Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  "I think you may be exaggerating the depth of their interest,” I say striving to sound casual even as something tightens in my chest.

  "Of course they're interested. With your mysterious past, coupled with your stunning beauty and ... how can I say it? Exotic eyes ... they're quite helpless to resist. When Lia went missing, I hear that Cho's rage was immense."

  "Rage? I heard him tell Lia that he was worried. The Mor—"

  "Oh, indeed he was. Worried sick, I suppose. But angry even more. She defied his will when she left the safety of the College, you see. He thought that there, in the north, amongst some of the most powerful mages, she, and his dynasty would be safe. But then she left, and then you—"

  "Brought her back to him,” I finish. I nod as pieces click together: Argus Cho's obvious displeasure with me; Lia's nervousness at meeting him.

  "Yes, indeed. You could have taken her anywhere. Disappeared into the wild and survived for years, if what I've heard about your woodcraft is even half true. Kept her hidden from the Mor until the enemy decided to give up on this most recent ... unpleasantness. Instead, you brought her into the thick of the fighting."

  "But, she said she wanted to come here to assist with his defense of the Armitage,” I say, wondering as I mouth the words why I care about justifying myself to him. “I only wanted to help,” I finish, awkwardly. I take a long swallow of my wine, draining the glass.

  "Of course you did. Of course.” He reaches out and pats my arm with his long-fingered hand. I look at it, notice the golden ring is a signet, its face turned inwards, towards his palm, hidden from my sight. “And, for what it's worth, I think what you did was amazing."

  "And what do you know of what I have done?” I ask, not trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.

  "Those who witnessed Lia's ... who witnessed your run through the enemy lines were amazed,” he replies with a shrug. “The tale, naturally, spread. I know many of your company died in the attempt, and for that I am truly sorry. But afterwards, I tried to keep track of what happened to everyone.” His contradictory eyes meet mine. “Especially you."

  A warm rush goes through me at his flattery. It is mixed with the barest hint of something else, something vaguely unpleasant, like the too-sweet odor of decay which sometimes floats above the scent of flowers at a funeral. “Me? Why? Why would anybody care about me?"

  "Oh, curiosity, I suppose,” he says with a shrug. “Plus, and I hope it doesn't offend you to hear me say it, but right from the start there were ... rumors ... of your beauty. It intrigued me."

  I feel a blush creeping along the back of my neck, even as my sister snorts in amused contempt. Oh, please, she barks. This one would call a one-legged fishwife a princess if he found himself companionless on a festival night. Mark my words: his fascination will last just as long as it takes you to pull your skirts back down.

  I bristle at her comment but remain silent. It will not do to begin whispering to myself before this man.

  "Now you show your true colors, sir,” I say. “Always it comes down to beauty with a man. And yet, so often, such assertions seem to evaporate, like dew, in the morning. It does not help your cause that I know full well what I look like, and can recognize the empty flattery in your praise."

  The stranger pauses, as if reevaluating me. He smiles, the expression more bittersweet than charming now, and says, “Do you truly think so? Interesting that you cannot see what is so obvious to others."

  "And what would that be?"

  "What you really are,” he says, draining his own glass. His smile deepens, almost lupine now, the grin of a predator.

  I flinch, dropping my eyes and raising my glass, trying to give myself time to ponder his intentions, but it is empty, and only makes me look more nervous. “You ... you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You have my name, and seem to know so much about me, but I don't know yours."

  "Of course. How rude of me. I am Rath, youngest son of Tomas Lan.” He gives me an affected courtier's bow, folding himself gracefully over one outstretched leg. Somehow, despite the contortions, he does not spill his wine.

  The Lans; I remember the name, my sister says. She, too sounds troubled and distracted. They are ... a very old family. One of the Founders. Mother said they hit hard times a few generations back—something about some unfortunate investments that did not work out if I remember correctly—but they were restored to favor when Emperor Berthold took the throne.

  "Milady?” Rath says. “Something troubles you?"

  I shake my head. The harsh, predatory leer is gone, so completely that I wonder if I really saw it in the first place. He cocks his head, as if he does not understand the depth of my reaction, once again every bit the mildly interested and faintly amused courtier.

  "Tell me of your home,” he says, gesturing for a servant to bring us fresh glasses.

  "I ... it is a fishing village, far to the north. You wouldn't know it,” I say.

  "Try me. I do so love old maps, particularly of the north. All those valleys and glaciers and such. Lovely country, or so I hear. I have never been, of course, but if I had known the wilderness was home to such beauty, I would have tried harder to visit.” His eyes roam down my body, languidly tracing the glowing lines of the naraja like fingertips. They trail lower, finally coming to rest at the point of my bodice. I feel a blush warming my ears.

  "Surely it is a place much too insignificant to merit the attention of such a sophisticated and cultured man,” I reply, hoping that the flattery will cause him to drop his eyes. Guilt mixes with the warm flush, sitting against my skin like cold sweat: chill and distasteful. I look across the room for Lia, but she is still with her father and another man, young and clean-limbed, dressed in a robe of rich blue, oblivious to our exchange.

  I feel more than see him turn his eyes to follow mine. “He watches his daughter like a hawk, does he not?” Rath asks.

  "Yes,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “I wonder why? She is a woman grown, tested in battle and proven in all other ways."

  "Argus Cho is every bit as much politician as mage,” Rath says promptly. “He has much invested in his only daughter, make no mistake. That's why he cares so much about you, of course."

  "I still don't see why. Mistress Cho and I are good friends. What we went through together ... it's natural she would want me near her. And I'm happy to stay close, if it makes her feel safe."

  Rath favors me with a long look, then shrugs. “Friendship is a wonderful thing. Especially between women. I'm envious of your closeness. You are truly lucky in your ... relationship."

  "Thank—"

  Before I can finish, Rath continues, “But you must always remember that everything you do will be seen, then gossiped about, until it finds its way back to Argus Cho. It's just the way it is with the court, nothing personal. Mistress Lia, bless her, has always been so worried about his good opinion. Why wouldn't she be? He is her father after all. If one were to do anything to garner his disapproval, well..."

  He allows the unspoken threat to hang.

  "Now then,” he says, “if you will not tell me of your home then I have no choice but to puzzle it out for myself. I do so love a good mystery.” His queer, dark eyes fix on mine. Tiny maroon sparks dance in them, reflected firelight maybe. He seems completely untroubled by my black eyes; if anything, he looks intrigued.

  "Let's see,” Rath says, his eyes staring into mine as if trying to read my thoughts. “You certainly have appropriate manners, that much is certain. Trained in all the proper courtesies, but the forms are somewhat archaic. Subtleties in the language and such. Your skin and hands are as rough as a field hand's, and your nails are trimmed short, so the stories about your being a scout must be true, as improbable as they seem, but your fine, high cheekbones show good breeding in your pedigree..."

  "Now you make me sound like a horse,” I interrupt, crossly. I do not understand what he means by this examination, and I do not like it.

  "Forgive me. I fancy mys
elf a bit of a detective, and I fear I've insulted you. I meant no harm by it. I suppose too long an exposure to the court has warped my own good intentions."

  "I ... I accept your apology, good sir,” I say, falling back on propriety. “I should not have taken offense where none was meant. Now, if you will excuse me—"

  "One last thing, if I may,” he says, placing a hand on my arm. It is hot and dry, like a fever victim's, and despite myself, I pause. He withdraws a slender card, white as snow, from his sleeve.

  "If you need anything; anything at all, please don't hesitate to call on me. I have had a lifetime to learn the ways of the court, and I daresay I can help you. If, of course, you feel you need it. I'd hate for you to inadvertently blunder into some bored nobleman's or noblewoman's pathetic attempt to curry favor by diminishing our esteemed Argus Cho."

  I take the card, automatically, stuffing the stiff linen into a sleeve. “Thank you, sir, but I daresay I can manage. After the Mor, this seems like a weak sort of peril."

  "It isn't,” he says, deadly serious. “And, trust me, after what you did on the wall, well, you have their interest piqued."

  I turn aside to leave, then freeze. “What ... what I did on the wall? How do you...?"

  "Oh, everyone knows,” he says, dismissively. “Did you truly think that saving the life of the noble Lord Garrett would go unnoticed? Brilliant work, and so timely. Why, if we'd lost yet another Head of a House...” He shivers a bit at his own thought. “Perhaps you might share with me the secret of such a marvelous ability some evening. Over dinner?” He smiles at me, his leer now that of a seasoned raconteur. Not for the first time I ask myself what I am getting into with this man, even as my traitorous body responds with a fresh blush.

  "Kirin! There you are!” Lia calls out from behind, startling me. I drop my eyes and flinch away from Rath. My blush deepens, my ears burning so hot that even a blind woman could see them.

  "Kirin, is everything all right? You look troubled,” Lia says, forming her words more carefully than usual. She has a glass of wine in her hand, nearly empty. I know it is not her first, or even her third.

  "I will excuse myself. But please do think about my offer,” Rath says. He sketches a brief bow before withdrawing, muttering polite nothings to Lia over his shoulder. The crowd swallows him completely.

  "His offer?” Lia asks, a crease marring the skin between her brows. She smiles, but I know her well enough to recognize the tension in it. “Gathering admirers already, are we?"

  "It was nothing,” I say. “Just the usual unwelcome attention from unmarried men. I'm sure you know all about that."

  "The married ones can be no better, you know,” she says with a very un-Lia-like snort. “Why, just now, Horace McGrath practically drooled down the front of my gown. His wife gave me the rudest stare, as if it were my fault. But I suppose she really cannot be blamed, seeing as how Lord McGrath was recently caught red-handed dallying with—"

  "I'm sorry. You needed me for something?” I ask, cutting off the gossip I can tell is about to ensue. My sister groans in disappointment.

  "Oh, yes, of course, I wanted you to meet an old friend of mine. His name is Westyn of the house of Obarre. We played together as children. Oh, and I wanted you to meet my father's banker. He says he has some advice for how you can invest your salary. True, it is not much, but we—you, I mean—must plan ahead, yes?” I nod and she leads me back into the crowd.

  She introduces me to the young man in blue I saw her with earlier. Westyn is two years Lia's senior, a recently-graduated hydromancer. His eyes seldom leave her, lingering on her face and form, even when she is not directly addressing him. I remind myself that even rich and powerful men, trained in the arts of abjuration, are still just men, and that his glances don't mean anything.

  As I stand with Lia and Westyn, their bright reminiscences flowing around me like river water around a boulder, I find myself looking for Rath more than I would like. I feel the tracks of unseen eyes on my skin, real or imagined I do not know. When I look up, I often find Argus Cho watching me. Always, his eyes are as hard and impenetrable as the stone walls he defends, giving away nothing.

  Hours later, I stand on one of the manor's many balconies. A breeze threads chill fingers through my hair, caressing the back of my neck like the cold hands of a corpse. The Armitage looms above me, lit now, like every night, by the light of innumerable fires. Occasionally, some event, an enemy attack or one of the elementalists’ counter-attacks, sends a rolling wave of thunder across the rooftops of the nighttime City.

  Up there, men and woman fight and die against the Mor, while just below these bright, shining folk revel. Not for the first time, nor the last, I suspect, I wonder what I am doing here. For once, my sister does not chastise me for my scandalous thoughts.

  Laughter swells behind me, mixed with polite applause, as the musicians begin a new tune. I hear my name called: Lia, asking me to join in the dance. I set my shoulders and turn towards the open doors, moving as if towards my own execution.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER NINE

  It is sunny and warm on the day that the 103rd draws customs duty. The men, for the most part, are overjoyed at the assignment, and the announcement is greeted with cheers and smiles. As soon as Sergeant Cyr breaks the news, the men begin gathering their weapons and other gear, chatting and smiling as they do. It is the first time I have ever seen them react to orders with such enthusiasm.

  "What does that mean, customs duty?” I ask Malthus, a tanner's son from the City's western side. He has been a great boon to me so far, instructing me on many things, from the expectations of the army and its officers, to the geography and practicalities of living in the Imperial City.

  "It means that we won't have to spend the week atop this bloody wall being shot at for one,” he replies with a gap-toothed grin. “Come on: grab your kit and your ammunition. This is a choice assignment, you'll see."

  I move to comply, slinging my quiver across my back. My unstrung bow I carry with me, like a staff. Soon, I hear the sergeant bellowing for us to fall into ranks.

  The 103rd marches out from the wall with the sun on our faces. It warms our backs as we make our way south along the Gold Road, and soon I am sweating in my leather breastplate. It feels strange to be walking through the City while on duty, someplace other than atop the wall. I look back at it as we march away, and frown.

  "Come now, Kirin,” Malthus says. “The Mor'll still be there when we return. Don't fret."

  I turn away with a rueful shake of my head. My first chaotic week on the wall left little time to get acquainted with the men in my company, a situation made worse by the rumors of sorcery that followed. I hope that time will lessen the wariness I have seen in the men's eyes So far, it has not.

  Malthus is the exception. Ever since that first day, he has fought beside me on the firing line or toiled with me at whatever duty the army has seen fit to assign. If he is bothered by the whispered rumors, he gives no sign.

  Damn the priests, and their fear-mongering. The goddess Shanira is not the only power in the world that can heal. The proof is in Lia's intact hands and Garrett's life. But as long as their dogma brands me a heretic for using my power, I must be careful, and conceal its existence whenever I can.

  And what else could you do? my sister asks. Used the healing skills learned from your mistress in Lauran's hospital? Noble as that is, you know your heart would not be satisfied while there are Mor still left to kill. Besides, such a posting carries its own dangers.

  She is right. Just imagining having to spend all my time amongst the wounded and the dead, constantly tempted to employ the power of the blood magic or, worse, the sight in my secret eye, makes me shiver.

  No. It is better this way. I belong atop the wall, bow in hand and a target at the point of my arrow. Things are simpler that way. Clearer. And the temptations to use my abhorrent powers are far, far fewer.

  It takes us the better part of the mornin
g to reach our destination, wending our way through the crowds and carriages. The Gold Road is the Empire's main thoroughfare, a mighty artery of trade and commerce, connecting the Imperial City with the fertile breadbasket of the south. I know from my childhood geography lessons that the Road runs alongside the river Mos for nearly a thousand miles, through the prairies and deserts of the southern lands, until its end in the faraway city of Shul.

  Where the road meets the natural barrier of the Northwatch Cliffs, it expands across the plateau into a paved, open space that dwarfs even the Imperial Courtyard just inside Lion's Mouth. Buildings line the flagstone-surfaced court—countless inns, warehouses and office buildings, all dedicated to servicing the millions of travelers that pass this way.

  Even this late in the season, with winter's unmistakable chill in the air, the yard is choked with people and animals. I see the garb of dozens of cultures, from the thick, white furs of the Vaenir, denizens of the eternal white fields far to the north, to the gauzy brilliance of the nomadic southern tribes. Herds of cattle, sheep and camels bray and moo, their low cries contrasting with the higher-pitched calls of six-limbed woodstriders and shaggy-coated aurochs. A thick stew of human odor and language floats through the air, scenting it with a heady, baffling melange.

  And everywhere, as far a the eye can see, are the wagons, in every possible variety, from the simple to the bizarre, some small enough to be pulled by a single mule, others titanic, sixteen-wheeled rolling fortresses that can only be pulled by an entire herd of aurochs.

  Cranes hang over the cliff side, their skeletal arms as thick as a leafless forest. The mammoth constructs rise into the winter sky, leaning over the sheer drop. Men scurry at their bases, leading teams of harnessed oxen around circular tracks. As the oxen walk, their movement turns mighty wooden wheels, through which thick cables run. They pass through a bewildering array of blocks and pulleys, then up to the crane arms above.