intentions, but she would have sworn Cyrus had every intent of aiding them when they arrived at his door. Something changed between then and now, and though she could not put her finger on the exact when of it, she suspected it was sometime during their private conversation. Drunk as she was, she could neither remember the exact words nor trust her uncle now, especially as she shoved a second bottle down his throat. All her sources of information suspect, she still swore he turned against her at mention of her brother. Carmichael she could not control, but one-half of the unknown Cildra equation remained within her grasp. They were already headed towards Gatlin, and her father could certainly put everything into full focus. The sidetrack would set them back, but she would also finally be sure.
“We stay on the line all the way to Gatlin. After some inquiries, we can head on.”
She expected Luca to balk, but the man’s grin widened.
Chapter 20
Avril 17, 563 (Four Years Ago)
As cities went, Gatlin topped the list, one so lovely even the Grand War could not diminish it. Overseen by the genius Eastern general Loree, the war raged many miles to the west around the Mueller Line, leaving Gatlin relatively untouched. True, the Newfield navy blockaded the port, but supply ships skirted them as easily as Loree outflanked Dunderhill in the West. It mattered little to Luca though: wars came and went with little effect on the tribes. As Dobra, they possessed no nation except for their own kin, and despite the talk of a draft soon going out, no one expected the Dobra to answer it. They might be despised by each side, but their neutrality served them well as they plucked the lines of ley for each side.
Caught in the East at the first spark of the conflict, they traveled away from the battles. They believed their continual loop of the nation of Newfield to simply be halved, but to everyone’s surprise, Simza steered them towards the Mimas capital of Gatlin. Unlike the others in his wolari, Luca had seen larger cities, but never one so lovely. The canals crisscrossing the city sought no straight path and seemed as ambling as its inhabitants. As Dobra, they were not quite welcomed, but Luca blended well enough as he traipsed near the cool of the canals on the rare warm day.
He was the only Dobra to take advantage of the opportunity, the others avoiding the confines of the city as if it spread sickness. Staying so near a city was unheard of for Wanderers, who secured their income through trades with the rural gaji. Such trades were predicated on the Dobra moving on long before the gaji turned on them, and only a few weeks in, Luca caught whispers of doubt as to Simza’s decision to stay. The Levin Cousins residing in Gatlin echoed their complaints loud enough to warrant Simza assuring her wolari they were safer here than anywhere else. She repeated this argument to a gathering of the Levin, gaining their grumbling assent through a few choice gifts.
The dissenting whispers still remained, but soon enough the Ikus discovered the citizens of Gatlin required a diversion from the war, turning to the Wanderers rather than the stolid Cousins. In a matter of weeks, every night turned into a festival, the tribe deriving much more money entertaining an entire city than they ever had from trades with towns. As always, Simza’s foresight steered them true, and Luca considered cornering his father and pointing out how wise it was they endeavored after the emerald heart of the sea rather than the easy, paltry coins in the towns. He kept his insult nocked like an arrow, but never saw his father long enough to loose it.
And Luca did not care one whit at that loss. Not now that he had Jaelle’s heart.
He shaved the very next day after her admission, his face shining, soft and inviting to touch. However, although already promised him through his compact with Simza, it would be unseemly to act upon it until their requisite eight years were through. A gifted Listener herself and surely aware of their shared affections, Simza still refused to give her blessing, thus reducing their courtship to stolen seconds, shared looks, or a quickly grasped hand. Each delicious moment was interrupted with an endless string of suitors requiring a chaperone. Not entirely indifferent to their plight, Simza assigned this duty to Petro or Marko, but Luca traded the task with them every chance he got. Each night should have been torture, but Luca grinned inside as he watched Jaelle flirt with her witless suitors. Every sweet word of hers was aimed at his ears, not theirs, and the couple shared their secret with each glance. Many times, she could scarcely stifle her laugh when departing that night’s beau with Luca in tow. Only in these few prolonged moments, measured in steps they intentionally shortened, were they truly alone. Lingering finally at her doorstep, she would always end it with the same phrase.
“Until someone must chaperone us.”
“Until there is no need,” he answered.
***
Their wolari grew by the day, the number of wagons swelling with new Ikus families siphoned off from less-successful wolaris so great sometimes Luca did not recognize the campsite. This upswing in fortune’s favor also brought a higher class of suitor for Jaelle, but the only one to cause Luca even a moment’s unease was the Hammat boy from Polis, Gideon. Luca remembered well both the deference his tshi teachers paid the boy and the expense of his gift to Simza through Jaelle.
He believed the loss of the train lines cutting across Newfield due to the war would keep the Hammat sequestered in Polis, but the boy arrived on an Acwealt boat waving a white flag. Bearing only the Dobra and nothing more, it passed through the blockade and delivered him to their shore. Such an expense boggled Luca’s mind, yet Gideon strode from the boat as if he did not have a care in the world. Luca recognized him at once, addressing him by name, but if Gideon recognized him, he showed no sign. Even burdened by a beard, Gideon possessed the kind of charm Luca feared equaled his own, especially when Jaelle, wearing Gideon’s extravagant necklace, giggled at his jokes.
Worse yet, Simza summoned the musicians in Gideon’s honor. As her right hand, Luca watched from behind her with surprise as his father was singled out for the solo. They barely spoke anymore, but the decline in his father’s ability in the intervening years still galled him. Gideon nevertheless played his part as he politely applauded Camlo Dolphus.
“Again!” Gideon called out, and Luca was overjoyed when his father disappeared back into the crowd as the rest of the band started up again. What he could not understand was Simza’s choice in his father for this task. It could be she was secretly insulting Gideon with their tribe’s most middling of musicians, but the last, and only time, his father received this honor was upon Luca’s return. Simza’s choice was clearly a message, the meaning of which Luca could not glean any more than its intended recipient.
When the last note died
down and his hands grew red from clapping, Gideon rose and removed his suit coat. “Such a demonstration of skill deserves an equal one. Alas, I have no talent with the bosh and must make do with the meager skills I do possess.”
From his angle on the dais, Luca could not see the lockblade in the Hammat’s hand, but the oohs from the crowd confirmed its appearance. Forgetting himself, Luca stepped past Simza for a better view and then immediately wished he had not.
Gideon was clearly without peer as he spun the knife around his hand, somehow releasing the blade mid-twirl to elicit another gasp. And to his horror, Luca recognized the routine as one of the most advanced at the Hottenkof School of Tshi, one Laszlo never bothered to even attempt to instruct him in. Each twirl of the blade risked spilling innards, yet Gideon managed to yawn during a performance that would have lost Luca a finger.
As he watched, Luca knew he was undone. His own lockblade performance was basic at best, the wolari only adoring it because they knew no better. But now exposed to true artistry, he feared they would know him for the upjump grubber he really was. When compared to the incomparable Gideon, Luca knew he would come up short and said as much to Jaelle when escorting her back to her vurd.
“You fret too much. Mother can favor whoever she chooses, but the ultimate choice is mine.” Seeing his still forlorn expression, Jaelle risked publicly brushing his cheek.
“Until someone must chaperone us.”
“Until there is no need.”
***
Luca nearly danced the whole way when Simza summoned him in the middle of the night to spirit the Hammat boy back to his boat. As he ushered the bleary-eyed Gideon down the dock, the Cousin stopped long enough to look Luca over.
The Imbued Lockblade (Sol's Harvest Book 2) Page 20