Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Issa could almost taste the violence in the air. Anything could set the furious people ablaze, and the conflagration would consume Shalandra.

  Ice seeped into her veins as she caught sight of two young Earaqi men racing off down Death Row, through the gate that led into the Slave’s Tier. What will we find when we reach Aterallis?

  She had left just five hours earlier—nearly an hour and a half to make the trek to the Defender’s Tier, another hour to choose her patrol of Mahjuri-born Indomitables and wait for the heavily-armored solders to get into position, and the return journey to the Slave’s Tier. Her only hope lay in Hykos and the Indomitable Executors getting the situation on the Mahjuri tier under control.

  The chaos and bloodshed had calmed, but the situation was anything but controlled. Companies of heavily-armored Indomitables lined both sides of the Way of Chains, their full-length shields and helmeted heads facing the side streets that ran north and south from the main avenue. The Way of Chains itself stood empty, all traffic stopped. Even the bloodstained platforms of Auctioneer’s Square were devoid of life, the slavemasters disappeared or mingled among the crowds that glared naked hatred at her.

  Issa’s nervousness mounted with every step, compounded by the tension palpable in the crowds gathered across from the Indomitables. One wrong word, one hand raised in violence, and two hundred thousand men and women would swarm over the six hundred black-armored soldiers. Issa could only pray to the Long Keeper that the Indomitables’ discipline held and the situation didn’t turn violent.

  She turned her patrol smartly north, toward the side street that led toward the derelict warehouse she’d been told she would find Aterallis and his disciples. “Make way!” she shouted.

  Armor clattered and heavy boots thumped on hard stone as the ranks of Indomitables parted for her. The Mahjuri, however, seemed disinclined to move. They remained standing in her path, filling the street, silent defiance etched into the lines of their sunbaked faces.

  “By order of Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres, make way!” Issa shouted again.

  Please move, she begged silently as she marched steadily toward the line of Mahjuri. Ten paces, seven, five, three, then two. One more step and she would collide with the two scrawny men directly blocking her path. She had no doubt which of them would be thrown down, but then what? One more step and everything would turn violent.

  The crowd parted. At the last second, barely in time for her to march past without slowing. Issa let out a silent breath as she and her patrol trooped through the ranks of Mahjuri.

  Dark looks and angry mutters followed their steps. The crowd reformed behind them and flowed along in their wake, a wall of resentment and hostility that burned like wildfire at Issa’s back. The tension increased as she approached the warehouse—a crumbling three-story stone building with a decaying wooden sliding door that hung askew from its rail. It was barely standing, the sagging thatch rotted by disuse and damp.

  As Issa strode through the doorway, a wall of stench assaulted her nostrils. The reek of death, plague, and rotting flesh hung so thick in the air it nearly brought up the meager breakfast she’d choked down an hour earlier.

  Men, women, and children lay on the straw-covered floor, groaning, weeping, or simply lying in wide-eyed silence. Pus oozed from the blue blisters dotting their bodies. Fingers of sickly azure stained their hands, faces, and emaciated bodies. Many would never move, speak, or choke out a weak cough again.

  Aterallis and his dedicated followers moved among the sick, dispensing food, water, bandages, salves, and kind words for those beyond their aid. The man called “Child of Gold” sat between two piles of ragged blankets, clasping the blue-blistered hands of a pair of old women and speaking quiet comfort in their ears.

  How can he be a violent murderer? The sense of wrongness mounted. Yet, as her eyes roamed across the crumbling warehouse, she caught a glimpse of something through the gaping hole in the rear wall. A four-wheeled handcart, covered with a tarp, its black paint cracked and peeling. Even from this distance, she could see the bent rear axle and the damaged rear left wheel.

  Aterallis was guilty. Either him or one of his followers. It didn’t matter if the man had led the attack or simply ordered it—somehow, he was connected to Kellas’ murder and the death of the Indomitable patrol. Lady Callista would sort it out; all Issa needed to do was follow her orders and arrest the man.

  Issa’s voice rang out in the warehouse. “Aterallis of the Dhukari, by order of Pharus Amhoset Nephelcheres, Guardian of Dawnbreaker, Chosen of Hallar, Word of Justice and Death, and Revered Servant of the Long Keeper, I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

  A moment of stunned silence followed, shattered by an explosion of angry shouts and protests. Men and women wearing the clothing and headbands of Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri leapt to their feet, forming a solid wall of animosity and objections between Issa and Aterallis. A few raised clenched fists, one even drawing a dagger and waving it in the face of one of Issa’s Neophytes.

  Issa opened her mouth to shout for order, but just then, Aterallis’ words echoed above the clamor.

  “My brothers and sisters!” He was a sea of calm, his voice free of fear, ringing only with peace and acceptance. “For these long months, I have trusted in the Long Keeper, in the Faces of Justice and Mercy. You have come to place your faith in our all-seeing god alongside me. Will you doubt him now when things grow difficult?”

  The serenity in his voice sent a shiver down Issa’s spine. He’s almost too calm, like he expected this. Yet that made no sense.

  “No.” Aterallis stood and placed a gentle hand on the nearest man’s shoulder. “It is only in adversity that our faith in the Long Keeper is tested. Let us have faith, brothers and sisters.”

  One by one, the angry men and women stepped aside, giving way for Aterallis to stride toward Issa. He stopped two paces in front of her with a beatific smile on his face, and held out his hands, wrists together. “In the name of peace and justice, I submit myself to your authority.”

  Issa moved forward and, pulling the knotted arresting rope from her belt, set about binding his hands. She pulled the loops gently, careful not to hurt the man. She had no need; he came peacefully, as the Elders had insisted.

  “Peace and justice,” Aterallis called to his followers as she worked the rope. “Believe in the Long Keeper, and your faith will be rewarded.”

  Dozens of men and women, all clad in the headbands of the Earaqi and Mahjuri, wept as Issa led a docile Aterallis from the warehouse.

  The sight that greeted her set her heart racing. A solid wall of Mahjuri—nearly two thousand of them, in ranks a hundred wide and twenty deep—stood between her and the Way of Chains. Their faces were hard, anger blazing in their eyes, defiance etched into the tense lines of their shoulders and their clenched fists. They would never move aside.

  “What in the bloody hell are you doing?” snarled a tall man with the wide shoulders and callused palms of a day laborer. “Why are you arresting him?”

  “On suspicion of murder.” Issa shouted to hide the fear roiling within her. “Evidence has come to light that—”

  “Murder?” The single word sparked a roar of protests and furious shouts from the crowd. The people surged toward her, anger blazing in their eyes, faces twisted in rage. It took all of Issa’s self-control to keep her hand from the two-handed sword on her back.

  “By order of the Pharus!” she called, but the clamor of the crowd drowned her out.

  Armor clattered behind Issa, and she glanced back to find the twenty Indomitables had drawn khopeshes. To them, it didn’t matter that they had all once been Mahjuri—they knew how the crowd perceived them, what the people would do to them. Indomitables like Dictator Umild had caused the simmering anger to boil over into open hatred.

  “Peace!” Aterallis stepped in front of her and raised his bound hands. “Peace, my people, I beg you!”

  The angry crowd stopped, just five paces from Issa
. Their cries of rage and enmity fell silent in the face of Aterallis’ calm.

  “Let no more blood be spilled this day.” Sorrow shone in the dark eyes Aterallis fixed on the crowd. “Instead, let love and peace fill your hearts. Go to your loved ones, embrace them, and pray to the Long Keeper for faith. In his wisdom, he will give you the grace to endure until the Final Destruction is upon us and we are summoned to his arms, where we will know only joy and laughter from now until eternity.”

  Slowly, as if by a giant hand, the sea of Mahjuri parted and cleared a path. Issa moved without hesitation, though careful not to drag Aterallis along. As they passed through the crowd, Mahjuri reached out to touch Aterallis, to offer words of support and affection. Some wept, some pleaded with Issa, but most glared. Many fingered their belt knives as if intending to cut her down.

  Issa kept moving—she didn’t dare stop. She knew what a crowd could do if incensed against the Indomitables. Only this time, unlike the Fifty-Day Revolt, she was among the Indomitables, and she would be torn to shreds in the chaos.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blackfinger. The name sent a chill down Evren’s spine. Not because it instilled any sort of fear on its own—he’d heard far more terrifying monikers for crime bosses and killers—but because of what it promised coming from these men.

  The leader of the Ybrazhe Syndicate definitely wasn’t inviting him for tea and a pleasant chat.

  “Well, feel free to tell him I said howdy,” Evren replied with a hard smile. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ve got better things to do with my morning.”

  The thugs’ faces darkened. Confusion mingled with their anger, as if they couldn’t understand why their imposing physiques and Blackfinger’s name didn’t cow Evren into submission.

  Long on muscle, short on brains, eh? Evren grinned internally. He’d been dealing with men like this for years and learned a simple lesson: avoid trading punches with someone thrice your size, but always look for opportunities to outwit them.

  The foremost ruffian tried again. “Blackfinger wants to have words with you. Either you come with us quietly, or…” He finished his sentence with a loud crack of his knuckles.

  “Your priest protectors can’t save you now,” sneered another man, the smallest of the ape-sized lot. “We’d love nothing more than to kill you slow and nasty for what you did to Annat. You’re just lucky we’ve got orders.”

  “Orders that say to bring you in alive and talking.” The first thug leered. “Blackfinger didn’t say anything about unbroken bones.”

  Evren’s mind raced. Why in the bloody hell would Blackfinger want to talk to me? Either a recruitment pitch or a threatening tirade—either way, it was a speech he’d rather avoid.

  Killian’s words from the previous day flashed through Evren’s mind. “I knew the Ybrazhe had someone powerful backing them. High-ranked Dhukari for certain, possibly even someone on the Keeper’s Council. Given what I found out about Councilor Angrak, I was right. Angrak’s related to Blackfinger—half-brothers from the same father. Either the Council didn’t know, or they simply didn’t care.”

  Angrak had been the Dhukari that tried to replace Arch-Guardian Suroth on the Keeper’s Council. He’d also been responsible for skimming off the mined shalanite and exporting it illegally.

  Evren sucked in a breath. Black fingers! Like from shalanite dust. He’d have groaned at the on-the-nose name if it hadn’t had such dire implications. He helped Angrak steal and sell the dust, and he had to know who he was working for.

  The Keeper’s Council had silenced Angrak with a crossbow bolt, but Blackfinger could incriminate the Necroseti.

  A hint of an idea blossomed in Evren’s mind. Blackfinger wanted to talk to me? So be it. Let’s see what he has to say.

  He’d spent enough time on the streets to know that the second-best way to question someone was to let them think they were interrogating you. He always preferred to be the one talking to the bound captive or wielding the threatening knife, but in a pinch, he could do a lot worse than pay a cordial visit to the leader of the Syndicate.

  After all, if Blackfinger truly wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have sent the thugs to invite me in. They’d have led with their fists and daggers, not their dim-witted words.

  A broad grin broke out on his face. “Turns out I’m free for a few hours, then!”

  The biggest of the thugs held out a ham-sized palm. “Weapons.”

  Evren sniffed. “Never been fond of letting another man play with my daggers.” He winked at the man. “You’re just not pretty enough.”

  This seemed to confuse the man, but the smallest of the lot drew a blade of his own. “Hand them over or Goble here starts breaking things.”

  The thug indicated gave him an eager grin and flexed his fingers. “I’m mighty partial to the pinky fingers first. But I can go right to your kneecaps, if you’d like.”

  With a theatrical sigh, Evren reached around his back and slowly drew his twin jambiyas. “If I must.”

  Goble snatched the daggers from him with a growl. “All of them.”

  “I count three more,” the smallest thug said. “Wrist brace, belt buckle, and boot top.”

  Evren rolled his eyes. “I see there’s no hiding anything from you, eh?” He hid another grin as he placed the three blades into the thug’s outstretched hand. Such a shame you didn’t spot the one strapped just above my knee. He’d given Hailen his seventh blade on the road from Voramis, but the short stiletto would do more than enough damage if he ended up needing it.

  “Stick close,” growled the one called Goble. “Try anything stupid, get something broken. First time’s your knife hand, second time’s your right leg.” He loomed over Evren with a menacing glare. “Third time’s your neck.”

  “Kind of hard to talk if I’m dead,” Evren pointed out. “Perhaps next time, start with a finger, then a hand, then—”

  “You’d be amazed how delicate Goble can be at breaking just the right bones in just the right way,” sneered the smallest thug. “He’ll make sure you survive that snapped neck.”

  Evren nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  The six thugs took up position around him, boxing him in. No going back now, Evren thought.

  He cast a glance in the direction of the Hall of Bounty. The Secret Keepers had entered half an hour earlier, but they hadn’t yet emerged. Regardless, not even the most feebleminded Ybrazhe was stupid enough to raise a hand against a Secret Keeper. They’d get the grain sample back to the Temple of Whispers and find the poison without him.

  I don’t need priests to get me out of a jam, he told himself. He’d fought, talked, and schemed his way out of worse. Not much worse, not often, and never on purpose, but he didn’t have much choice at the moment. Though, to be fair, they would come in damned handy right about now.

  He felt only a slight disappointment when the Secret Keepers failed to appear at the perfect time. He’d never been that lucky in his life.

  “So,” Evren said in a conversational tone, “what say we skip to the part where you tell me what Blackfiddler wants and we all get on with our day?”

  “Blackfinger.” Goble scowled—an expression Evren had to admit the man had mastered. He seemed to feel the scowl all the way to the core of his bones, and it moved every muscle in his face to form the perfect furrowed brow, pinched lips, and wrinkled nose.

  It doesn’t do much for his face, but I’m guessing Blackfinger didn’t hire him for his good looks. Goble’s sloped shoulders, ham-sizes fists, and perpetual frown screamed “career thug”.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” snarled the smallest thug.

  The thugs led him westward, away from the Hall of Bounty. The western cliff face of Shalandra loomed far in the distance, but Evren felt fairly certain a man like Blackfinger wouldn’t hide out in the Keeper’s Crypts. Annat and his Syndicate thugs had spoken of the tombs with the same superstitious tone as the rest of Shalandra—few would voluntarily enter the real
m of the dead, much less make camp there.

  Blackfinger’s lair had to be somewhere along the Slave’s Tier, likely among the abandoned and crumbling houses close to the Path of Sepulture. It would be a simple matter for the Syndicate master to turn any of those dilapidated buildings into a proper hideout—similar to how the Hunter had converted the center of an empty warehouse into a fortress-like suite of lavish apartments. The poor, starving, disease-ridden Mahjuri would make the perfect cover for Blackfinger’s operations.

  Evren entertained himself by altering his pace ever so slightly. When the thugs tried to move faster to pass a patrol of Indomitables, he let his feet drag and shuffle through the dirt. As the brutes slowed to match his pace, he quickened his speed until his boots kicked against the heels of the thugs ahead of him. They seemed confused by the subtle changes in pace and their expressions grew more and more frustrated.

  Something about the fourth thug, the one that hadn’t yet spoken, drew Evren’s attention. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. Every few seconds, the huge brute scratched some new part of his body. First his barrel chest, then his ample stomach, and moved on to his lower back, right arm, and finally far deeper into his backside than any decorous man would consider appropriate. But when he pulled down his high-collared shirt to rub his neck, Evren caught sight of a stiff, cracked blue blister.

  The Azure Rot. He gave the man a slightly wider berth, stifling a shudder.

  A thought struck him. That all but proves that I was right about the Ybrazhe not being the ones poisoning the Slave’s Tier. It hadn’t made sense for the Syndicate to eliminate the people that served both as their concealment and power base. Now, seeing the weeping blue sores on the man’s neck, it cemented the belief. No way the Ybrazhe would let their own people end up taking the poison. Either they’d warn them to avoid the grain or they’d provide some sort of antidote.