With a nod, Ilanna pushed her way into the crowd, package clutched under her arm. She would keep the rest of her fortune for another time. With this cloth, she could make another dress. Something to wear when she grew tired of muted Hawk brown.
She smiled at the sight of the familiar brick wall. Her heart raced. Maybe Ethen will be there.
He wasn't. Nothing stirred in the garden. The sweet scent of her violas filled the air, but Ilanna detected a hint of roses. Someone had dug a channel to the rose bush, and it had sprung to life. Two ruby red roses contrasted with the green leaves. A few tiny rosebuds threatened to bloom.
She smiled. He's behind this.
Placing her package gently on dry ground, Ilanna brushed away debris and pulled weeds. She couldn't help smiling. Judging by the tiny green shoots, Ethen had to have come in the last week or two.
Weeding completed, Ilanna collected rocks and unwound the sling from her belt. The hours spent in the Perch had done little for her skills with the sling. She fumbled in her pouch for the handful of lead balls she'd had made. Though heavier, their uniform shape made them easier to launch. Still, she dropped more pellets than she hurled and none came close to striking their target. She gritted her teeth. I need to spend more time practicing.
After a few more failed attempts, she stowed the sling. What now? She studied the sky. The sun hadn't peaked. I don't need to return to the Aerie for hours yet.
Something drew her eyes to the house. Her house.
The roof sagged and stone crumbled from the walls. A pall of gloom hung over the house. She'd never dared to enter. She had few happy memories, not after Mama had died. Now curiosity burned within her. Her feet moved of their own accord. Before she knew it, Ilanna had lifted the latch and pushed the door open.
She recoiled beneath the assault of a foul stench. Holding her breath, she poked her head into the house. Nothing moved.
She stood inside.
Everything was so familiar, yet so alien. She knew she should recognize the chair. Mama had spent hours sitting there, as had she. She knew the wooden stairs would creak if she climbed them. But, standing there, she felt as if she saw the place for the first time.
Beyond the doorway stood the kitchen where she'd eaten countless meals. The horrible odor increased as she approached. Bottles of pewter and glass, leather wineskins, and shattered crockery littered the floor. Rodents turned to regard her for a moment before returning to their meal.
She shuddered. The rats feasted on something that had once been human. Empty eye sockets stared at her. The nose and lips had been eaten away, revealing crooked stumps of teeth. White bone showed through flesh dried and wrinkled by decay or devoured by predators.
Papa.
He died as she remembered him living: sitting at the kitchen table, a jug of wine clasped in his hands.
The memories washed over her in a sickening torrent.
She hurried after Papa, trotting to match his long-legged pace. She waved to Master Umlai, who'd slipped Mama pork scraps when she had no coin. The butcher just turned his back and closed his shop door.
She smiled at Mistress Harra, the metalsmith's wife. Mistress Harra had carried Baby Rose when Mama needed to run errands. She had no smile for Viola, only tears running down her cheeks.
She couldn't understand why they turned away. They'd once been Mama's friends—her friends, too, or so she'd thought. Now, they had only angry glares for Papa.
She skipped alongside her father. "So, Papa, where are you taking me?"
Papa kept his eyes locked on the street ahead. The bottle sloshed in time with his shuffling steps.
"Are you taking me to see the gardens at The Sanctuary, Papa? The Bright Lady's temple is always so beautiful this time of year and—"
Papa whirled, his face red, his jaw clenched. "Be silent, Viola. You'll see where we're going soon enough." The ceramic bottle in his hand creaked and his knuckles whitened.
She snapped her mouth shut and trotted alongside Papa in silence. A lump formed in her throat and tears threatened.
"I won't cry," she told herself, "not today." Today was her special day. Nothing would ruin that. "Besides, he's just trying to make it a surprise."
Colors and sounds swirled around her in an endless rhythm of chaos. Old Town Market. Vendors hawked their wares at the top of their lungs. Men, women, and children bustled through the square, pulling hand carts and groaning beneath the weight of heavy sacks. Oxen, horses, and donkeys rumbled past, pulling laden wagons and carts. Viola reached out to pet a passing horse, but snatched her hand away when Papa growled.
She took a deep breath. Hundreds of smells—spices, animals, people, cooking food, exotic perfumes, and so much more—blended in a strange harmony that reminded Viola of Mama. Wrinkling her nose at the odor of animal droppings, she leapt over a fresh cow pat in the center of the muddy lane.
She loved the bright colors most. Heavy sheets of canvas every color of the rainbow draped the shops and stalls of Old Town Market. Fabric merchants displayed vivid bolts of silk, wool, and linen. Carts piled high with multi-hued fruits and vegetables rumbled past. Here and there, people dressed in bright-colored clothing milled among the vendors and carters in their dull browns and greys.
"Papa, can we walk through the market?" Maybe Papa would buy her a treat. After all, he'd promised her something special on her nameday.
Instead, Papa tugged her away from the marketplace. Viola hoped he didn't see her disappointment. It would only make Papa angry and spoil the day.
"Where are we going, Papa?" She didn't recognize her surroundings; Mama had never taken her this far.
"You'll see."
He turned down a side street, leading them farther from Old Town Market. The decrepit buildings bordering the road sent a shiver down Viola's spine. Windows gaped like dark, empty mouths. Brick gave way to rotting wood; the houses looked like they would collapse atop her.
She followed Papa through a twisting labyrinth of muddy alleys heaped high with refuse. She gasped as a man lurched from a makeshift shelter, reaching for Papa's bottle. Papa snarled and pushed the filthy man away, hurling him to the ground. With a vicious curse, he shuffled on, not looking back to see if she followed.
She hurried after him. She wanted to tell Papa the muddy streets would soil her new dress, but held her tongue. He wouldn't care.
She reached for his hand. "P-Papa? Where are we going? I'm scared."
Papa jerked his hand away. "Just keep walking, girl. We're almost there."
She couldn't stop the tear, but she brushed it away before Papa noticed. Gathering up the hem of her dress, she trotted after her father as best she could. Maybe his surprise lay beyond this horrible place. She had to believe it; why else would he bring her here?
Papa turned onto a larger street, where the street sign read “Fishmonger's Row”. She gagged and covered her nose, but the smell didn't seem to bother Papa.
She pulled on his sleeve. "Papa, I want to go home now. This place stinks."
Papa grunted. "That is where we are going."
He thrust his chin toward a large warehouse at the end of the lane. It looked like the others on the street: old, sagging, and a gust of wind away from collapse. Piles of debris lay strewn around the front of the building. A river of foul-smelling water washed across the street, turning the mud to slush.
She shuddered. What are we doing there?
Papa knocked on the faded, rotting wooden door. When no answer came, he pounded harder.
A voice sounded from within. "I'm coming, I'm coming! No need to get your britches in a twist."
She gaped at the stooped figure that opened the door. Spots dotted the woman's gnarled hands and her lank silver hair hung down past her waist in a wild tangle. She studied Papa through milky, weeping eyes. "What do you want?"
"I've come to speak to Iltair."
The woman's gaze fell on her. "A moment."
The door slammed and Viola jumped.
"What's happ
ening? Why are we here?" She glanced at Papa, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. Her heart thundered.
When the door opened again, a huge man stepped out. Something about him reminded Viola of Grien, the man who'd hurt Papa. His clothing matched Grien's—the same brown cloth with trim the crimson of Papa's blood.
"Girard." His voice sounded like crunching gravel. "What do you want? Have what you owe, do you?"
Papa shook his head. "But I have something else." He shoved her forward. "She reaches her eighth year today."
Iltair crouched and studied her. The way he looked at her…it reminded her of Mama when choosing a cut of meat at Master Umlai's butcher shop. "What's your name, girl?"
"V-Viola." Why was this man talking to her? She clasped her hands to stop them trembling. She shrank back against Papa, but Papa pushed her forward again.
"A pretty name." Iltair squeezed her shoulders with calloused hands. "A bit runty, she is."
"You'll see to that." Papa's face had turned white and his hands shook. "But with this, the debt is paid?"
She choked back a cry. What? What's happening? She didn't like this place and she didn't like this man who hurt her. I want to go home! She tried to turn back to Papa, but Iltair held her fast.
"Aye. All is forgiven, Girard."
Papa nodded and turned to leave.
"Papa?" She reached for her father, but Iltair's grip on her shoulders stopped her. "Where are you going?"
"Away." Papa didn't look back.
"When will you be back?" Why are you leaving me?
"I won't." He whirled, and Viola she shrank from the rage in his eyes. "I can't stand to see you any longer. It's your fault she's gone. I can't live with that reminder. You look too much like her…" His voice cracked and he swallowed. "I-I can't…bear it."
She didn't understand. "Please, Papa, don't leave me!" Tears streamed down her cheeks and her whole body shook. "I'll be a good girl. I'll work harder. I'll—"
Iltair squeezed her shoulder tighter. "Come, child. Now!"
Papa turned away, his shoulders shaking, fists clenched. He limped down the stairs and up the street.
"Papa!"
A cork popped and Papa tipped the bottle to his lips. She threw herself down the stairs, but a huge arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her away. In vain, she kicked, screamed, and clawed at the man carrying her. The door clanged shut, cutting her off from daylight and plunging her into darkness. The sound echoed through the building with a ring of terrible finality. Papa wouldn't come for her. He had abandoned her.
A wave of nausea washed over her. Rushing from the house, she retched onto a patch of dry ground, well away from the garden. She knelt there, panting, her stomach lurching. The sight of the rats feasting on the corpse bothered her more than the realization that the body belonged to her father. She felt nothing for the husk of the man at the table. He'd sold her to the Night Guild. He didn't deserve her pity.
Without a backward glance, Ilanna gathered up her bundle and hurried over the garden wall. She would never return to that house again. It belonged to the rats and the ghost of her dead father, and they were welcome to it.
She only wanted the garden.
* * *
Ilanna walked in a daze, the streets of Praamis a blur.
The sight of the corpse had left her hollow, empty. She felt nothing but a numbness that turned her arms and legs to lead. How long had the corpse sat there, waiting to be discovered? Had he even realized he was dying or was he too drunk to care?
Someone shouted at her. "Watch it, girl!"
Ilanna mumbled an apology and stumbled on. Every step led her farther from what had once been her home. No longer. Now, she had only the Night Guild to call home.
Clouds filled the sky overhead, threatening a downpour. The colors of Old Town Market looked muted and dull. Even the bustle of the marketplace sounded distant, a subdued hum that failed to penetrate the fog in her mind.
Something struck her hard, sending her sprawling. She lay there, shocked. Her mind struggled to find its way back to reality.
"What do you have to say for yourself, girl? You drunk?"
Ilanna stared up into the eyes of the angry man. "I-I…"
He hefted his club as if to strike her again.
She swallowed and held up her hands. "Not drunk. Just lost my way."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Well, mind you watch your feet. Can't have you spoiling the merchandise!" He turned to the slim figure beside him. "And you, you'll earn a few coins before nightfall, if you know what's good for you."
Ilanna studied the figure. Worn petticoats hid a thin frame and heavy makeup failed to disguise dark circles under the girl's eyes. Her long hair hung in a messy braid down her back. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the street, never speaking to the passing people. A tremor ran through her hands.
A few men stopped, studying her as if judging cattle at the market. None stayed long. One look at the girl's thin, wasted frame sent them up the street to rounder, plumper fare.
The girl met Ilanna's gaze for a moment. Ilanna's eyes widened in horror.
"Nine?"
The girl—no, Nine is a boy—said nothing.
"Wh-What's…?"
She backed away, eyes wide. Her stomach twisted in knots. She could find no words. She hadn't seen Nine since the day she became a Hawk. None of the Houses had wanted the tyro and Master Velvet had led him away. She'd wondered what had become of him. Now she knew.
How could this happen? Without a backward glance at the dead-eyed, painted face of the tyro she'd known as Nine, Ilanna fled.
She ran, not caring where she went. The corpse of her father and Nine's unseeing eyes hounded her. She had to get away from the horrors behind her. She had to erase the memories.
How could the Night Guild do that to him? Painted like a whore and set to sell himself on the street. A fate crueler than death.
She ducked into an alley and sagged against the wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sobs racked her body. She cried not for her father, nor for herself. She cried for Nine, for all the horror he would endure in his short life.
A cruel, cold voice floated toward her.
"Looks like nameday came early, eh lads?"
Ilanna's blood ran cold, her tears drying up in a moment of pure terror.
Sabat strode toward her, two smaller boys at his back. "What have we here? A crying Hawkling, fallen from her lofty heights?"
"Go away." Ilanna's voice sounded shaky and weak. "Leave me alone."
"The little Hawkling wants us to leave her alone. What do you think, lads?" The two licked their lips and grinned at Sabat. "No, I thought not."
Ilanna leapt to her feet and tried to flee, but Sabat blocked her way. The two Bloodbears took up positions behind her.
"Oi, Sabat, what you got there?"
Ilanna's heart sank. Three more Bloodbears entered the alley behind Sabat. She glanced over her shoulder. Perhaps she could overpower the two younger boys and escape that way.
A hand seized her wrist and twisted, wrenching her shoulder and eliciting a bark of pain.
Sabat towered over her. His face hovered close to hers, his fetid breath washing over her face.
"I owe you a little something, Hawkling." He ran a filthy finger along the white scar tissue crossing his cheek. "After all, you were kind enough to leave me with this."
Ilanna's free hand flashed to the knife in her belt, but Sabat moved faster. His fist plowed into her gut. She doubled over, heaving and retching. Laughter echoed in the alley. The Bloodbears clearly enjoyed the show.
He gripped her hair and pulled her head up. She stared at him through wide eyes. "Remember these?" He showed her the knuckledusters given him in the Menagerie. "It's been too long since they've tasted blood."
He struck her hard across the face. Bone shattered beneath the impact and blood streamed from her cheek.
"Pick her up."
Two pairs of hands lifted her by the arms and held her upright.
Her knees refused to support her weight and her head lolled on her shoulders.
Sabat yanked her hair, lifting her face again. "I'd like nothing more than to kill you for what you did that day. Made me look weak in front of the other Claws. Weak ain't a good thing for a Bloodbear." He slapped her, hard, his open palm cracking across her face and twisting her head. "Thankfully, there's always a fresh crop of Bloodbears that need teaching. Took the attention off me and put it on the young blood."
She tensed in anticipation of another blow. Sabat only grinned.
"Patience, girlie. Your time will come soon enough."
Ilanna reeled beneath his punch. Her nose streamed crimson and her eye started to swell.
"Sadly, I can't gut you outright." He toyed with a knife—her knife. "T'aint the Bloodbear way or so they tell me."
Tossing the knife over his shoulder, he reached for the package she'd dropped. He ripped open the paper and held up the length of cloth.
"Pretty. You wore something like this your first day in, didn't you?" Leering, he used the cloth to wipe the blood from her face and held it up. "That looks better, don't it?"
"Y-you bastard!" Ilanna spat.
Blood splattered Sabat's face. He grinned. "There she is! There's the little Hawkling that put the blade in me."
He punched her in the gut again. She gasped for breath and tried to retch, but hands held her upright.
"No, Hawkling, I can't kill you, but you'd be amazed by how easy it is to leave someone just this side of the Keeper's embrace. Though I can't say you won't be begging for death by the time we're done with you."
He struck her again. This time, he didn't stop. Blow after blow rained down on her. Her face caved beneath the impact of the brass knuckles. Blood streamed from her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, and her mouth.
The Bloodbears released her arms and she hit the ground hard. Sabat stomped hard on her upper arm, shattering bone. She shrieked and tried to move away, but he followed. After shattering the other arm, he moved on to her legs.
Every time Ilanna thought she would drown in pain, a wave of agony coursed through her from some fresh injury. Sabat's snarling, slavering face filled her vision. She screamed and screamed, but no one came. She desperately searched the rooftops for any sign of Denber or the other Hawks. Only blue skies met her eyes.
Queen of Thieves Box Set Page 23