But that was precisely why Tannard had done this.
“A Blade’s greatest weapon is not his sword, but his mind,” the Invictus had growled with his usual expressionless severity. “You must be able to fight through your fatigue, to remain clear-headed despite exhaustion. Hunger, pain, weariness—all are weaknesses a Keeper’s servant cannot afford.”
Hunger and weariness, she’d grown accustomed to. Her triumph in the training yard dulled her pain far better than any physicker’s healing draught.
That, and the fact that Kellas had been forced to join her and Etai on guard duty. The bruises and cuts she and Etai had sustained—even the long gash on her belly, courtesy of Tannard’s sharp sword—paled in comparison to the battering he’d taken.
The Dhukari youth’s helmet sat slightly askew atop the bandage wrapped around his head, and he winced every time he drew in a deep breath. Issa had hit him hard enough to make him feel it for a day or two, even with his accelerated healing. The bruises on his face, left by the stamping boots of the charging trainees, had turned an ugly purple. He’d escaped broken bones…barely.
Yes, the sight of Kellas looking so bedraggled certainly made Issa feel better.
He looked like a wet cat in a golden bathtub. Or, in this case, a golden palace.
The Palace of Golden Eternity lived up to its name. From the floor tiles to the pillars to the high-arched ceilings, every inch of the palace’s interior was either plated with or made of gold. Threads of silver and black shalanite ran throughout, adding a color contrast and another layer of extravagance. Any room in the Palace of Golden Eternity held more wealth than the entire Slave’s Tier saw in a lifetime.
That thought set anger burning within her. Such wastefulness! All this for show, when it could be used to feed the people of the lower tiers for the rest of their lives.
Since her tenth nameday, she’d realized the difference between the castes. The Mahjuri were despised, left to starve or succumb to thirst. Only those Kabili actually in service to the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council received anything approaching decent rations, and their access to fresh water on the Slave’s Tier was severely limited. As long as the Earaqi tilled the fields and served the Dhukari, they were fed, but never in abundance. Some Zadii and Intaji could afford the exorbitant prices levied on food supplies by the Keeper’s Council, but most simply survived on their monthly rations.
The Alqati, however, were fed well—Shalandra needed them strong to maintain law and order. Yet their training and service to the city kept them lean. Only the Dhukari could actually afford to be fat. The plumper a Dhukari, the wealthier they were. She’d seen men, women, even children too obese to walk hauled around on litters borne by sixteen slaves. They flaunted their riches in the face of the starving lower castes.
There were a few exceptions. Some of the Dhukari—Kellas, for example—actually chose to remain thin. Mostly those who sought to join the Blades. They remained in good physical condition as their service to the Long Keeper required. The Pharus was another example of a man that hadn’t allowed his wealth and power to go to his belly. It was whispered around the Citadel of Stone that he trained daily with a hand-picked Blade or Indomitable.
“This is an insult,” Kellas’ grumbling drew Issa’s attention back to their duty. “We are Keeper’s Blades and as such should be above such mundane tasks worthy only of an Indomitable.”
“You’re not a Blade yet.” The words were spoken under Etai’s breath—her victory in the training yard had helped her recover from her defeat at Kellas’ hands their first day in the Blades, but the deference of the Dhukari ingrained in every low-caste Shalandran had proven harder to shake.
Issa winked at Etai and shot Kellas a smug grin. “And, to be fair, you were just trounced by a group of Indomitables.”
“You got lucky, Earaqi.” Kellas scowled at her.
Issa shrugged. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself.” She glowed with the knowledge that she’d not only outsmarted the arrogant Dhukari youth, but she’d gotten one up on Tannard, a twenty-year veteran of the Keeper’s Blades. Kellas couldn’t write that off only as luck.
They fell silent as the Keeper’s Council appeared at the far end of the corridor they’d been set to guard. She and Kellas stood rigid as statues, flammard tips grounded on the gold-tiled floor between their feet, while Etai pulled one of the double doors open for the Councilors. The fat Necroseti in their black robes gave no sign of even acknowledging the Blades’ existence—to them, Issa and the others were as much fixtures in the palace as the golden statues, ornate pillars, or servants in their gold-and-silver clothing.
The brown-robed Secret Keeper—Arch-Guardian Suroth, the man that had administered Issa’s trial of stone—nodded at her.
Issa didn’t move but a small smile tugged at her lips. Yes, today is definitely a good day!
Etai closed the double door and returned to her position between Kellas and Issa.
Issa settled in for a long night of standing guard—Tannard had warned them that their relief wouldn’t arrive until daybreak. She tried to ward off her fatigue by occupying her mind taking in the details of the opulence around her.
They stood in a long corridor that connected the grand hall to the private Council Chambers in the heart of the Palace of Golden Eternity. However, more corridors running east and west intersected with the main hall, providing access to the various wings of the palace. One, the first corridor to Issa’s right, led toward a side door on the eastern side of the Council Chambers. It was used only by the servants delivering refreshments to the Council while they were in session. Two more Blades would remain on guard there until the Councilors had finished their late-night session and left the palace.
Forty-two Blades stood guard in the palace at any given time. Most held the entrances to the Pharus’ private wing, the wing belonging to his concubines, and the row of rooms reserved for Lady Callista Vinaus and the other Elders of the Blades. By tradition, the highest-ranking Blades were kept close at hand to provide council to the Pharus in time of war.
The rest of the entrances, exits, and chambers were guarded by Indomitables. It was seen as an honor for the military caste to be chosen to guard the Palace of the Golden Eternity.
To Issa, the “honor” felt more like a burden, but she wouldn’t echo Kellas’ sentiments aloud. Hell, she’d request the duty if it meant Kellas suffered. The Dhukari had earned her enmity. Though, she had to admit humiliating him on the training yard made her feel a lot less hostile toward him. Perhaps, one day, he’d pull the spear out of his arse long enough to remember that they were all chosen by the Long Keeper. That made them equals.
Issa stifled a yawn and shuffled her weight to her other foot. The warmth in the palace added to her fatigue to make her feel drowsy.
That was one of the first things she’d noticed when taking up her guard position. The night air had a hint of chill, not quite an icy bite but cool enough that most people would wear a shawl or cloak. But the air within the palace bordered on hot and stuffy.
Etai’s remark on the temperature earned a lengthy explanation from Kellas on the Serenii-built machines that harnessed the heat from geysers deep within the mountain’s core. Issa had wanted to know more, but the Dhukari’s tone was so infuriating she’d been happy when he finally shut his mouth.
Right now, Issa wanted to shut her eyes and let sleep claim her. The warmth and her exhaustion from the day dragged her toward slumber with an unrelenting determination. Issa shifted from foot to foot, blinked her eyes hard, and even slapped herself to stay awake. Despite her best efforts, she found her head lolling on her chest, her eyelids drooping shut.
A hand on her arm snapped her awake. She turned to find Etai staring at her, concern written in her expression.
“Go, do a sweep of the corridors,” the Mahjuri girl told her. “Kellas and I will hold the door.”
“Yes, desert your post, lowborn,” Kellas sneered.
Issa resisted the
urge to punch him. “Not deserting, doing a patrol.”
Tannard hadn’t explicitly stated that she couldn’t leave, especially if she intended to search the corridors for anything amiss. Yet she had little doubt the Invictus would punish her if he found out.
If he found out. She could trust Etai, just as she could trust Kellas to get her in trouble at any opportunity.
So what’s worse? Falling asleep at my post or patrolling the corridors for a few minutes?
Finally, she decided to go with Etai’s suggestion.
“Thank you.” She nodded to Etai. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Her boots clacked on the gold-tiled floor as she strode down the corridor. The weight of her armor and the sword resting on her shoulder tugged at her sore, tired muscles, but she forced herself into a steady march to push back her fatigue.
She scanned the corridors as she went, her eyes roaming over the colorful paintings of Shalandran history splashed across the walls, the ornate details etched into the columns and pillars, and the images frescoed onto the domed ceilings. She had never seen so much wealth in one place—it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy it for a few minutes while she patrolled.
A part of her wished she could head outside to the Terrestra, the gardens that spanned the eastern side of the palace’s tier. The Terrestra was one of the marvels of Shalandra, reserved exclusively for those Dhukari and Alqati fortunate enough to receive a private invitation from the Pharus, the Keeper’s Council, or the highest-ranking Blades.
One day, she told herself. One day I’ll be able to visit them anytime I want.
She turned down one of the side corridors, which connected the kitchens to the main entrance of the Council Chambers. A cluster of servants pushing wheeled trollies laden high with pastries, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and other delicacies hurried past. Like all servants, they moved with eyes downcast, shoulders stooped. Issa took little notice of them as she patrolled, but just as she was about to turn the corner, something glinted in the moonlight. For a moment, she thought she’d been imagining it. Yet, as she turned back to scrutinized the figures, she realized how un-servant-like they appeared.
Too broad in the shoulders, and those boots. The Pharus’ servants wore high-strapped sandals so as not to scuff the soft golden tiles. Only Blades and Indomitables were permitted to wear boots in the palace.
That’s not right.
“Hold!” Issa called after them. “Stop where you are.”
The servants seemed not to hear her, which only confirmed her suspicions. No one could miss her voice echoing through the high-ceilinged corridors.
“Stop!” she shouted. Every trace of fatigue faded as adrenaline coursed through her body.
The rearmost figure glanced back over his shoulder, and Issa’s heart stopped as she caught sight of the tattoo inked into his bare forearm—the same strange crescent moon and star figure she’d spotted on the Cultivator’s Tier near the Keeper’s Crypts.
Without hesitation, Issa raised her sword and charged. “Assassins!” she shouted. “Assassins in the palace!”
With a growled curse, the man threw back his cloak, revealing metal-studded leather armor, and drew a long sword from within the cart—the source of the metallic glint. He tore his sword free and turned to face her charge. His companions, more than a dozen, drew their own weapons.
Issa raced forward, heedless of the fact that the assassins outnumbered her. She’d been charged to guard the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council—not even a horde of demons would stop her from fulfilling that oath.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Evren’s mind raced. He couldn’t go back; it would cost him too much time backtracking to Trader’s Way. The only way he’d get to Killian’s and return to Suroth’s mansion was forward.
His lessons with the Hunter flashed through his thoughts. In addition to the art of combat, the assassin had taught him the tricks of disguise. The Hunter’s skills enabled him to walk straight into his enemies’ strongholds or distract them as he studied their defenses. He’d always preferred to rely on cunning and false-facing rather than brute force.
Evren had relished those lessons far more than the bare-handed and armed combat sessions. During his years on the streets, he’d picked up a few tricks that helped him stay unnoticed among dense crowds. Yet his training with the Hunter had taught him a whole new parcel of skills.
“The key to a successful disguise is belief,” the Hunter had emphasized. “Believe that you are who you say you are and your target will as well.”
The Hunter’s facades typically included a false face—once, he’d required alchemical masks, until he’d discovered his strange shape-shifting abilities. Evren had neither Bucelarii skills nor the alchemical flesh required. He could, however, do a few things to change his appearance.
Crouching, Evren scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it onto his face. He just needed enough to slightly alter the shape of his cheekbones, nose, and chin. A bit of dirt rubbed around his mouth saw to that—similar to the way the women of Voramis contoured their faces using a plethora of cosmetics.
Next, he removed his red and gold headband on the off-chance someone had spotted it as he fled. Bare-headed, he went from a highly-placed servant to one of the Kabili slaves. He changed his posture as well, letting his shoulders droop and adopting the weary walk of a laborer. Face downcast, clothes askew, he moved in a tired shuffle toward the thugs.
His gut clenched, but he forced himself to keep moving at a steady pace, never lifting his head to glance at them. None of the four thugs had seen him back in the alley, so their orders were likely to be on the lookout for someone matching his description. Doubtless they’d be looking for a furtive-looking mark rather than just one more bare-headed Kabili youth. As long as he didn’t show fear at their presence or appear like the spy they sought, he wouldn’t arouse their attention.
His heart leapt as the sound of booted feet echoed from behind him. A glance down Death Row revealed a patrol of black-armored Indomitables marching at a quick-step up from the East Gate. The thugs reluctantly cleared out of the guards’ path and took up position on the far side of the road.
Evren seized the opportunity and quickened his step. Not enough to appear hurried, but just enough that he slipped past the thugs under cover of the Indomitable patrol. The moment he passed through the gate to the Cultivator’s Tier, he ducked out of sight of the watching thugs and set off at a run up Death Row.
The guards at the gate to the Artisan’s Tier fixed him with stern glares, but they were distracted by the arrival of a Dhukari’s litter descending to the Cultivator’s Tier. Evren used that moment of inattention to slip past.
He raced toward the Artificer’s Courseway and turned west, heading toward the side street where he’d find Killian’s smithy in the shadows of the cliff that bordered the Artisan’s Tier’s northern edge. When he reached Smith’s Alley, he paused long enough to glance up and down the street to be certain no one followed him, then ducked into the cacophony of hammers ringing off metal.
Three boys, two around his own age and one a couple of years younger than Hailen, worked the bellows and anvils in the smithy, but Evren saw no sign of the blacksmith.
“Where’s Killian?” Evren demanded of the nearest Mumbler.
The boy shrugged. “Dunno,” was his only reply before he turned back to pumping air over the glowing coals.
Evren ground his teeth. “Listen, I have something important that Killian needs to know now.”
The boy looked up at him, his expression blank. After a long moment, he called out, “Serias, you know where Killian’s at?”
“No,” called the youngest boy. He wore a red Earaqi headband and looked as if he hadn’t seen a decent meal in his life. “Heard him say he was headed out but didn’t say where or when he’d be back.”
“There’s your answer,” the first boy said. “I can pass the message on, if you want. Or you can wait.”
Evren fixed the boy w
ith a hard stare. He had the same hard-eyed, wary appearance of every Mumbler, but looks meant little on the streets. Some of the kindest, friendliest faces he’d seen hid all manner of vices and villainy. He had no idea if Snarth was working with the Syndicate alone, or if he had others within Killian’s Mumblers also double-dealing. He wouldn’t risk it.
“I’ll wait.” He settled onto a nearby stool.
The minutes seemed to drag on as Evren sat, impatient for Killian’s return. His stomach twisted in knots when he shot a glance at the sky. His detour to follow Snarth had cost him close to two hours, and it had taken him nearly twice as long to evade Annat’s thugs and return to the smithy. It could be close to the second or third hour after noon by now. He’d have to leave soon if he wanted to return to Suroth’s mansion in time to warn Lady Briana’s bodyguards of Samall’s treachery.
Finally, after half an hour, Evren could wait no more. “I’ve got to go, but the moment Killian returns, tell him I’ve urgent news.” Right now, Hailen was his priority. He’d still have time to get back to Suroth’s mansion and speak with the bodyguards before nightfall. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The boy nodded. “Will do.”
Evren hurried from the smithy and rushed east, back toward Death Row. It took him the better part of a half-hour to reach the broad avenue that led up to the higher tiers, and every moment spent dodging a wagon or slipping around a gaggle of basket-carrying shoppers only added to his worry.
Anxiety thrummed within him as he spotted a dense cluster of people crowding the road ahead of him. His instincts, honed over years on the streets, warned that this wasn’t a typical crowd gawking at some spectacle or listening to a religious tirade. Instead, this was a dangerous beast: an angry throng.
Crowds could be volatile and unpredictable, changing from mild-mannered and placid one moment to seething, hate-filled, even violent the next. The most passive gathering could become aggressive and hostile with a single word or action. It took just one inciting incident to turn a group of law-abiding citizens into a bloodthirsty mob.
Heirs of Destiny Box Set Page 33