Geist

by Philippa Ballantine

  They went on, wrapped in silence and contemplation. Sorcha couldn’t get the images she had seen in the Possibility Matrix out of her mind. Fire was one of the true elements of the geistlords, and were Vermillion to burn, it could mean only one thing: someone wanted to release a hell of a lot of them.

  History was littered with plenty of crazed people’s attempts to reach the deepest parts of the Otherside. All had ended in disaster for the summoner and usually a fair proportion of the innocents around them.

  Sorcha was so concentrated on these dire thoughts that she nearly crawled into Raed. “Not right now,” he quipped as she brushed against his breeches. “Merrick says there is a large pool of water ahead. Shall we risk swimming under it?”

  “Not much choice, unless we want to go back through the Abbey,” she said, suddenly feeling the walls closing in on her.

  They swam, diving down beneath the rock and into the frigid water of the lagoon. Sorcha ducked under, feeling her chest constrict as if a person were sitting on it. Her muscles tensed as she concentrated on not taking a disastrous gulp of water. For a moment it felt as though her arms and legs were made of lead and she might just sink to the bottom of the lagoon. Then the Bond clicked over in her head, guiding her like a compass, swinging reliably north, if north were the two men. Though her skin was stinging uncomfortably, she was able to kick out and swim alongside Raed and Merrick as they popped up in the predawn grayness of the city.

  Together they swam to an empty pier. It looked like they were only a few streets away from the Abbey at the Prince’s Canal. The boats bobbing nearby were painted the bright orange that said they were available for hire, but there was no sign of any ferrymen just yet. This deep into Vermillion, trade was nonexistent until the daylight hours. Activities that required darkness were carried out farther away on the fringes—places that these city-sanctioned ferries would not go.

  As they hauled themselves onto the pier, Merrick gasped through chattering teeth, “We—we are lucky the lagoon isn’t—isn’t frozen.”

  “Yes,” Raed choked, wringing out his cloak in a vain attempt to get dry. “Very damn lucky.”

  Sorcha did the same to her hair before tying it back up against the nape of her neck. The important thing here was to think only one step ahead at a time. If she tried to take in the big picture, she might just seize up. If they were to change the possibilities they had seen in the matrix, then they would need to work at the top of their efficiency—they couldn’t afford to begin doubting. “Now we need to find the others at this tavern and get to Brickmaker’s Lane. No way of telling when those events may happen.”

  Raed nodded, and then smiled wickedly. “If I know the habits of aristocrats at all, it won’t be early. Not much of a reputation for early risers.” He craned his head over the tops of the boats and voiced the one issue that was now bothering Sorcha. “The question is—how do we get to the tavern? Normal observers I can handle, but this Sight thing—”

  “I have an idea,” Merrick chimed in, and raised a leather pouch with the shape of a tin inside. It was a very familiar shape.

  Sorcha’s hand flew to her pockets. It was indeed the very same container she kept her cigars in. “How did you—”

  “Now, now.” The young man’s eyes gleamed with delight at his having managed to fool her. “Some of us weren’t brought up by the Abbey—some of us learned a thing or two beforehand.”

  He pulled the tin out of the pouch and opened it. Inside were not the two remaining cigars Sorcha had gratefully accepted as gifts from the citizens of Ulrich, but a mound of the white rock dust from the cavern.

  Despite their dire situation, she felt rage fill her. “Where are my cigars, Merrick?”

  “I needed to keep this dry, and believe me, this could save—”

  She snatched the tin off him and stared hopelessly at the pile of dust. “Where—where are the cigars?” she choked out. She’d been planning to grab a moment, even just a short one, before heading to Brickmaker’s Lane. Facing imminent death, it was the least she deserved.

  When Merrick pulled the sad, wet remnants out of his pocket she almost sobbed. It was too bitter an end for such a fine smoke as a Nythrumi gold. A crime. Among all the danger, this was the last straw.

  “You better have an explanation, Chambers!”

  At her back, she could hear Raed break into laughter. She understood it was faintly ridiculous to be worrying about her cigars at this point, but damn it, they were the only part of her old life that she had left.

  The young Deacon smiled at her, a reaction that only a few weeks before would have provoked a damn slap in the face. “The rock blocks magic . . . My thinking was, if it could do that, what might it do if used in a cantrip?”

  Through her dismay, Sorcha’s brain clicked over on that concept. The design ylvavita could hide people in plain sight well enough for the ungifted, but wasn’t even worth the bother against Deacons. However, if Merrick was right, then maybe it was. Her cigars would have at least been sacrificed for a worthy cause.

  “I’ll buy you two fine new cigars,” Raed whispered to her in a voice that made her heart pick up its pace. She turned and smiled at him, glad that he’d been able to forgive her the Bond—or at least put it out of his head enough to go on.

  In the end Raed very skillfully jimmied open the ferrymen’s silent building, and they were able to find some clothes there. It felt wrong to stuff their cloaks, Order emblems and talismans into rough sacking bags. Stripped of clothing she’d been wearing since a child, Sorcha felt weakened somehow.

  It was silly, but there it was. Raed was also the expert in disguise, and before she knew it he had them cloaked and looking nothing like two powerful Deacons. Merrick’s hair was twisted at odd angles, his face smeared with dirt, and, at the Pretender’s direction, he even dragged his foot a little.

  He concealed Sorcha’s femininity with extra clothes, and tied the bundle of sacks on her back. It wasn’t heavy, but it was still slightly galling. It was with some grim humor that she cleaned the first cantrip off Raed’s forehead. “All right, let’s see if this works.” Dipping her finger in the dust, she drew the new design, all curls and flourishes on his warm skin, and then turned to Merrick.

  The younger Deacon let his Center fall away; she could feel it like it was her own. He cast his head from side to side. “I think it works. If I’m not looking specifically for you, my Sight slides off you.”

  “As long as he doesn’t do anything to draw attention,” Sorcha commented wryly, to which Raed let out a little chuckle. “If I can sacrifice my cigars, then you can sacrifice your pirate swagger. Now, Merrick, try the cantrip on me.”

  He did so and then stood back to examine the effect. “Not quite as effective, but in a crowd of people I think it would hold.”

  It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was all they had. Readjusting their disguises, they went out into the street. Luckily away from the Prince’s Canal, trade was beginning to pick up; three more disheveled porters made not one jot of difference. They worked their way, dodging carts and streams of pedestrians, to Dyer’s Lane and the little tavern called the Red Flag. The street reeked of the trade it was named for, but at least it was a stench of this world.

  Raed had a quiet word with the craggy-faced proprietor and they were led out to a back room where Aachon and the crew, as well as Nynnia and her father, were waiting. Their faces showed the feral looks of the hunted. Sorcha guessed the same expression was on her face.

  “What did you find out, my prince?” Aachon cut straight to the point, his dark eyes lingering only momentarily on their garb.

  “The Arch Abbot has been taken and the Grand Duchess will be sacrificed, most likely by day’s end.” Raed took a seat next to his first mate and poured himself a tankard of ale. No one said a word until he had drunk his fill. He let out a satisfied gasp and dropped the tumbler back to the table. “And what’s more, forces unknown have something called a Possibility Matrix, in which the
y can see the future.”

  The crew members’ eyes widened at that. Frith swore, “By the Ancients, Captain—if they can do that, how can we beat them?”

  Nynnia sat staring into her cup of ale. Almost too quietly to be heard, she said, “The future is a very fragile thing. The possibilities are always changing. If we move quickly enough and act unpredictably enough, it is not impossible to beat.”

  Sorcha gave her a startled look as the feeling in the back of her head changed from a niggle of little importance into something far more concerning. “What can you possibly know of such things?” she barked.

  “I know much, Deacon Faris.” She raised her eyes until they met Sorcha’s. Suddenly the world contracted around the slim young woman’s form. None but the Deacons in the room could feel it, but whatever cunning mask she had fashioned for herself had now slipped.

  Sorcha pushed back from the table and leapt to her feet. “What are you?” she demanded.

  Merrick’s Center flared as he too surged upright. “Nynnia?” His voice cracked even as he stood at Sorcha’s side.

  Nynnia remained seated, calm, but her father leapt up. “Foolish Deacons! You only ever see what you want to.” The old man’s eyes bulged and his fists clenched at his side. If his relationship with Nynnia was an act, it was a damn good one.

  She is not a geist. Merrick’s voice in Sorcha’s head was steady, despite what was being revealed. I cannot tell what she is, but she is not one of their kind. Dazzled as he was by Nynnia, Sorcha still did not doubt his skill.

  Nynnia spoke but did not look directly at Merrick. “You know something of the Murashev.” No expression touched her young features, but her eyes were swimming with power. “Therefore you cannot be ignorant of what it could do in this world. We have very little time. Do you want to stay and argue or save this world?”

  For a moment they stood there, frozen in a tableau: the Deacons poised, Kyrix glaring, the crew looking about in confusion and Nynnia the calm center of it all.

  Sorcha could hear her heart beating in her chest, yet much as she hated to trust Nynnia—they had no other choice. And she had saved Merrick’s life. Slowly both Deacons took their seats.

  Nynnia turned her head and looked out the grubby window. “What else did you see in the waters?” she asked, her tone as distant as if she were asking about the weather or the price of embroidery thread.

  “We saw Vermillion burning,” Merrick muttered.

  “Sorry to hear about Vermillion,” Aachon said coldly, “but why should we care about the usurper’s sister?”

  Sorcha was about to open her mouth and reply when Nynnia suddenly flung herself across the table. The tumble was so unexpected that the others seated around her had only time to gape as she spun past them and collided with a man who had come up behind them.

  For a second Sorcha thought the creature had gone quite mad, and she was ready to come to the aid of the other patron when she saw the gleam of metal in his hand. Then everything got more confused. Shouts rang out as Raed spun around to face the dozen or so intruders. The crew leapt to his defense, while Merrick and Sorcha scrambled to get out of the way as the giant Aachon picked up the table and threw it at those threatening his captain. A bar fight was obviously not an unknown situation for these men, but Sorcha also managed to get in a few punches while chaos reigned.

  Yet it was Nynnia who was the center of the storm. Her lithe body, which had seemed beautiful but useless, now revealed itself to have the elegance of a deadly dancer. She spun and whirled, knocking men aside with graceful kicks that should have been set to music. While the crew of the Dominion fought with deft brutality, it was Nynnia whom Sorcha could not stop watching.

  The fight was over quickly; the thugs who were not sent streaming from the tavern were lying unconscious on the floor. “Nynnia!” Merrick’s horrified yell stopped the others in mid-congratulations. The slim woman was staring down numbly at the handle of the knife buried just below her ribs; blood was staining her petal-colored dress. It was a deadly wound, tilted upward into vital organs.

  But before Merrick could reach her, Nynnia’s father, who had stayed beyond the battle, moved to her. With a little grunt, Kyrix pulled the knife loose. After exchanging a glance with his daughter, he threw the dagger away without even looking at it. It clanged into the corner.

  “Nynnia?” Merrick took her arm as if he expected her to fall over. She didn’t stop him as his fingers gingerly explored the gash in her robe. Beneath, there was nothing but smooth flesh. “Nynnia . . . you should . . . What—” He paused to catch his breath.

  “We have no time for explanations.” She pressed the tips of her long fingers against the line of his jaw. “I am more than you think, that is true, but I also have the same aims as you—to stop the Murashev and save Vermillion.” She looked around at the others. “Do you trust me?”

  They looked at her hard, then around at one another. Sorcha didn’t want to influence them, so she stayed silent. She’d made up her own mind. Whatever Nynnia was, she was powerful, and they needed all the friends they could get at this point. Still, if Raed and his crew rejected her, Sorcha would stand with them.

  “She could have let the Captain get a knife in the ribs,” Frith said in a low voice, and the others nodded in agreement.

  Aachon’s dark eyes didn’t look as convinced, but he glanced at Raed. “It is up to you, my prince.”

  The Pretender shrugged, and pronounced his verdict with a broad grin. “Beautiful, powerful women don’t fall into your lap every day—just what this venture needs, I say.”

  Sorcha heard Nynnia murmur a question to Merrick, but couldn’t quite make it out. If they were going to face the Murashev, she found herself wanting him to have a little happiness.

  “She saved your life once,” Sorcha said reluctantly to Merrick. “Now she’s saved Raed—what more does a girl have to do to get your attention?”

  The young Deacon pulled Nynnia in and kissed her hard. Sorcha looked away; there was a limit. For once, the woman—if that was what she was—looked flustered, her cheeks rosy with a becoming blush. “We must move quickly. These thugs will be just the beginning.”

  Raed quickly strode toward the back door, but as the rest followed, Sorcha turned in the other direction. She grabbed hold of the publican who was carefully avoiding looking straight at them. He looked too guilty for her liking. With the careful application of force as taught to all novices, Sorcha had him facedown on his own bar in seconds. He winced slightly as his earthenware cups went tumbling to the floor; two smashed loudly. Sorcha knew in his tiny brain he was trying to work out how a woman two heads shorter than him had him pinned down. Before he could decide to put up a fight, she hissed into his ear. “What is happening at Brickmaker’s Lane today?”

  Obviously the question was as simple as he was, because a grin spread over his face and he gabbled an answer. “The Emperor and the Grand Duchess are opening the public fountain destroyed by geist attack last month.” She patted the publican on the cheek, released him and followed the others out the back.

  Brickmaker’s was only three streets over. Catching up with them, she reported her findings. “Zofiya will indeed be nearby and probably in the next hour or so. She’ll be officiating the reopening instead of her brother, since the little goddess Myr has jurisdiction over water.”

  “The fountain.” Merrick was a smart lad; even with stars in his eyes for Nynnia, he recalled the case.

  “What is the significance of the fountain?” Raed was checking the exit from the alleyway, but his mind was more than capable of juggling several tasks.

  “It was destroyed by a swarm of rei.” Sorcha was pressing her memory hard; it had seemed such a trivial event, the last dying breath of a cluster of crisis near the fringe of the city. Rei were generally thought to be the souls of the drowned, drawn to the energy of water and delighting in making mischief by disrupting it. Vermillion—like every port city—drew them, with its combination of water and people.
Still, as annoying as they were, they could also cause real damage—destroying pipes was their particular specialty. No one liked their sewage being interfered with, but it was even worse when public fountains bore the brunt of their mischief. Everyone was affected then, as no one could drink safely from the lagoon.

  “The rei swarm didn’t just destroy the pipes.” Merrick snapped his fingers finally, recalling the rest of the memory. “They wrecked the fountain and the pipe feeding it, right to the mains. They had to spend weeks digging back to fix it—back to the old ossuary, I think.”

  Sorcha’s chest contracted as if she’d been punched, so much so that she had to lean back against the wall of the building for a second. The Bond vibrated so loudly with her new fears that Merrick—and even Raed—gasped.

  Her partner suddenly realized what he had said. “The ossuary! By the Bones!”

  “Literally,” Sorcha snapped, feeling the circle joining itself back up.

  “Again”—Raed crossed his arms—“with the lack of information.”

  Sorcha stamped her foot to illustrate her point. “Beneath us right now is the First Ossuary. Vermillion is a very, very old city, and two hundred years ago there were simply too many bodies filling up all the graves—nowhere to put new ones. So they had to fill the caves on the fringe with the bones.”

  Nynnia made a face. “Digging up the dead, in a city infected with geists?”

  “No, it wasn’t pretty.” Merrick squeezed her hand. “But from the records of the native Order, they were eventually able to get the city under control. Burning the bones would have been even worse.”

  “That has got to be where the Murashev is being created.” Sorcha blinked, thinking of the last time she had been down there; the endless rows of skulls and bones stacked upon one another. The recollection made her shiver. Even though she’d been a member of a Deacon Conclave, the looming menace had still been palpable. The White Palace, the locals called it, as if it was a mirror image of the Imperial Palace above.