Her Orallach beast bared his elongated canines at Sayuri. It was insulting that the same animal had slept contently while his mistress whipped Zaethan’s feet just hours prior.
“Today’s session is concluded.” Dmitri gathered his walking cane abruptly. “All but Lady Boreal are dismissed. Please, leave us.”
Zaethan stood with the others, but had no intention of leaving them alone.
“She’s rabid, Ira,” Sayuri declared as the al’Haidren to Bastiion opened the door for them to exit. “Absolutely rabid!”
Dmitri looked expectantly to Zaethan. In a wordless exchange, Zaethan’s gaze bounced to the upset y’siti and back to his charge. There was danger in isolation, and the prince knew it. Nevertheless, Dmitri’s eyelids fell before he tilted his chin toward the corridor, a clear reinforcement of his earlier dismissal. Bridled into obedience, Zaethan downed the remainder of his bwoloa, slammed the glass onto the tabletop, and left Orynthia’s foolish prince to learn for himself.
Entering the lofty, sweeping hall outside the Quadrennal chambers, Zaethan kneaded the back of his neck as he turned eastward, toward his office in the guard house. Suddenly, his arm dropped rigidly to his side. Near the wall of arched windows, brightly lit by the midday sun, General Lateef nodded in conversation with a braided man. While the alpha’s face wasn’t in view, the wicked scar on the shaved side of his skull was enough to identify his rival. Zaethan’s teeth ground against each other.
Wekesa.
Zaethan approached them, making an effort to relax his shoulders. “Owàamo, General.”
“Ah, owàamo,” General Lateef muttered with a gruff nod. “Alpha Wekesa and I were waiting for your little cub party to disband. The commander asked that we relay your orders before joining him to evaluate Wekesa’s pryde and their assignment in the Proper.”
The general gestured at the third man, who reclined smugly against the nearest column.
Zaethan took his time assessing his rival, savoring the intimate view of the scar he’d carved into Wekesa’s head during their final challenge. It had not healed well, but in an unseemly patchwork of discolored flesh. Unblinkingly, Zaethan met Wekesa’s coal eyes. They were usually ravenous, each poisoned with an unquenchable anger. Never changing, even when they were cubs in child’s play. But today, a spark of victory had settled in his dark irises; a spark Zaethan needed to extinguish before it grew into a wildfire.
“Zaethan,” Wekesa said in place of an appropriate greeting, jutting his long chin higher.
Taking two steps forward, Zaethan squared his shoulders and brought his chest an inch away from the subordinate alpha.
“Again,” Zaethan coolly suggested.
“Owàamo,” Wekesa bit out, though his line of sight did not waver, “Alpha Zà.”
Zaethan gave him a lazy grin before pivoting back to Lateef. “What orders do you bring me, General?”
“Our commander has arranged the delivery of certain…southern indulgences…for the king’s private enjoyment. Tonight’s shipment requires a stand-in,” the general explained. “You are to arrive at The Veiled Lady at quarter past midnight and retrieve the next shipment from Salma Nabhu. She is expecting a proxy. Order the ‘Crown Special’ at the tavern bar. You will be escorted to her office. Take the shipment and bring it to a Darakaian cross-caste named Druska, in the kitchens. He will see it’s delivered to the king’s chambers.”
Zaethan swallowed the bitterness foaming in his mouth. Wekesa watched his features as they contorted, obviously anticipating Zaethan’s poor reaction to the assignment. It was an errand. His father had sent Zaethan’s greatest rival to deploy him on a smuggler run.
“Shamàli, General, might I volunteer one of my pryde or a less recognizable party?” He phrased the request carefully, so as not to question his superior.
“Ano zà.” Lateef jerked his head, leaving no room to refute. “Your father’s orders were very specific. He also tasked me to relay that, had you not been late the past week of morning drills, he wouldn’t have to assign you during the night. Like yourself, he says, smugglers are not known for their punctuality.”
Zaethan heard a snicker from behind and shifted to see an arrogant smirk pulling Wekesa’s rough skin into a series of creases. He made no attempt to hide it, for Wekesa didn’t need to anymore. Their commander called him Jwona rapiki, and it would not be long until Wekesa attempted to write over the fate of Zaethan’s victory for the title of Alpha Zà.
Without an unexpected advantage, Wekesa could take it. He could rip it away. Zaethan knew it, as did his rival. It wasn’t overconfidence, it was acknowledgment. Had Wekesa not slipped in the wet earth as it had begun to rain that vicious day of their challenge, the ugly scar he now bore would’ve marked Zaethan as inferior. It had been intended for him until that timely downpour, and neither man was able to forget it.
“Fine,” Zaethan said, then turned to address his rival. “But before I go…Wekesa, starting tonight, five of your pryde will pull double rotation in the Proper. You may report directly to the commander now, Wekesa,” he added darkly, “but your pryde still belongs to me. Their efforts have been futile, so I will give them no relief until this killer is found. And for each new body discovered, another in your pryde will lose sleep. Yeye qondai?”
Wekesa’s wide nostrils flared. “Uni.”
“Again!”
“Uni. Zà. Alpha. Zà.” Emphasizing each syllable, Wekesa sluggishly brought his right fist to his heart and then let it swing limply to his side.
Zaethan’s gaze lingered on Wekesa before remembering the general. “Shàla’maiamo, General. I will see that my father’s task is carried out.”
Striking his chest, he lowered his face to their superior and was just turning to leave when the doors of the Quadrennal chamber slammed into the adjacent wall. The witch released a snarl of frustration as she and the wolx stormed in the opposite direction, ripping a string of metal beads out of her own hair in the process. She looked positively feral, and Zaethan’s jaw clenched at the soreness in his boots.
That y’siti better show her witchiron soon, he thought, or I am going to cut it off her.
Zaethan’s index finger circled the rim of his glass impatiently before he kicked back the contents with a grimace. The bwoloa seared his gut as it made impact. It tasted terrible.
Zaethan hated cheap bwoloa.
“Another,” he barked to the tightlipped barkeep. He slid two copper crupas to the man, who grunted in response.
It was unclear whether the fellow was unable to respond, or simply refused to add to Zaethan’s illuminating conversation as he waited inside The Veiled Lady. After Zaethan ordered the “Crown Special”, the barkeep disappeared for a handful of minutes only to return in utter silence. It’d been an hour since then, and patience was not a prominent quality of Kasim men.
He spun on the stool to resume his watch over the tavern and its evening rabble. Packed with thirsty yancies and tired sentries, Zaethan estimated Salma would be content with her profits tonight. A diverse array of beautiful women swathed in colorful scarves catered to the gambling tables, their laughter and flirtation enticing poor fools into deeper debt. In the darker corners, curtains disguised pockets of pleasure and pathways to the tavern’s darker dealings. Salma Nabhu was a true entrepreneur who understood the value of limiting supply to a sea of demand.
Lukewarm glass touched his forearm. The barkeep nudged it across the lacquered wood and pointed to a staircase opposite them, where Salma waited at the top. With a graceful crook of her finger, she gestured for him to ascend before again disappearing behind a fall of heavy fabric.
“About time,” Zaethan grumbled.
Clutching his drink, he pushed between the drunken patrons and made his way up the narrow steps. Sweeping the drape of opaque velvet to the side, he entered a dimly lit hallway. His entry was immediately halted by two meaty guards: one Uni
tarian, the other a Darakaian cross-caste like Salma, each taller than Kumo.
An inviting chuckle drifted toward them from a cracked door at the end of the hall. Flickering light danced over the maroon damask rugs inside the room.
“He is the one, Ràoko,” Salma called to the cross-caste, who appeared to be her appointed lead. “I must speak to the jaha.”
Permitted to pass, Zaethan offered the surly guard a toothy grin and strolled into Salma’s private office. Tipping an imaginary hat, he winked at the middle-aged businesswoman.
“You certainly know how to keep a man waiting, Salma.” Zaethan took a seat on the divan and raised his half-empty glass. “I was starting to wonder if all I’d get from you is this cut-rate bwoloa.”
“And still you kept buying it.” Her eyes sparkled deviously. “But eh, it is a treat to see you, Jaha. It’s been too long since you joined your men, yeah?”
Salma rose fluidly from her satin armchair and crossed the room to an ornate, wooden desk.
“They do fine without me. Takoda won’t shut up about some new yaya you recruited.” Zaethan rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “He’d probably drag her home to Halona if he could.”
“Uni, if he could. The girl does well here, happy, fed, with family. He comes often, your cub warrior.” She bent to pick up a shabby crate, the clinking indicating its contents. “But I was pleased to find it was you who came for this, not he.”
Salma rested the crude box on the short table between them. Drawing back the pigskin duster, she revealed a set of dark red bottles. Zaethan sucked in a breath. Apparently, Orynthia’s king had developed a taste for pammu. Mworran pammu.
Zaethan rubbed his chin, considering the bottles on the table which could only be obtained through some very risky black-market trade. “This is highly illegal, Salma.”
“Eh, but what isn’t these days?”
“It’s a dangerous game, playing the hands and feet in the transaction of another.”
“You should know, son of Kasim,” Salma quipped, “for we are sitting here together.”
She produced two goblets and commenced pouring the syrupy liquid. It reminded him of clotted gore. When Salma proceeded to fill the second, Zaethan hastily covered it.
“Ano, ano. None for me.” He shook his head adamantly, adding a polite “shamàli”, when she gestured to his bwoloa in hand. “I’ve already had enough for one evening.”
“You amuse me, Jaha, still clinging to our native tongue and its leash.” Salma fell back and laughed musically. Her tight coils bounced as she gracefully rested her chin upon the edge of her hand. “A proper ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ doesn’t sting too much, yeah? Surely a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt.” The look in her eyes made it clear that pammu wasn’t all Salma was offering.
“We all maintain our allegiances,” Zaethan said, brushing off her suggestion. “Besides, how do I know this brew isn’t as foul as the shtàka your barkeep serves, eh?”
“I test my product personally,” she emphasized, taking a slow sip of the dark red liquor. “I’m surprised it doesn’t suit your palate.”
“As a general rule, I tend to avoid bloodlike brews when they’re smuggled in from a nation of cannibals.”
While the rumors were simply that, one could never be sure that fermented pam sap and withered beetles were the only contents of a bottle coming out of Mworra. Orynthia was technically at peace with the Mworrans, but all trade with Calluc, their largest mining tribe, was currently outlawed due to the longstanding conflict between Mworra and Razôuel, Orynthia’s highly temperamental ally. Zaethan’s father was tempting many political forces by contracting Darakaian smugglers to secure the Mworran liquor, even for the king.
“Men gravitate toward mystery.” Salma wiped a drop of pammu from her moistened lip. “Taste is not so different.”
“Mysteries are dangerous,” Zaethan remarked, setting down his empty glass in order to latch the crate and grip it in both hands.
“As are the rules which require them, Jaha,” she replied in a strange tone, then called for her lead guard.
Salma didn’t glance up from her goblet when the Darakaian cross-caste appeared in the doorway. “Ràoko, show our loyal friend to the alley stair so he may exit discreetly. Goodnight, Jaha.” She lifted her lichen eyes to meet Zaethan’s and added affectionately, “May Àla’maia watch you tonight as fondly as I do.”
“Shàla’maiamo, my favorite yaya.” Zaethan smiled in parting and followed her man into the hall.
Though the crate wasn’t heavy, it was certainly cumbersome to maneuver down the constricted stair, which was barely wide enough to accommodate Ràoko’s hulking shoulders. Zaethan shuffled around his trunk of a torso at the base of the landing, wincing as the bottles jostled. Receiving an expected grunt to his farewell, he stepped out into the shadows of Marketown’s alleyways, thinking Salma needed to reevaluate the charisma of her staff.
Turning onto an abandoned footpath, the odor of piss and garbage clouded the air. A few yards off, Zaethan made out the shape of a boot where a drunken yancy slumped on the ground, passed out. Continuing onward, he caught an indistinct movement in the darkness. It shifted near the form Zaethan had mistaken for a yancy, revealing a dirtied, lifeless, empty face.
Crouched inches from it was the slim profile of a hooded figure.
Rushing toward the crumpled body, Zaethan’s stomach dropped when the fair profile twisted and stopped him with unapologetic, inhuman eyes. He caught the crate in his arms just as it began to fall.
“You!”
TWENTY
She moved swiftly, as if she weighed no more than the sheer, midnight linen veiling her features. A face that strongly favored her father, yet held so little of Eoine; of Alora. Luscia Darragh Tiergan embodied the shadow, as skillfully as any Najjan, and he often felt as if he was chasing a wisp.
From the heights of Marketown, the figure had trailed his mistress’s niece for a fortnight. Initially, her haphazard routine had perplexed him. Each night, the young al’Haidren ran through Bastiion’s streets, eventually navigating back to the palace. Only last night had he realized that she’d completed a spherical formation. By charting the imagined spokes on a wheel, night after night, Alora’s niece was mapping the city Proper.
From memory.
The figure leapt from one rooftop to the next, two buildings behind her. It was difficult to keep up without drawing attention to his presence. Amaranth’s lilac feathers rustled as the hawk dove ahead, recognizing their game. Below, the little al’Haidren dodged a vacant stall, jumped to an overhang, vaulted her body through the empty space, and caught a railing off a second-story ledge. Without decelerating, she surveyed the street from her new, higher vantage point.
Approaching a junction between structures, she flew around a corner and froze. Alora’s niece cocked her head, listening. The figure shrank back when she peered over a shoulder into the night. When she turned forward again, seeming pacified, he crept along once more, pulling the scratchy hood tighter over his unevenly balding scalp for concealment. The material aggravated the fresh sores and tempted infection, but he couldn’t risk being seen.
After another block, she halted abruptly and frantically glanced about. As she pressed a pale hand to her skull, the figure leaned forward, concerned. Reaching into her cloak, she withdrew a familiar vial—one of Alora’s—and hurriedly drank the contents. Shaking her head as if something rattled inside, she took two steps, then paused again. Angling herself a second time, the figure strained to hear what had caught her attention so intently.
Rash laughter from a nearby tavern tickled his blistered ears. An elderly woman coughed in a merchant tent. A group of men squabbled in the next. Blocks away, an infant’s cry pierced the common melodies of Bastiion Proper.
Without warning, the al’Haidren took off. Bounding forward, she bolted into a maze of abandoned all
eyways. When she finally stopped, the figure caught himself before he careened into the open, panting wildly. A strange nostalgia awoke his lungs. It’d been ages since he’d needed to gasp for air.
He watched her hesitate before entering a soundless backstreet, as if being irresistibly drawn into its depths. Carefully, he kept pace with her from above until she came to a halt and collapsed to her knees.
“Niit,” he heard her breathe out.
The figure’s decaying insides contorted. Beside Alora’s niece rested a cross-caste corpse, propped against soiled brick and mortar. Squinting, he distinguished an adolescent in a tattered velvet dress. Moving to touch the lifeless face, the al’Haidren’s eyes started to glow. Their light flickered with what he presumed were unseen threads of lumin, mingling around the body. Furrows of concentration decorated her brow as she witnessed an invisible dance the figure could not see.
Entranced, he didn’t notice the intruder until it was too late. Panicked, the figure searched the skies for Amaranth. He’d remain hidden unless there was no alternative.
Gradually, Alora’s niece tore her attention from the corpse and stared blankly at the man. He fumbled with a crate in his hands, adjusting his grip to avoid dropping the burden he carried.
“You!” he said accusingly.
She offered no reply. The figure chewed on his scabbed lip. Whoever the intruder was, he’d recognized the al’Haidren’s identity immediately, even under layers of masking.
“Step back!” the man shouted with authority. In one swift movement, he deposited the unsteady crate on the ground and unsheathed a Darakaian kopar from the weapons belt at his waist. “Back! Against that wall, y’siti, or I’ll be carrying the skin of a sorceress into Thoarne Hall.”
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 19