“Shtàka!” Zaethan snarled and swiftly rolled up the maps. “Let’s go.”
“Go where, Ahoté?”
“To the accused,” he yelled over his shoulder as he plunged through the crowd ahead of Kumo. “Depths, after running night after night through this city hunting the man, I want to look him in the eye.”
“But I just told you!” Kumo hollered over the noise. “It’s all kakk. A kàchà kocho pocket-swiper won’t be able to tell us anything.”
“Which is exactly why I want to talk to him.”
Zaethan breathed through his mouth as they descended the spiraling stairs into the lower dungeon. Wekesa was really putting on a show, holding a common thief among the roughest criminals in Bastiion. If anyone suspected his false arrest, they’d have to endure these putrid catacombs beneath the city just to question the prisoner—an unlikely measure for most.
As they turned a corner, Zaethan mistakenly inhaled a whiff of human waste. Chains clanked and jangled against the bars of neighboring cells as he and Kumo marched past. A few prisoners called out perverse proposals, while some wailed in pain in the distance. Understandably, their visit was not well received.
“Depths, I hate this place.” Kumo spat into the rag he’d used to cover his nose and eyed Zaethan peculiarly. “Are you limping?”
“Cramp,” he grumbled.
“That’s a limp, Ahoté…”
“How much further, Timon?” Zaethan asked the young Unitarian sentry at the lead.
“Just ahead, sir. Shtàka,” the sentry swore under his breath. “I meant, Lord al’Haidren. Er—Alpha Zà, sir.”
“They all suit,” he assured the sentry, sympathetic that he probably didn’t get out of the catacombs much.
They stopped before a slim opening between two boulders. Torches dimly lit a hollowed space where a man dangled in the center, his arms chained above his head. His spine and ribs protruded through his skin under the grisly lashes across his back.
“Really wanted to sell it, didn’t he?” Kumo scoffed and tossed the rag aside.
“Timon, fetch the prisoner’s personal effects,” Zaethan ordered. “I’d like to examine his clothing, weaponry, the like.”
The sentry shifted uncomfortably. “There aren’t any, Alpha Zà.”
“Then step outside, Timon.”
The sentry promptly nodded and left. Zaethan was grateful his title still meant something in the dungeons, even if it carried less weight above the surface.
“My name is Zaethan Kasim, Alpha Zà of the Darakaian militia.” He leveled his face with the thief’s, noting the extreme swelling of his haggard cheeks. “I want to discuss your interaction with another alpha by the name of Wekesa.”
A bloodshot eye tracked Zaethan as he mimed a scar over the side of his head, imitating his rival. The thief ground his teeth—the few left, anyway—and glanced aside.
“Eh, this rat’s not going to talk, Ahoté.” Kumo threw his hands up. “To him, we just chained him up to be punished worse than the crime he did commit, yeah?”
“I’m trying to help you.” Zaethan again moved into the man’s line of sight. “But help goes both ways. Where did Wekesa, or his men, find you earlier today?”
It was a wealth of moments before the thief answered. “Alley,” he croaked.
“This was your third offense, I am told. What did you steal?”
His bloodshot eye rolled sarcastically. “Saoirse pearls.”
“Saoirse pearls…see?” Kumo folded his arms.
“Whatever you stole, I assume it was to eat, by the look of you.” Zaethan noted the depressions in the man’s sternum. “I don’t care what it was, so much as where it was.”
“Agost merchant.” The man blinked. “Marrow district.”
Agost honey could buy a family food for a month, if sold to the right bidder. The merchant was foolish to set up a booth near opium tents. Although, Zaethan remembered, many a rich yancy found themselves addicted to the smoked herb—yancies who could also afford goods from Agoston. The type of yancy with whom Wekesa spent his time as of late.
“What was said when they arrested you? Any exchange between the alpha and his men?”
“Makes no difference.” The man sniffed at the blood running from his nostril.
“A third offense loses you a hand.” Zaethan lightly gripped the hilt of his kopar. “You’ve been accused of murder. There is very big difference. Unless, of course, you disagree. Kumo?” He gestured to the exit. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
“Wait!” the thief exclaimed when they reached the opening of passage. “‘Make him unrecognizable,’” he whimpered. “That’s all…all he said.”
“Timon!” When the sentry reappeared, Zaethan ordered, “Take this man to the secondary level. He will provide you his name. He is not to lose his dominant hand—so he may still work. Sear it with hot iron and ensure it’s tended by a physician, then let him go.”
“Alpha Zà?” Timon asked, looking uneasy.
“Do as I ask, and you’ll be reassigned to a rotation upstairs.” Zaethan pointed to the fresh air above. “Just do it quietly. No questions, no answers. Understood?”
“Yes! Yes, Alpha Zà, Lord al’Haidren. Thank you, sir!”
Zaethan and Kumo headed for the stair, trying not to vomit when they walked past a man defecating himself. Departing the lower dungeon, both eagerly climbed to freedom.
“Any fool could see that skinny husk couldn’t do the damage we’ve seen,” Zaethan mused, “let alone leap between rooftops.”
“Depths, one look at his clothes. I told you the witch mentioned the shine off the killer’s boot that night.” Kumo shoved his fists in his pockets. “Must be a yancy, yeah? Or somebody dressed like one, at least.”
Zaethan paused on a landing between floors, still inside the catacombs. Abruptly, he looked to his beta.
“Wekesa,” Zaethan murmured. “He bought new boots…”
“What do we care about Wekesa’s kakka-shtàka footwear—”
“Wekesa needed a reason to come to the city. A crisis valid enough for the commander to permit his entry into my territory.” Zaethan’s eyes widened as he shook his cousin’s huge shoulders. “But why would Wekesa wait for an opportunity like that when he could create one?”
He let go and backed against the wall of the narrow landing. It was possible, but would Wekesa really go as far as hurting children to achieve his ambition? Could Wekesa sacrifice innocents simply to usurp his own alpha?
“Wekesa doesn’t see them as children,” Zaethan answered aloud. “He calls Boreali cross-castes the ‘vermin of Orynthia.’”
“What are you saying?” Kumo asked carefully.
“There’s only one person benefitting from these killings.” Zaethan became lightheaded as a rock formed in his gut. “The same person capable of executing them.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Luscia
Luscia licked her forefinger and turned a page of the Zôueli compendium, fully immersed as she researched Bastiion’s guests in preparation for her first solstice at court. Razôuel was said to have been founded by a vast wave of maritime wayfinders, in search of a home in the wake of the Forgotten Wars. It was unsurprising, then, that Razôuel maintained a fortified fleet barring their western border.
Luscia was unsure how that helped their fight against a cannibalistic enemy to the south. She made a note to ask someone later.
“Any word from my aunt, Tallulah?” she asked the maid as Tallulah entered the common room, tray in hand. Luscia wasn’t particularly well-educated on Zôueli affairs and had hoped her aunt might provide some guidance before the westerners arrived.
Tallulah’s lip hugged her overbite apprehensively. “Niit, Lady Luscia. Her lady’s maid relays she’s been summoned by the Peerage again, been in their chamber all morning.” She placed the tray of
small bites in front of the chaise and poured Luscia a fresh cup of steaming tea.
The vapor was a calming blend of eüpharsis and drösarra leaf, suggesting Tallulah’s own lingering anxiety. Still shaken from her altercation with Kasim, Luscia had prescribed herself a version of the tea for the past few days. Aside from clan leadership, only her men knew the origin of her ghastly scar, and now, likely the al’Haidren to Darakai. Whatever had motivated him to revert to such despicableness, she’d shown her hand during their exchange. Feeling exposed, in more ways than one, Luscia drew the thin blanket higher and accepted the hot cup from the maid.
“Rul’Aniell…all will be well in time,” Luscia weakly assured the older woman, accepting the tea. “Tadöm, Tallulah.”
“Rul’Aniell.” The maid curtsied, nodding to herself. “Yeh’maelim, Ana’Sere.”
A timid knock came from the doors to the apartments. Wiping her chapped hands against her apron, Tallulah scuttled under the vast dome to greet their visitor. Before she could reach for the handles, Marek entered from a side hall and stopped her, seamlessly taking her place in the snug entry.
“Meh fyreon,” he apologized to the maid before cracking open the door. “What is it?” Luscia overheard him inquire of someone on the other side. “Fine. Stay here.”
Her captaen snatched the piece of parchment in his fist and closed the thin gap to the passageway. Wordlessly, he marched to Luscia’s side and offered it without looking in her direction. They’d barely spoken since Alora’s discovery of Luscia’s nightly departures, and his coldness had worsened after her recent decision to send Mila to Boreal.
Creyvan had not been a supporter of her decision, either. Luscia spied him through her unbound hair, where he peeled an apple in the corner of the room. His typically jovial features had waned into a slack apathy in his twin’s absence. She’d not heard his voice in days.
Breaking the prince’s seal, Luscia unfolded the note, scanning it quickly.
Luscia,
The Zôueli are reported to arrive by nightfall.
Five vials would be prudent.
Yours,
Dmitri
Crinkling the parchment, she rose from the chaise and immediately sought her bedroom. Luscia caressed the pad of her forefinger, the same that moments prior had embraced Zôueli history. Heaving a sigh, she gripped the skeleton key hanging between her breasts and sought her chambers.
They walked in silence, with only the clack of Aksel’s claws to break the hollow quiet.
“This is worse than a lecture,” she muttered, draping her arm to skim the lycran’s back. “Just say what you wish, Marek.”
Passing another column, Marek let the moment hang before he complied sharply. “You sent them without any clearance. Böwen is a critical member of this unit.”
“Your Najjan report to me before they report to you,” she snapped back, keeping her voice below a whisper, “and are therefore at my disposal.”
His stride stiffened in step with hers as he bent to her height. “Escorting a stray cross-caste through the Valley of Fahime is not what the elders had in mind when choosing the finest Najjan for your disposal.”
“Mila is not a stray!” Luscia tried not to shout. “How dare you question my intent—”
His eyes flashed ahead to Callister as he led them to the main floor. “There are elements of that journey which you are unaware of, Ana’Sere.” Marek maintained a lower volume to avoid the page’s ears. “Things even Böwen does not know—things he ought to have known before traveling with a woman and two unascended children.”
Luscia swallowed, her throat dry. She watched the tips of her boots advance across the stonework beneath her skirts. “I acted within my rights, Marek.”
“Just because we have the right to do something doesn’t always mean we should. A conversation would have been nice.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw clench bitterly. “I’m not asking to give you permission, Luscia. I’m asking to offer you counsel.”
Pressure filled her sinuses, suddenly overcome with worry and embarrassment. If she’d endangered Mila in an attempt to protect her…Luscia didn’t know how to begin fixing such a misstep.
Again.
“Callister,” she called, slowing at the landing. “Wait for us ahead. I need a moment with the captaen.”
The page blinked a couple times and continued, stopping short of their next turn, where he fidgeted in place. Luscia pulled Marek behind the nearest marble column and leveled with him.
“Should I send someone after them? Declan, perhaps?” She stared into his stern face until they locked eyes. She found sadness beneath their beryl and teal tones. “She’s not safe here. It’s this place, Marek—you don’t understand. I just…I need her to be safe. Both of them.”
Marek palmed his face. The shade of his stubble rivaled his crimson hair as it’d gone unshaven since he’d learned of her nightly departures. “They aren’t clear of danger yet, but Böwen earned his place beside you.” He raised his arm as if to comfort her, but let it drop and glanced away. “You can trust his instincts—just not everyone else’s.”
She reached out and grazed his chin with her fingertips, tempting it toward her. His stance froze, and his lips parted in surprise.
“Meh fyreon, Ana’Brödre.” Luscia kept her hand against the roughness of his cheek. “I am truly sorry, and…I will try to do better.”
“Tadöm. This thing between you and I—” Marek’s response trailed off as someone cleared their throat awkwardly.
Callister’s head popped around the column. “Lady al’Haidren, please. The prince awaits.” He shuffled aside, wary of the Najjan’s distaste for intrusion.
Luscia smiled gingerly and skirted between them, rescuing the adolescent page from Marek’s intimidation as he readjusted the sheath at his hip.
As the sun began to set, they entered a part of the palace foreign to Luscia. Through a series of ornate gates, walls of byrnnzite emerged to form a sort of temple, open to the elements. A dome of the same material covered a large dais, upheld by a series of statues, their figures undefined though no less imposing. At their feet, a healthy fire sparkled in individual altars encircled by plants, goods, and precious stones.
“You’ll need to remain here, sir.” Callister flinched slightly when the captaen leveled his glare at the page and growled under his breath.
“It’s fine, Captaen.” Luscia laced her fingers together and stepped beside the page. “I will meet with the prince while you and Aksel wait on the steps. You may go, Callister.”
Without further delay, the prince’s page scurried down the steps and back the way they’d come. With a nod to Marek, Luscia entered the odd structure. In front of the farthest statue, the prince sat on a stool in front of the largest altar. An empty stool waited beside him, his walking cane resting between the two.
“A bit humid for fires this time of year, Your Highness,” she remarked as she took up residence on the unoccupied stool.
Dmitri chuckled. Firelight danced over his olive cheeks as he toyed with a carving in his grasp. “I’m told the Fates don’t care much for the weather, and we must appease them regardless.”
“With flame?” Luscia wasn’t familiar with the fluidity of the Unitarian faith, much less the rest of the Houses.
“Actually, it’s the burning, I think.” Dmitri leaned over his knees, his richly embroidered vest crinkling with the movement. “The Fates prefer destruction to newness, so the burning keeps their lust at bay. That’s what the priestesses claim, at least.” He casually gestured to the women weaving incense around the temple, at an obvious distance from the prince. “I despise the smell of it. Why can’t they ever smudge roses?”
“Do your Fates have an objection to roses?”
The prince set his chin on a fist quietly. Angling his head, he replied, “You know, I’ve never thought
to ask. I’ll burn them a bushel next time.” Sitting upright, he murmured conspiringly, “But not the Hildureans. Those took quite a lot of work on my part.”
Luscia grinned and pulled his vials from a pouch sewn into her skirt—Mila’s handiwork.
“You’re quiet this evening,” he observed, pocketing the vials discreetly. “I now realize it might’ve been offensive to ask you to meet in this place. I hardly come myself, but when I learned the princess was nearing the city, I thought it best to, well…” Dmitri shrugged. “Just in case.”
Rigidly, he lifted himself off the stool and tossed the wooden trinket into the flames. Some inner pain tightened his mouth as he returned to the modest seat.
Luscia considered the prominent idol rising from the altar. “Your Fates are fickle.”
“Is your High One not?”
“Niit, not characteristically.” She shook her head and studied his totem turning to ash. He’d etched such detail into its creation.
“Interesting,” Dmitri commented, chucking a piece of lint into the fire. “Zaeth’s people believe in what they call Jwona rapiki—Fate writers. They propose,” he continued, picking another collection of fibers off his vest, “that the rarest of men can ‘write over’ the will of the Fates. Do you believe the same? Or are we all just subjects to destiny?”
Luscia laughed sourly. “I pray my actions are not that finite. How destructive it would be to hold power outside Aniell’s will.”
“So, you are a prisoner to destiny, as we are to the Fates?”
“No. Niit, I’m a…partner. To something greater.” Luscia brushed the tip of the solrahs in her septum. “I merely hope to be a good one, and not a disappointment.”
Dmitri pivoted on the edge of his stool, facing her. “Is that a regular concern of yours, Lady Boreal?”
She hesitated, wondering how candid she ought to be with him. Dmitri often made it second nature to forget his birthright in conversation.
House of Bastiion (The Haidren Legacy, Book 1) Page 27