Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Besides, if Killian was planning something like that, he’d have filled me on in it, wouldn’t he? That thought led to another. Maybe he even expected something to be going on, which is why he put me in Suroth’s household in the first place. It can’t be a coincidence that there’s a plot to abduct the Arch-Guardian’s daughter the very day after he gets me that job, can it?

  Evren didn’t know, but he certainly had a way of finding out. Killian had said he expected reports—Evren had a lot of information the blacksmith would want to hear.

  He turned his steps westward on the Artificer’s Courseway. Smith’s Alley was a quarter-league away from Death Row, so if he hurried, he could reach it in just under half an hour. The sun would be fully up by then, but with his gold-and-red headband, he had no reason to fear the Indomitable patrols. He’d be just one more servant on an errand for his Dhukari master.

  His heart leapt when, twenty minutes later, the sound of clanging hammers echoed from a street ahead of him. He’d drawn within a hundred yards of Smith’s Alley when he caught sight of a familiar face—a face still bearing the bruise left by Evren’s fist. The youth didn’t seem to see Evren. Indeed, he was looking back over his shoulder, as if searching for something behind rather than ahead of him.

  Evren slid up beside Snarth. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  Snarth half-jumped, half-spun, hand dropping toward his belt.

  “Nice to see you, too.” Evren hid a mocking smile. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes,” Snarth snapped. “To find you. Killian’s expecting a report.”

  Anger purpled the youth’s face, yet Evren caught a hint of something else in his eyes. Guilt. No way he’d look like that if he was actually doing something for Killian. So what the hell is he up to?

  “Oh, perfect!” Evren gave him a too-cheerful smile. “I was just on my way to see Killian myself. Why don’t we walk together?”

  The offer caught Snarth off-guard. Just for a moment and he recovered quickly enough, but Evren caught it. Yes, there’s no way he’s on an errand for Killian.

  “N-No,” Snarth said, the tiniest hint of hesitation in his voice. “Killian’s…busy at the moment, training the other Mumblers. I can pass your message on to him. It’s protocol. We don’t want anyone connecting you to Killian.”

  “Hmm.” Evren made a show of contemplating the boy’s words, furrowing his brow and giving a theatrical frown. “You’re right. That’s good thinking.”

  He let the silence drag on for a long moment, content to watch Snarth squirm. The boy’s eyes darted up the Artificer’s Courseway, back the way Evren had come, a hint of urgency written in his expression.

  “So,” Snarth finally said, “your message for Killian?”

  “Oh, right, of course!” Evren smacked his forehead. “Let me see…” He trailed off as if deep in thought, which only served to amplify Snarth’s irritation and impatience.

  He’s definitely up to something. The boy would never be so antsy if he truly was on Killian’s business as he said.

  Snarth’s face twitched, agitation etched into the tight line of his lips. “The message!”

  “Yes, the message.” Evren delayed just long enough to annoy the boy, then quickly spoke. “I thought he should know that Arch-Guardian Suroth has hired two foreigners to guard his adoptive daughter. A man and a woman, and they look like they mean business.”

  “That’s it?” Snarth cocked an eyebrow, a sneer on his face. “You risk drawing suspicion to yourself and Killian for that?”

  “Hey, Killian told me he wanted to know anything and everything,” Evren insisted, continuing his charade of naiveté. “This seems important.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe the Arch-Guardian has enemies in the city, so he’s hiring outside help because he doesn’t know who in Shalandra to trust.”

  He made it sound like the most important discovery of an age—on par with finding the Lost City of Enarium or the sunken continent of Aegeos. Yet, that was something anyone with even a half-functioning eye and mostly-deaf ear could figure out. Where there was power and wealth, intrigue and betrayal followed close on its heels.

  Snarth nodded. “You’re right, that is information Killian should hear.” His tone made it clear he found nothing of value in Evren’s words, yet he had to continue his own pretense to avoid Evren’s suspicion. “I’ll get it to him at once.”

  “I thought you said he was busy training the Mumblers?” Evren asked, all innocent curiosity.

  “H-He is,” Snarth said quickly, “but he’ll see me for certain. I am, after all, one of his most trusted.”

  Evren stifled a snort. Not if he knew you were up to something seriously questionable.

  Outwardly, his expression showed only gratitude. “Thank you. I want to make sure Killian knows that I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”

  “Very well.” Snarth nodded. “If that’s all…?”

  “Right, of course,” Evren said. “I’d best get back to the mansion before anyone discovers I’ve left.”

  “Can’t have anyone suspecting you work for Killian,” Snarth confirmed.

  With a nod, Evren turned and hurried back the way he’d come. He didn’t glance back—he had no doubt the Mumbler was watching him closely. He moved up the street until the early-morning stalls along the avenue blocked him from Snarth’s view, and then ducked out of sight into a side street filled with goldsmith’s shops. His heart hammered as he waited in breathless silence.

  Tailing an unsuspecting mark was as easy as stealing coins from a passed-out drunk, but it grew harder when the one being followed suspected pursuit. He’d made a show of pretending to return to Suroth’s for Snarth’s sake. As long as the Mumbler didn’t think anyone knew he was away from whatever task Killian had given him, he wouldn’t expect a tail.

  But to sell the ruse to Snarth, he’d had to gamble that the Mumbler wouldn’t actually return to Killian’s with his message. The urgency in Snarth’s eyes had told Evren that the youth had somewhere important to be. He’d taken the chance that Snarth would wait a minute or so to be certain Evren truly had gone before continuing on his original path.

  His gamble paid off. Less than two minutes later, Snarth appeared from up the road. Evren ducked deeper into cover and waited until Snarth passed. The Mumbler cast wary glances around him, but he never saw Evren sliding out into the street behind him.

  Let’s see where you’re off to, Evren thought with a grim smile.

  He tailed Snarth toward Death Row and, to his surprise, down toward the gate that led to the Cultivator’s Tier. The boy cast furtive glances over his shoulder, but Evren kept out of Snarth’s direct line of sight. He hung back, keeping a wide enough gap between them that the flow of traffic obscured him from Snarth’s questing gaze but allowed him to keep a close eye on the Mumbler. After losing Kuhar, he wouldn’t take any chances with Snarth.

  Finally, Snarth seemed to decide that he wasn’t being followed, for he picked up his pace, his steps more determined. Evren actually had to jog along to stay within safe tailing distance as Snarth descended to the Cultivator’s Tier, then farther downhill to the Slave’s Tier.

  The Mumbler turned west on the Way of Chains, past Auctioneer’s Square. Evren’s gut clenched; the square was packed at this time of the morning, the sale of men and women—not just bronzed Shalandrans, but people from all over Einan, including pale-skinned Voramians, thin-eyed Hrandari, and the swarthy desert dwellers from the Twelve Kingdoms—in full swing.

  Evren had to push his way through the thick crowds, but thankfully it seemed Snarth was having the same difficulty. By the time he burst free of the throng fifteen minutes later, the Mumbler had gained a few yards on him. Evren hurried just enough to close the gap then once more settled into a pace suitable for tailing the boy.

  His curiosity grew with every step. Snarth could truly be on a mission for Killian, but his reaction to his earlier encounter with Evren made that seem unlikely. The question nagged
at Evren: what business does a Mumbler have in the Slave’s Tier.

  His answer came half an hour later as Snarth ducked into a side street that intersected with the Way of Chains. Evren paused at the corner, glancing sidelong down the street in time to catch a glimpse of Snarth turning onto a smaller back road running parallel to the main avenue. Again, Evren peered around the corner rather than stride out into the alleyway.

  His caution proved well-founded. The alley stood empty save for three tough-looking men sitting in front of a doorway. Though the house looked as decrepit and ordinary as every other stone buildings around it, the way the thug-looking men straightened at Snarth’s approach made it plain that they were guarding it. The question was: what was important enough down here to require guards? And who in the Slave’s Tier, the poorest level of Shalandra, could even afford guards?

  Evren couldn’t hear Snarth’s hushed conversation with the thugs, but whatever the Mumbler said seemed to work. One stood and pushed the door open. Evren ducked out of sight as Snarth glanced around. When he peered around the corner again, Snarth had disappeared and the door stood closed.

  Well, that complicates things.

  Evren hesitated, uncertain what to do. He couldn’t walk in the front door, so he’d have to find another way in.

  His eyes traveled to the golden sandstone wall that served as the northern border of the Slave’s Tier. A contented smile broadened his face. His training with the Hunter and Kiara hadn’t been limited to learning weapons. The Hunter, in particular, had placed special emphasis on the ability to climb: cliffs, walls, the sides of buildings, anywhere he could find handholds and footholds.

  Evren had watched in breathless awe as the Hunter scaled the Palace of Justice, Voramis’ tallest building. The Hunter had insisted Evren take a turn climbing Dead Man’s Cliff, the sheer rock face a half-day’s ride outside of Voramis. He’d even set up a climbing wall of sorts in the warehouse that had become their center of operations over the last year.

  That’ll do nicely. The house Snarth had disappeared into was built right up against the rock face. If Evren could slip into the nearby alley without alerting the guards, he’d have no problem scaling the rock wall. Surely he’d find a balcony, window, or rooftop to give him an unseen way into the house.

  A passing trio of Kabili women gave him the perfect opportunity. The guards’ catcalls filled the air, and one of the women shouted in reply. This led to a loud exchange of Shalandran insults—very creative, and riddled with slander about the guards’ ancestry—that distracted the men long enough for Evren to slip into the alleyway.

  Evren grinned as he studied the cliff face. Sandstone was easily eroded and fairly fragile, but offered excellent friction and plenty of handholds and footholds for climbing. It took him less than a minute to scale high enough up the jagged wall to peer over the lip of the second-story window.

  The window looked into a small room, more like a low attic set beneath the thatched roof. A crude table stood in the middle of the chamber, with five rough-looking men seated in the rickety chairs that surrounded it. Their rough, scarred hands and grim faces immediately brought back memories of the time Evren had lived on the streets.

  These are definitely the sort of men that make a living through vice and crime.

  At that moment, the door opened and Snarth entered the room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Though Aisha still had the better part of four hours until her noon appointment at the Temple of Whispers, a sense of urgency drove her to depart Arch-Guardian Suroth’s mansion just after the morning breakfast. She’d picked at her meal, her stomach a mess of knots. Though her conversation with Briana had given her a shred of hope, her gloom had returned with the overcast morning.

  The Whispering Lily would give her the ability to not only see the spirits, but actually speak with them—to answer their call, as her father had told her. Yet, until she could find a way to counteract the effects, she feared what would happen if she took it.

  For the tenth time since leaving Suroth’s house, she touched the small pouch hidden beneath her simple servant’s garb. The pouch contained a few Whispering Lily petals she’d plucked. She hadn’t dared to use it yet—she didn’t know when she would summon the courage to take the risk. But she carried it for the same reason she’d ridden toward the graveyard at Rosecliff. Her mother had taught her not to flee her fears, but to confront them. Few things terrified her more than the thought that she would turn into that same dead husk of a human that her father had. Keeping the flower close was her way of defying that dread.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about the flower or its effects, at least not right now. For the next few hours, her mission to the Temple of Whispers would consume her full attention. The challenge of moving through the streets unobserved by anyone watching would prove a welcome distraction from her troubles.

  Her outfit provided ample cover for her mission. She wore a servant’s kalasiris free of insignia with a headband—strips of Dhukari gold and Earaqi red braided together—to mark her as a low-caste servant in a high-caste household. Nessa, the Steward, had insisted that no one would interfere with or question her as long as she wore the headband. A loose, flowing cloak completed her ensemble.

  She felt naked without her assegai, but she hadn’t hesitated to leave it with the rest of her weapons back at Suroth’s mansion. Shalandran servants didn’t carry weapons, at least not in plain view. Years spent training with Ria, Errik, and the rest of House Serpent had accustomed her to fighting with a wide range of weapons both bladed and bludgeoning, as well as bare-handed.

  Besides, what are the chances that someone’s going to attack a Dhukari’s servant?

  If it came down to it, Kodyn had lent her a pair of flat throwing daggers, which she’d tucked beneath the wide red-and-gold silk sash around her waist.

  Her greatest concern at the moment lay in being spotted. She had no idea who’d watch her—she and Kodyn had been in Shalandra for all of a day and night—but that didn’t stop her from taking her usual precautions. Her short time in the city had proven that Arch-Guardian Suroth had enemies that wouldn’t shy away from killing servants or kidnapping the Councilman’s daughter.

  As always, Aisha took the most circuitous route possible. Only one road led from the Keeper’s Tier to the Artisan’s Tier, but three broad avenues connected the Artisan’s Tier to the lower two levels of Shalandra. Aisha descended Death Row toward the Slave’s Tier and cut westward through Auctioneer’s Square.

  Acid rose to her throat as she spotted the familiar choclat-colored skin and broad features of her people. Not just Ghandians, but Issai and Tanirians as well. All people like her, ripped from their homes and dragged thousands of leagues away to live as slaves.

  But hers weren’t the only ones to be enslaved. Men, women, even children with skin of every shade—from pale white to rich bronze to the midnight black of the Dynari tribe far to the east of Ghandia—stood on the auctioneer’s platform and watched in mute, defeated silence as their lives were sold to the highest bidder.

  The Kish’aa hung thick around the stone columns and wooden stockades behind the platforms. Countless people had died here: thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands over the centuries of Shalandra’s existence. The spirits of the dead fixed lifeless eyes on her, their mouths gaping in wordless cries, little more than whispers too low for her mind to comprehend.

  What are they saying? The thought of what she’d hear if she took the Whispering Lily sent a shudder of fear down her spine. Her father had never had a moment’s peace; the cries of the dead had haunted him and stolen his mind.

  It took all her willpower not to clap her hands over her ears, to break into a run to flee the dead. They tugged at her, the energy within their blue-white glowing forms pulling at her. They wanted her to come closer, to make contact with them. She was their only connection to the living. Without her, they would fade into obscurity, even their names forgotten by time, left to drift o
n the winds invisible to all but her.

  She sucked in deep, gasping breaths and picked up her pace to get through Auctioneer’s Square at a fast shuffle. Anyone following would have to speed up, making them more visible to her as well.

  Once free of Auctioneer’s Square, Aisha ducked into the shadows of a side street and waited, eyes fixed on the Way of Chains. For nearly fifteen minutes, she remained motionless and silent, until her heart slowed its hammering. When she caught no sign of pursuers, she resumed her trek through Shalandra.

  Her steps led due west, toward Traders’ Row. Just beyond the broad avenue stood another square, similar to Auctioneer’s Square but with far more dried, crusted blood staining the platforms. Murder Square, Briana had called it. Here, the Indomitables carried out the harsh sentences imposed upon the people ground beneath their heels. Thousands of Kish’aa hovered around Murder Square, the combined sparks of their lives so bright she could barely look at them.

  Shalandra truly was the City of the Dead, and she alone could see and hear them.

  Thankfully, her path turned to the north, and she sighed in relief as she climbed toward the Cultivator’s Tier. The guards took one look at her headband and let her through without a second glance. The tier, home to the Earaqi laborers that made up the largest percentage of Shalandra’s population, was neat and clean, the streets laid out in a precise order that the haphazard buildings of the Slave’s Tier had lacked. Fewer of the dead hovered in the air, their numbers diminished enough that she could ignore their pleading looks and silent cries.

  After a quick search for any sign of pursuit, she turned westward, toward the Foreign Quarter. From there, it would be a quick climb to the temples that stood in the shadows of the cliff that served as Shalandra’s western border.

  Her fists tightened as the ghostly figures grew thicker. Every step led her closer to the Keeper’s Crypts, toward the mass of Kish’aa clustered there. Their whispers rose to a dull hum at her approach, like a fly hovering inside her ear. An almost tangible energy crackled in the air. The spark of Radiana’s life flowing within Aisha burned like a match touched to kindling.