by Kat Ross
“Help for a poor maimed war orphan,” Nazafareen entreated passersby.
Within ten minutes, a well-dressed woman carrying a basket of apples tossed a silver coin at her feet.
“The goddess bless you!” Nazafareen cried.
She’d seen shrines and temples all over the city, some clearly devoted to female deities. It also seemed a safe bet to invoke some nameless conflict. From what Darius said, people were always fighting each other.
The woman smiled. Nazafareen smiled back.
A few hours later, when the crowds began to thin out, she had a modest pile of coins on her cloak. She signaled to Javid, who had been watching her with some amusement.
“How much did you get?”
“I don’t know. What are these called?”
“Drachma.”
He took the coins and jingled them in his palm. “Not bad. Let’s see what we can buy.”
The prices were much higher than they expected. Despite Javid’s ruthless haggling, they ended up with a few dried figs and two pieces of fish barely big enough to satisfy a cat. Javid grumbled but handed over the money. They found a quiet alley and sat against the wall, savoring every bite of the meager meal.
“I chatted with some of the hawkers while I was waiting for you. There are plenty of barges that go downriver to Samarqand,” Javid said, tossing a fishbone in the gutter. Underground clay pipes carried water and waste in Delphi, so the streets were remarkably clean. “I’ll find out how much passage costs.”
Nazafareen nodded. “If we only eat one meal a day, we might be able to save enough.”
He looked down at the sad pile of tiny bones. “One meal a day? We’ll waste away to nothing.”
“You could beg too.”
He glanced at her. “No offense, but I don’t think the public would look on an able-bodied young man with the same sympathy.” He fingered the cut on his forehead. “They’d probably assume I got this in a tavern brawl.”
“What else can you do for money?”
“I’ll find something.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Just be careful who you talk to here, Ashraf. You can’t tell anyone you came from the darklands. Both elemental and spell magic are forbidden in Delphi. They trade with the daēvas, but call them witches behind their backs.”
Nazafareen’s face hardened. “That’s wrong. They’re not witches.”
“I know, don’t get feisty. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with us.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Right. None of our business.”
“I only mentioned it so you don’t go blabbing about the dust I used to power the wind ship. It could get us both in trouble.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” she snapped.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Good. Because the sooner we get out of here, the better. People can already tell from my accent that I’m from Samarqand. It’s not unusual, of course, merchants and others travel between the cities. But if anyone suspected where we came from or how we got here….” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not well. Let’s just get some sleep. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Nazafareen rolled up in her cloak to block out the constant sunlight. The city wasn’t far from the edge of the Umbra so the heat was tolerable, but if you kept walking west, you’d eventually find yourself in the Kiln. She remembered that single glimpse of it through the Gate. Surely nothing could survive in such conditions.
Nazafareen set out her cloak first thing and begged until late when the streets grew empty. She earned enough to feed them both with a small pile of silver left over. Javid spent the day scouring the docks for work, hoping to buy their passage with menial labor. But he had no references or experience—wind ships were very different from the ships that plied the river—and returned empty-handed.
“The passage to Samarqand costs twenty drachmas each,” he told her as they shared a meal of thin, oily soup with fish heads floating on top, among other nameless grey lumps. “But we ought to have enough in a week or so.” He saw her frown and shrugged. “Look at it this way. The skinnier you get, the more money you’ll make.”
Nazafareen gnawed at a fish head. “Thanks, I feel so much better.”
“It’s that or sell your sword,” he said, eying the blade she kept hidden beneath her cloak.
“Fine. One more week.” She tossed the bones away and curled up in a corner.
She wouldn’t sell the sword. It had been a present from Darius—though she knew Victor had bought it. And she didn’t like feeling defenseless. The Polemarch’s soldiers kept order, but there were pickpockets and thieves in Delphi. She had seen one cut a purse the day before and given a shout of warning, but the fellow had melted away into the crowds before his victim could react.
So while things weren’t going perfectly, they could have been worse.
Then the other beggars realized Nazafareen was poaching their business.
They banded together and stormed up to her in an angry mob the very next day, demanding she pack up and move. She had no seniority, no claim, and this was the territory of One-Eyed Sinaclos. Fearing she’d be torn to shreds, Nazafareen retreated to a remote spot where almost no one passed by. Her income plummeted. They barely had enough to eat, let alone any coins left over to pay for passage.
“We need to find a new spot,” Javid said.
“It’s the same everywhere,” she responded wearily. “All the busiest markets and thoroughfares are already taken.”
He picked at the stitching on his coat sleeve. “I’m sorry I haven’t been pulling my weight. There’s just no work for strangers from Samarqand.”
“I know.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe we should try walking if nothing comes up in the next few days.” He sniffed himself and made a face. “I can’t live like this for much longer.”
“What about the bandits?”
“I’d rather be stabbed than starve. At least it’s a quick death.”
“You have a point there.”
Javid snored softly next to her later that night, but Nazafareen couldn’t fall asleep. She was thinking about Darius again. If the Valkirins had come back, she hoped he hadn’t done anything heroic and stupid.
Did I do right in leaving him behind? Or was it a terrible mistake?
Sometimes she wasn’t sure. The doubts tended to creep up at the quietest hour of the night, when she tossed and turned in her cloak, stomach aching, tunic sticky with sweat. If Darius was here, he would’ve commandeered one of those barges and we’d be halfway down the river by now, she thought ruefully.
Nazafareen was finally drifting off when a faint cry erupted from the mouth of the alley. She came fully awake at once. She heard low voices, followed by a muffled thump and a weak groan. The area the other beggars had grudgingly ceded to her wasn’t far from the docks. It was a mix of taverns and wooden hovels, with the occasional barbershop or other commercial establishment. Once the taverns closed, it was usually very quiet.
Nazafareen buckled on her sword and peeked around the corner.
Four rough-looking youths surrounded an older man. He was tall with a scholarly slope to his shoulders and a curling beard. One of the boys appeared to be trying to tug a ring from his hand. He resisted and earned a sharp blow across the face that knocked him to the ground.
Not my business.
But her feet were already moving, tiptoeing through the shadows. The narrow street was otherwise deserted in both directions. She crouched in a doorway.
“—look like robbery. Gimme that knife.”
The tallest youth, who seemed to be their leader, held out a hand. One of his confederates handed him a blade hilt-first.
“Are you going to kill him first or after?”
“First. Then we can take our time stripping the body.”
The man on the ground tried to cover his head.
“Please,” he said, in a surprisingly calm voice. “Take whatever you like. I
don’t have much, but there’s no need for violence.”
They laughed at this.
“No need, old man?” the leader said. “But I’m afraid there is.”
“She don’t want you around no more—”
“Shut up, Anaxis! You’re talking out of turn.”
“But he’s about to die anyway—”
“I don’t care. We’re professionals.”
The tall one examined the knife. From the way he held it, Nazafareen could tell he knew how to use it, and also that he took pleasure from the power it gave him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man on the ground said in a bewildered tone. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else?”
The thug laughed and brought his foot back to deliver a vicious kick to the head. Before it connected, Nazafareen rushed forward and smacked him with the flat of her sword across the temple. He fell like a stone. But his friends had the instincts of boys who’d survived in Delphi’s underworld. The nearest one grabbed a hank of her hair and slammed her head into the wall. Stars exploded before her eyes. She lashed out blindly with the sword and heard a grunt of pain. A hand closed on the hilt, trying to wrest the blade away. Nazafareen seized it and gave a vicious twist, snapping the bone. Her vision began to clear. One of the boys was already dragging away their unconscious leader. She locked eyes with the last two. Both were bloodied and one had a broken arm that he cradled with his other hand. She planted her feet wide, trying not to sway.
“You’re dead, girl,” the tall one hissed.
Quick as lightning, she slashed him across the chest, not a killing blow but enough to part his roughspun tunic and draw blood. He leapt back.
“Come on!” the third one urged. “We’ll get her later. I’ve marked her face. But Maro is hurt bad.”
With a last murderous stare, the thugs darted off. In moments, they’d all vanished around a corner. Nazafareen slid her sword into the scabbard and crouched down next to their victim, who was sitting up with one hand cupped over his swollen eye.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I would have been much worse if you hadn’t come along.”
She helped him to his feet. The man looked to be in his late sixties. He had noble, intelligent features and wore a simple belted tunic.
“That was very brave of you.”
She shrugged. “I caught them by surprise.”
“Many people—most perhaps—would have left me to my fate. Four to one is poor odds, though you seem to have managed it.”
“Yes, well…. I don’t like bullies.”
He smoothed down his thinning grey hair and brushed off his tunic. “My name is Herodotus.”
“And mine is Ashraf.” The lie came easily now.
He glanced at the scabbard belted around her waist. “I’m no expert on blades, but that looks to be a finely made one.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Nazafareen said defensively.
Herodotus appeared confused. “I never thought you did.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m just glad you have some skill with a sword. The gods were watching over me tonight.” He took in her ragged appearance. “Still, it’s not safe to be on the streets so late—at least for old men like me. Don’t you have anywhere to go?”
She briefly gave him the story Javid had concocted, a mix of truth and fiction. They were brother and sister from Samarqand who’d been testing a new wind ship and were blown off course. They had no way of contacting their family back home and were hoping to find work to pay for a river passage.
“I should be going now. My brother will wonder what happened to me. Will you be all right?”
Herodotus gave an embarrassed smile. “Yes. Perhaps it’s foolish, but I sometimes take long walks through the city to think. I suppose you can’t be too careful these days.”
Nazafareen smiled back. “Take a different route next time.” She started for the alley.
“Wait!”
She turned back, head cocked.
“You’re sleeping in there, aren’t you?”
She stared at him, unsure what to say. He seemed harmless enough, but she didn’t need anyone prying into their affairs.
“Do you know where the Great Library is?”
Nazafareen shook her head.
“You can get directions at the agora. Come by tomorrow and ask for me. I can offer you scullery work. Nothing glamorous, but you can stay in the servants’ quarters and the wages should be enough to help you get home in short order.” He smiled apologetically. “I’d give you the money myself, but those lads just took my purse and I’m afraid I’m not a wealthy man.”
Nazafareen didn’t need to consider his offer for more than a moment. Scullery work beat starving, and she wouldn’t turn her nose up at a paying job. Maybe their luck was finally changing.
“Thank you,” she cried. “Tomorrow then!”
21
Culach’s Folly
Mina came to Culach’s chamber each day. She always brought a tray of food and sat quietly in her chair, but she never offered to try healing him again. And she didn’t speak a single word, no matter what he said to draw her out.
He tried apologizing innumerable times. He tried to make her laugh. He raged and begged. He deliberately showed off his scars, hoping it might elicit some sympathy. Nothing worked.
The situation made him increasingly desperate, but he didn’t return to his bed. Although he had no appetite, he forced himself to eat. Culach also began to rise early and practice with his sword. It was pointless, but the exercise kept him from descending any deeper into self-pity. When he wasn’t chewing over the nightmares, he waited with grim anticipation for news from House Dessarian. After two more days passed, he decided to seek out his father. He asked around until he found Eirik in the stables with the abbadax.
The stables were on a broad east-facing ledge of the holdfast. Culach smelled the pungent droppings of the creatures even before he heard their burbling cries. They kept a dozen abbadax at Val Moraine, all trained as hatchlings. They were indispensable in transporting minerals to the coast for trade with the Marakai, and also for scouting the near-impassable mountains.
Culach had loved nothing more than to ride out with Petur, the icy wind tangling in their hair, mist-wreathed peaks streaking by beneath. The abbadax sported stiff, razor sharp feathers, so you had to be very careful where you placed your hands and legs. Petur used to joke that one careless sneeze would leave him a eunuch, but he’d been the most skilled rider of them all, utterly fearless and graceful as an acrobat in the saddle.
“I wouldn’t come too close,” Eirik said. “We have some new hatchlings and the mothers are already testy from the molting season.”
Culach paused, then took three steps further so his father wouldn’t think him a coward.
“I thought you might call for me,” he said.
“Why?” Eirik sounded genuinely curious.
“To tell me if the chimera completed their task. Since you sought my approval, I thought you’d at least tell me the outcome.”
“Approval?” Eirik gave a dry chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far. Frankly, I thought it might cheer you up to know your crippled state was being avenged.”
Culach gritted his teeth. His father only wanted to get a rise and he could at least deny him that.
“And?”
“As expected, the trail led straight to House Dessarian. Unfortunately, neither target was there.”
“What happened?”
“Six Danai are dead.” Eirik sighed. “I only know because Tethys complained to the other holdfasts. They weren’t happy we didn’t consult them.”
Culach felt sick. He should never have been part of this. “What do you mean, they weren’t happy?”
“I received nearly identical messages this morning. They say we’re on our own.”
There were three other Valkirin clans: Val Altair, Val Tourmaline and Val Petros. Since the Iron Wars
, their allegiance to Val Moraine had been cemented by the holdfast’s indisputable military superiority. With the sword gone from their throats, the other Valkirins would be scheming to seize the mountain’s mineral wealth for themselves. Culach wasn’t surprised they’d abandoned Val Moraine in her hour of need, but the news still rankled.
And six Danai dead—none of them the ones he’d intended. It was a disaster.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” Eirik’s voice sounded strangely detached. “We wait. Oh, and you won’t be seeing Mina anymore. I plan to confine her to her chambers.”
“Why? It was your idea in the first place. And I need her help.”
That was a lie. Culach could manage perfectly well on his own now. But even with her not speaking to him, he treasured Mina’s presence each day. Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that kept him from going mad.
His father spoke slowly, as though to a dim-witted child. “Because if Victor tries to take Val Moraine, I’ll have to kill her.”
“What?”
“That is the ultimate point of a hostage, Culach.”
If Culach hadn’t been blind, he might have ended Eirik right there. A quick knife to the heart. He seethed inwardly, but kept his expression neutral. He could never reveal his feelings. Eirik was fully capable of throwing Mina out a window if he even suspected Culach cared for her.
“And what about Ellard?” he said.
“Ellard is already dead.”
The news stunned him, just when he thought it could no longer get worse. “The Danai killed him?”
“No, the chimera.”
“Damn you.” Culach rubbed his temples. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Eirik’s voice was a whipcrack. “No, you made a terrible mistake. You never should have gone to the shadowlands. Do you know what the other strongholds are calling it behind our backs? Culach’s Folly. They’re already arraying against us now. They smell blood.” His father suddenly stepped close and Culach could smell the bitterness on his breath. An old man whose house lay in ruins. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll roll over and give them our throats.”