Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Joaquim ran. Etio had already reached Bonacore, and over his shoulder, Joaquim saw the balding man collapse, his last flare of strength vanishing. One of the worn and ill-set paving stones of the Gut twisted under Joaquim’s foot, and he turned his attention back to the street, heart pounding as he realized how closely he had come to falling. He sprinted down the dark street, avoiding the alleys and side-streets that at this hour were filled with cutthroats and rapists.

  When he reached the Foreign’s Wind, the wide stone path that circled half the city, he turned down it, grateful for the large oil lanterns that lit the way. More people still moved here, men and women still shopping and socializing, and street vendors still pushed their carts between the knots of people, their faces drawn with weariness. The people slowed Joaquim’s advance as he was forced to dodge the different groups. A second glance over his shoulder showed no pursuit though, and Joaquim forced himself to walk, ignoring the fear that urged him to run until his legs gave out.

  Most likely, Etio had not seen him, but Joaquim had been stupid enough to give Bonacore his own name, and it would only be a matter of time before Etio or Zirolo or another group of Order men were hunting him. Knowing my luck, Joaquim thought, that Bel-taken Bonacore will probably tell them I was the one that had him kidnapped.

  That wasn’t the fear that impelled him forward, though, so that even while trying to walk he found himself passing the other people on the street. No, the fear that kept Joaquim on the edge of running was that Bonacore would arrive home before him. And tip off whoever is there that he’s free. Bel take me, I’ll never understand how a man that stupid ever made it to the top, let alone became so feared. Bonacore would show up at his house, and before the night was over the Jaecan conspirators would have wind of it, and Joaquim’s last lead for the events at the beach—Sammeen, Bonacore’s Jaecan employee, would disappear.

  So he followed the Foreign’s Wind. It would take him to the Blue Quarter, and from there he could make his way to the Tacline Hill, where Bonacore, along with the rest of the Six Fathers, had his manor. And Bel take me too for thinking I can just walk in there tonight, but what other option do I have?

  He stopped halfway around the hill of the city, his legs trembling. A fat man in a stained white apron was pushing a street-vendor’s cart up the street, his breath coming in piercing gasps, like trapped air escaping.

  “Vendor,” Joaquim called, flagging the man down. “Hold there for a moment.”

  The man gave a weak grin and set the cart down, bracing it from rolling down the hill with his shoulder. “What’s that, young sir? Something to eat tonight? Fresh-roasted chicken, lord, and plenty of it. A silver quint, no more, and the best chicken you’ll ever try.”

  “Let’s see,” Joaquim said as he stepped over to the cart. “I could buy a dozen chickens for a silver quint. I might as well just go roast my own. What do you have?”

  The man laughed and opened the top of the cart. “Roast your own you could, young sir, but they won’t taste anything like fat Giono’s. My wife mixes the spices herself, only the best ingredients. Herbs from Mane and Elese that will make you swoon, young sir!”

  Three whole chickens, long cold and still smelling as good as the Day Sister’s own breath, sat in a metal tray at the bottom. “Mane and Elese, you say? Well, I can’t pass that up. I’ll take the fat one.” Joaquim opened the purse he had taken from Sipir and was glad to see some smaller coins. A part of him would like to see the vendor’s smile if Joaquim passed him a gold deng. He drew out a silver quint and pressed it into the man’s hand. Fat Giono fished out the largest of the three chickens hastily.

  “Night,” Joaquim said as he took his first bite. The chicken carcass muffled the word.

  The vendor huffed and pushed on with his cart, not bothering more than a nod of his head, but Joaquim did not care. He moved on up the street, passing the vendor again, and ripping off bites of the cold chicken with every step. He ate so quickly that a couple times he almost choked. Joaquim forced the food down anyway and kept eating. When he had finished, he tossed the bones onto the street and wiped greasy hands on his trousers. The trousers were fairly new, fine wool dyed a lovely shade of brown, but Joaquim did not care. Bloody Bel, I can buy whatever I want now. Father might have a bit of trouble explaining that much Jaecan gold, but it’s a better problem than going to the galleys or debtor’s prison.

  A matron in her loose dress gave him a sharp look as he passed her. Joaquim grinned, picking chicken from his teeth as he did so. Her look of distaste slid off him like water on oilskin. A murderer I might not be, Joaquim thought. Time will tell. It seems clear I’m not a lover, though. Time to stop trying to be anything, he thought.

  As he walked, that thought pursued him. Too much time spent trying to be someone, too little time doing anything else. Well, Joaquim thought, I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out after this is over. First to find out what happened on the beach, and then I’m out of this place. I’ll take Sipir’s chest, if those Order fools—he had stopped thinking of himself as part of them—haven’t found it and stolen it by the time I get back. Then I’m out of this city. Mane, or maybe Elese, and I’ll find something I like to do, someone I want to be.

  The Blue Quarter was overflowing with people, as always, dark-skinned Jaecan and Manc mixing with olive-skinned Apsians. The small section of the city set apart for the richest of the foreign merchants seemed determined to outperform its size. The streets felt like a festival, and Joaquim found himself fending off more than one woman—some old enough to be his mother—eager for a wine-soaked kiss. The great mansions stood with doors and gates open as the rich wandered from home to home, party to party. The guards at the edge of the quarter waved Joaquim through when he pressed a silver quint into their hands; the poor or stupid had little chance of ever seeing the inside of the Blue Quarter, and both the Apsian social elite and the foreign merchants liked it that way.

  Joaquim helped himself to the food and drink that servants carried through the streets, the servants all wearing the arms of noble families and rich merchants on their gray jackets. It was all a show, of course; the merchants or nobles who could flood the streets of the Blue Quarter with servants—and, more importantly, with food and wine—were the most successful. Or so they’d have you think. Joaquim did not see anyone bearing the arms of Coi’s shipping empire.

  When he finally left the Blue Quarter, it was with a well-wetted throat and a full stomach. The storm above had still not broken, and the rich of the Blue Quarter seemed determined to ignore the threatening clouds at all cost. Joaquim wished them the best of luck; if anything, a part of him wanted to stay and enjoy the night while he could. He hesitated near the Tacline, lingering for a moment. The people of the Blue Quarter were happy, laughing and staggering with drink. Joaquim felt a stranger, although he recognized several people. When was that my life? he wondered. How could so much have changed? He snagged a glass of expensive wine and drank deep, to drown the sudden alienation. At that moment, the strangely clear memory of murdering Viane, of the filthy pleasure that had accompanied it, broke over him. The wine turned to vinegar in his mouth. Tossing the glass to the street, Joaquim hurried toward the Tacline. He needed answers about that night on the beach now, not another night of drunken self-sorrow.

  Passing the guards at the far gate of the Blue Quarter, Joaquim took a deep breath as he left the crowd. It was like breaking the surface of water; for a moment he was drowning, crushed by dancing drunks; the next moment sweet, empty night surrounded him. The street led him up to the Tacline, the highest hill in the city. From the road, Joaquim had a perfect view of the great marble buildings sweeping up into the night sky, the cold moonlight skittering across the copper roofs, so that it looked like the ebb of the night sky pulled the light behind it.

  He found Bonacore’s manor easily; it was by far the largest on the main boulevard of the Tacline, a monstrous conglomeration of late Canian architec
ture, with high towers and swooping curves, and traditional Apsian, the right-angled lines of marble and copper that made up most of the city. Nothing Jaecan in the building, though I suppose the man was smart enough not to advertise his interests. He approached the wrought-iron fence.

  A few yards away, the gate—wide enough for two wagons to pass side by side—stood closed. Joaquim spared it a brief glance. The thick padlock on a chain ruled out that option. Eying the sharp metal spikes at the top of the fence, Joaquim jumped, grabbed one of the crossbars, and began to pull himself up. The fences, even with the razor-sharp blades at the top, were not intended as serious impediments; they were as much a part of status as the grandiose homes themselves. His arms trembled, though; the days of wandering the streets had taken the toll, and one good meal could not make up for that. Planting one hand between two of the sharp pieces of metal, Joaquim swung himself up and caught a blade with the heel of his boot, where it lodged. Sweat broke out on his forehead; if his arms gave out now, he would be impaled.

  Carefully, he flipped his body over, so that he was suspending himself over the twisted metal blades. His heart pounded. Sweat ran down his arms. His weight pulled on the thick leather sole of his boot. The blade slid through the leather sole, slowly. Joaquim felt himself falling toward the spikes. Then the blade caught, and he was safe again.

  Arms shaking, breath coming in short gasps, Joaquim found a safe spot for his other hand, and then for his other foot. He gave a great push and flew over the last of the razored metal, although a swift, burning tug on his thigh told him that he had not lifted himself quite far enough. Then he hit the ground, falling the way he had learned in dueling. He rolled to a stop at the edge of a cluster of rosebushes.

  A thorny branch stared him in the face, inches away from his nose. The Day Sister’s own smile, Joaquim thought. He rolled over onto his knees and crawled around the bole of a massive chestnut tree. The landscaped lawn appeared empty, but Joaquim doubted that it was truly empty of guards; another sign of status they might be, but an oftentimes lethal one. No shouts or footsteps followed him; the noise from the Blue Quarter echoed faintly between the shadows of the old trees, the only accompaniment to Joaquim’s trespassing.

  He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the edge of the moonlight to check his leg; although the wound felt like a line of fire that ran across his thigh, the blood was cold by the time the evening breeze brushed his calf. The cut did not look serious, from what he could tell in the weak light, but it stung nonetheless. Joaquim plunged back among the trees, trusting his ears as much as his eyes to alert him to any guards that might be hidden around the manor.

  With careful steps, he made his way to the wavy lines of the Canian-designed part of the manor. Joaquim’s lips curled back in a mocking smile when he saw the manor closer up. The stonework looked new next to the older, Apsian building. The bloody fool must have spent a fortune adding this section on to his manor, and he did it a good fifty years after that style ceased to be fashionable.

  The gentle slope of the walls made them impossible to climb, even worse than the tight-fitted stones of the Apsian style, but the large windows of the Canian tower looked promising. Bel take his heart, I hope he’s as foolish with his security as he is with his money, Joaquim thought, pulling himself up onto the sill of one of the dark windows.

  From the sill, he could see out between the branches of the chestnut tree and the wide-limbed ash that stood further down the lawn, to look over the city that spread like a carpet of patchwork light down the hill into the sea. The great oil lanterns that lined the streets revealed thousands of people still moving about the city, faceless, nameless, but somehow distinct and individual in a way that washed over Joaquim, leaving him feeling, for the first time since he was a child, aware of how incredibly small he was. Bloody Bel, how much have the last weeks changed me?

  Wincing at the pain in his thigh, Joaquim stood and turned his back on the city. He slid the blade of his dagger between the twin panes of the window. The latch flipped up and, with an awkward moment where he stood with one foot hanging out into empty air, Joaquim pulled the window open.

  With one finger he twitched open the heavy drapes inside; he could not make out much in the dark, but he could tell how expensive the cloth must be by its feel. The room appeared empty, but he could make out little more than shadowed shapes. He dropped inside the room, wincing at the throb in his leg, and pulled the windows shut behind him.

  Even the smell of the room was wealthy: beeswax and scented oil and the sharp smell of cleaners underlying it all. Nothing like the Gut; nothing, really, like Joaquim’s own home, with the constant smell of cramped people, even in that relatively wealthy district of the city. He fumbled his way through the room and struck his shin on an unseen stool that clattered across the wood floor. He held his breath, waiting for someone to come to investigate. After a long silence he continued his advance across the room.

  As he reached out to open the door, it swung in, flooding the room in light. Joaquim blinked, trying to adjust his eyes. A man, no more than a dark shape, lunged toward him. Joaquim leaped back, narrowly avoiding the blade. He kicked, catching the man in the knee, and fumbled for his sword. The guard let out a howl, dropping as his injured leg gave out, but his blade flashed again. Joaquim twisted and tried to free the blade. The other man thrust again and Joaquim stumbled back. The blade skimmed his ribs, and Joaquim let out a shout of his own.

  His short sword still sheathed, Joaquim brought the dagger in his hand around. The man caught the blade with his sword. The guard lunged, pushing off the ground, although Joaquim saw him stumble on his bad leg. The sweep of his blade—a longsword—pushed Joaquim back into the room. Joaquim hit a divan and fell back into the plush cushioning. The blade came straight for him.

  Twisting to one side, Joaquim saw the blade slide into the thick padding. He kicked again, catching the man’s hand on the hilt. The crack of broken bones sounded in the room. The man screamed again. Joaquim’s dagger caught him across the throat. The scream broke off into a bloody gurgle that fountained onto the divan.

  Bile rising in his throat, Joaquim pushed himself away from the dying man, grimacing as blood—warm, frothy—ran over his wounded leg. The thought of the dead guard’s blood touching his wound made Joaquim gag. He scrubbed at his leg with his empty hand and squirmed away from the divan. The dead man lay on the floor, his face visible in the light. Jaecan coloring to his skin, Jaecan robe. Bloody Jaecan everywhere. Bonacore is in for a surprise when he gets home.

  With one last scrub, Joaquim forced himself to leave his wound alone. He stood and made his way to the well-lit hallway, drawing his short sword as he went. Shouldn’t be bloody long before someone comes to investigate the screams, Joaquim thought. But why they’re not here yet is the real question. He headed down the parquet hallway, tensing as he passed each doorway, waiting for the guard hidden behind them to come rushing out. Nothing.

  The wooden floor of the hallway ended at the large entry hall, where marble tile and thick Khisan rugs, embroidered with great, gold coins, covered the floor. Bloody subtle, Joaquim thought, grinning as he left bloody bootprints across the rug. Not long ago, he would have wanted a house like this himself someday—when he had forged his own empire out of his father’s shipping business and Viane’s dowry. Now he took an extra turn around the rug, grinding crusted blood into the rich yellow embroidery.

  Still he saw no one. Joaquim followed a wide, tiled hall—part of the original house—toward the back of the house. He passed a salon where blood stained the tiles, but it looked old to him. He continued through it, down another hallway, and then to a set of double doors.

  Joaquim pushed them open and entered another large room, this one dominated by a wide, carpeted staircase that swept up the center of the hall. Blood dripped down from the upper landing to pool on the bare edges of the lowest two steps.

  Taking the steps two at a time, Joaquim sprinted up the stairs. Two dead women—o
ne much younger than the other—lay at the top of the steps, their throats cut so many times that the shredded flesh hung in ribbons on the blood-stained carpet. Joaquim gagged and vomited.

  “Bloody Bel,” Joaquim said. “Who did this?” He barely realized he was speaking out loud. He knelt down next to the women. Hand hovering inches from their mangled flesh, Joaquim tried to figure out what weapon could have made those wounds. The cuts were ragged, as though done with a serrated knife, but that still seemed wrong.

  A muffled squeal caught his attention. A tall Jaecan man stood a few feet away, in the door of a hallway that led away from the landing. In one hand he held a boy no older than five, his loose blond curls in disarray as the boy tried to scream, only to find his voice, and breath, choked off by the iron grip of the dark-skinned man.

  The man’s ratty, greasy hair stood out to Joaquim as though outlined in gold-leaf and fire; Joaquim knew him, from somewhere, but he could not say where.

  “What are you doing to that boy?” Joaquim asked, tightening his grip on his short sword and dagger. “Set him down.”

  The man grinned, revealing pink teeth, and spat out a chunk of something. It bounced once on the tile and landed at arm’s reach from Joaquim. Chewed meat. Gristle.

  Bile rose again in Joaquim’s throat, but he forced it down.

  “One,” the man said simply. “I told him one, not this many. And now I can’t find him. He’s hiding, no matter how much I make them scream, and I told him one. Our master will be displeased with this one’s family.” His dark eyes were wide and wild.

  Mouth fixed in a wide grin, the tall man tossed the child over the railing the way Joaquim would toss an orange. The little boy let out a wheezing, breathy scream from his broken throat before he hit the ground. A wet thud, like a melon splitting, cut off his cry.

  Joaquim could not bring himself to look. His breath came in short, painful bursts. Stars flecked his vision. The boy’s dying scream hung at the back of his mind, burrowing into his head like burning ants, and he could not take his eyes from the other man.

  The beach. Joaquim’s mind felt like it was breaking; blood ran from his nose. He could not think, could not move. Oh gods take me, the beach.

  For a moment, he saw Viane die again, his hand gripping her throat as he drove the knife into the tender flesh of her stomach, bliss dancing along his skin as he felt the muffled scream trying to escape her throat. Everything seemed to shift, though, like loose embroidery pulled askew, and the pain in Joaquim’s head reached a crescendo. The pain spread out, its filaments reaching the farthest edges of his body, and then rebounded.

  His vision flashed to white, then black. As it cleared, Joaquim could make out, dimly, the beach, but so different from how he had remembered it. Jaecan sailors—not sailors—stood, armed, facing him, ready to kill. The man he had just seen, the man who had killed the boy, stood near a boat, tossing Viane back and forth, the crack of her broken neck filling the silence that had swelled up around Joaquim so that he stood, as though on an island, alone among all the people on the beach.

  Shock, fresh as the spray from the sea, struck Joaquim again as he watched the finely dressed Jaecan man stab Viane. She fell into the surf.

  Joaquim blinked. He knelt by the two dead women, hands aching from his tight grip on his weapons. “You killed her,” he said. The words sounded right, coming out of his mouth, but the second set of memories—Joaquim’s memories of killing Viane himself—persisted, insisted that he was wrong, that he was the killer. “You killed her,” Joaquim repeated. The words were like ice; he grappled with them, and they slid away, but they were a lifeline back to hope. Back to sanity. “You made me think I did it.”

  Surprise flickered over the Jaecan’s face; for a moment, his pink-stained teeth were visible behind the scraggly beard as he grinned. “You were at the beach, yes. I remember you. You left your mark.” He lifted his gold-embroidered shirt, revealing a jagged wound, barely closed, across his side. A trickle of fresh blood ran from the broken scab. “I did not have time to finish with you. Did you like how it felt when you killed her?” He spoke the words so casually that Joaquim recoiled. His hand traced something in the air, and translucent, rainbow streams followed his fingers. Sorcery. Night Sister take him, that’s how he did it.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Joaquim said. He held on to the words as though his life depended on them. “It was you; I would never have harmed Viane.”

  “You did kill her,” the man answered. “You remember the feel of her neck breaking, of the last breath of life escaping her, of the softness of her skin as the blade went in. You killed her, and you loved it. Did you kill these two women too? Perhaps we should find out.”

  He stepped toward Joaquim. Joaquim, heart pounding, breath coming so fast that black spots whirled at the edge of his vision, darted forward, blades whirling. Unused to fighting with a shortsword, Joaquim overestimated his reach and his thrust came short. He stepped in, dagger darting down, aiming for the man’s crotch.

  Somehow, impossibly fast, the Jaecan’s palm connected with Joaquim’s chest. The force of the blow was minor, not even enough to alter the course of the blow, but it brought with it a flare of vertigo. Joaquim stumbled, gripping the landing rail, dagger clattering to the tile as he tried to catch himself. The ground loomed up at him, and Joaquim’s knees buckled.

  The tall man’s fist connected with Joaquim’s jaw. The blow knocked him back, and Joaquim hit the tile on his stomach. Still gripping the short sword, Joaquim tried to roll over, struggling with the dizziness that made everything spin around him. He got onto his knees, sword up.

  The Jaecan was already there, one foot driving into Joaquim’s stomach. Joaquim doubled over, the air rushing from his lungs. Distantly, he heard the clink of metal on stone as the sword left his hand.

  Get up, he told himself, but he didn’t want to move. All Joaquim wanted was to die and be done with all of it. The pain, the fear, the loss—loss of Viane, loss of who he could have been. Something within him cried out to fight, though. To make something better of himself this one time. Joaquim grimaced and flipped over onto his stomach. He lifted himself up on his hands and knees. Everything spun around him; everything hurt. He could see the Jaecan circling him—unless that were simply a side-effect of the vertigo—waiting for Joaquim to move.

  In the act of drawing back one leg to kick Joaquim again, the Jaecan suddenly burst into flame—blue and black flames that hissed like a thousand angry serpents. Joaquim’s dizziness vanished. The tall Jaecan capered in a frenzy, hands tracing shapes in the air, foreign words tumbling from his lips. The stench of burning flesh filled the air. Joaquim gagged again.

  Searching the room for his rescuer, Joaquim’s eyes alighted on a slender old man who stood at the bottom of the stairs. He had his silver-gray hair cut short, almost like a soldier, a longsword hanging at his waist. He held one hand in front of him, crooked into a strange shape, while his lips moved constantly. His eyes were locked on the burning Jaecan.

  With a single, shivering hiss, like water on fire, the blue-black flames vanished. Long, black smears ran along the Jaecan’s skin and clothing, and the strange burns smoked slightly, like the chilled ices Joaquim had seen on summer days. Joaquim scrambled back in a half-crouch, sliding in the blood that had pooled on the landing.

  The Jaecan sorcerer did not pay any attention to him. He shaped something in the air that glittered with multicolored light for half a heartbeat and vanished. The same loud, foreign words filled the air. The old man at the bottom of the stairs paled, but he was moving too, tracing unseen shapes, the air rippling around them, and whispering something Joaquim could not hear. For a moment, the duel between the two men seemed to have reached a standstill.

  In the air in front of the Jaecan, silver-white lines of light appeared as the shape he had traced burst to life, a raging coruscation of energy. The hall dimmed, as though someone had drawn a fine gauze between Joaquim and the polished lamps. With a start, one of t
he dead women sat up, her head wobbling on the savaged throat. The second women joined her a moment later, glassy eyes wandering the room.

  Biting his limp to keep back a whimper, Joaquim froze against the smooth wall of the hall. Panic gripped him, panic so complete that he realized, in a moment of dark irony, that had his terror been any less, he would have scrabbled at the stone wall until his fingers were bloody. As it was, though, he could do little more than stare.

  The old man seemed to be doing little better, although a ruby-hued mist had risen around him, sparkling even in the strangely dimmed light. The Jaecan gave a laugh. Although he gave no command, the women both turned to stare at him, and after a long moment they unsteadily regained their feet and clomped down the stairs toward the old man. Their movements were jerky, unnatural.

  “I can taste your magic on the air,” the Jaecan said. “We are brothers, my friend. It is a pity that you will have to die tonight. A new world is coming.”

  The old man’s face was ashen, whether from fear or exhaustion Joaquim could not tell. “Not brothers,” he said. “I wiped the filth of your empire from this land once before. I think I can handle one of you.”

  The ruby mist surged out, filling the air with the scent of sandalwood and rose. When it faded, the light had returned to normal. Where the tall, handsome Jaecan had stood, Joaquim now saw a desiccated old man, his skin pulled tight against bone, hair left only in clumps.

  The two women, however, were still there, only feet from the old man. Naked fear painted his face, and Joaquim could see him trying to prepare another spell. The women sprang as one, clawing and biting at the old man.

  “That part,” the cadaverous Jaecan said, “at least, was not an illusion. Unfortunately for you. I have learned some of your tricks, old man. They will not be needed in the new world. Death will be no more.”

  He started down the stairs, oblivious to the screams of the dying man.

  Joaquim huddled against the wall for a moment, fighting the panic that threatened to send him gibbering down the hallway and away from the madness he had seen unleashed. A lifetime of selfishness pressed down on him, urging him to hide, to lay low until the Jaecan monster vanished. Bel take me, Joaquim thought. What can I do? He’s a sorcerer; I’m nothing. I couldn’t save Viane; I bloody well can’t even save myself.

  For the second time that night, though, Joaquim dug deep inside himself, past the years of self-indulgence, past the weeks of self-pity and self-loathing, to his core. That old man saved your life, Joaquim told himself, and that monster made you think you killed Viane. You can’t just let him walk away. Bel take me, I might be a failure, but I can at least try to help the man. The first step was the hardest. Another step. And another. His feet were like lead. Joaquim forced himself to move faster, to run. He scooped up short sword and dagger as he went.

  He leapt from the top stair and hit the strange, corpse-like Jaecan hard, sending them both tumbling down the steps. Joaquim drove his dagger into the man’s back as they fell, and he heard the Jaecan give a scream. They hit the ground hard. The crack of bone filled the room, and everything spun around Joaquim. The force of the landing drove the air from his lungs and he could not breathe. The Jaecan threw Joaquim off of him and stood, dagger still sticking out of his back.

  Joaquim, head ringing from the fall, forced himself to stand. He raised his short sword.

  The two women had fallen to the ground, motionless. The old man who had saved Joaquim lay still as well, blood streaming from dozens of wounds on his chest and arms and face. Joaquim could not pay any attention to him, though. The desiccated monster of the man who had been Fashim stared at Joaquim.

  His pale, wasted features were twisted in anger. He drew a shimmering form in the air, and everything seemed to bend around it, as though the world itself suffered from the vertigo that had previously afflicted Joaquim.

  Suddenly everything shifted. Joaquim stumbled, and the Jaecan fell to his knees. Whatever spell he had conjured twinkled away into nothing. A second tremor, stronger, drove Joaquim to his knees as well. With a loud crack, one of the lamps hit the floor, and flames pooled as the oil spread across the marble and the wood-paneled wall.

  The Jaecan twisted, looking over his shoulder as though his gaze could pierce the stone walls, looking east. “They’re back. And they’ve started without me,” he whispered. “How inconsiderate.” Dagger still protruding from his back, he stumbled toward the front of the house.

  Joaquim’s eyes went to the old man who had saved him. If he weren’t dead already, he would be soon; the wounds the dead women had inflicted were terrible. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you, old man,” Joaquim said. “Thank you, though.”

  A loud crack echoed from the hall beyond the double doors. Joaquim tore his gaze from the dying man and hurried after the Jaecan sorcerer. Another man, also Jaecan to judge by his skin, lay at the base of a wall, eyes closed, smoke rising from knives in his hands.

  Joaquim did not spare the man a second glance; one of Bonacore’s lackeys, or maybe one of Sipir’s, arrived too late. Joaquim ached all over, but he forced himself to run, making himself move faster than the fear that threatened to catch up with him. He killed Viane, Joaquim told himself. He killed her, and he made me think I did it. The words were half-condemnation, half-prayer, as Joaquim plunged into the darkened streets of the Tacline. His eyes caught a glimpse of pale, decaying scalp and clumps of rotting hair at the end of the street. Joaquim set off after the Jaecan, hand tightening around his short sword.