Shattering of the Nocturnai Box Set

by Carrie Summers

  I remembered Moanet’s words from months before. House Yiltak guards are loyal and don’t ask questions.

  “What do you want, then?”

  “You must prove your claims about the nightstrands and the Vanished. I don’t know how you’ll do it. That’s up to you. But glowing hands and the stories of a few adolescents—one of whom appears to have a romantic interest in you—are not enough for me to risk my empire. You say you’re a channeler. Show me.”

  I dipped my spoon into the soup. “And if I can?”

  “We’ll sail for Ioene within the week. But if you can’t—” She paused, staring me directly in the eye. “—I will not hesitate to protect what’s mine.”

  She stood and headed for the door. Recalling my manners, I pushed out my chair as if to escort her to the threshold, but stopped, paralyzed. Though the curtain hid the street from view, light leaked around its edges.

  The lamps outside burned red.

  Chapter Six

  DESPITE THE CLOAK that hid her face, Trader Yiltak’s long legs pushed her forward faster than I could run. By the time we reached the boundary with the central district, she’d pulled ahead by a block. As she turned the corner to head for House Yiltak, she unfastened her cloak, letting it fall to a puddle on the street.

  Seeing the finely-made garment lying on the cobbles, I resisted the gutterborn impulse to snatch it up. I ran past, leaping over the folds of fine velvet. Someone would be happy later, if we weren’t clobbered by the Waikert.

  At the thought of the savages pouring into town, I felt sick. Our soldiers were armed with mostly mundane weapons now; so many of the nightforged blades had been broken, stolen—even lost—over the last eight years. Our Nocturnai was supposed to return with a hold full of new weaponry. We’d failed. And if I had any say, we’d never nightforge another blade again.

  But what would happen to us? Ioene might offer us a chance at defense—if Paono could heal her as the Vanished believed. But that was only a chance. For the last hundred years, our only certain defense came from nightforging.

  Though I had a stitch in my side, I kept pushing, feet slapping cobbles, breath searing my lungs. In the central district, the blaring alarm horns reverberated in my chest, hurting my ears. House clerks stepped from official buildings, heading for the sanctuary of the trader compounds, while shopkeepers rushed to shutter their windows and board up their doors. Gutterborn children ran shrieking for the slums and their parents’ arms. They’d find little safety there, but at least they’d be with their families. I thought of Da and Jaret. Would they run home? Or would they head, as I was, to the safety of courthouse square? During the last Waikert attack, the edges of the city had burned while the soldiers formed a shield around the central district and trader quarter, stopping the savages short.

  A large man, a butcher judging by his bloodstained apron, slammed me as he ran the other direction. Reeling, I fell into a wall and smacked my head. I saw stars and felt a hot anger spread from my side. Confused, I slapped my hand down and felt Tyrak’s gold-worked hilt.

  I slipped him from the belt loop I’d used as a makeshift sheath.

  “An accident,” I whispered as I panted.

  But he didn’t apologize.

  “He was scared.”

  It’s no excuse. I told you a long time ago that I’d never let anyone hurt you. I meant it.

  I shivered at the words. He meant Zyri, of course.

  Ahead, the roar of a crowd spilled from the courthouse square into the side streets. Apparently, much of Istanik’s population remembered what had happened during the last attack.

  I expected to hear cries of fear when I entered the square, but the crowd sounded more confused than anything. Instead of cowering, eyes on the streets which emptied into the square, the mob pushed forward on tiptoes, neck craned.

  What was this?

  I hopped onto a low stone pillar that formed the foundation for a building’s awning. Holding the awning post for balance, I scanned the crowd. Across the square, in front of the steps leading to the doors of Trader Council Hall, a small cluster of people shifted impatiently. Guards surrounded the group, hands on the pommels of their sheathed weapons. I squinted, confused. I couldn’t make out the details of the insignias on their armor, but the shape was familiar.

  Abruptly, I realized where I’d seen it. On Ioene, when Mieshk seized power from Captain Altak, she’d worn the uniform of a prime trader heir. The insignia of House Ulstat had been upon her breast.

  If these visitors were representatives from Mieshk’s family, why were they guarded? Why the alarm?

  I slipped into the crowd.

  “They came in warships is what I heard,” one man said.

  “Naw, Council went to fetch the Ulstats, but the family refused to come so the Council took these ones hostage,” someone else responded.

  I shook my head. Rumormongers rarely had the story right, and even with my small size, I’d never shove my way through the mob. Turning back, I ran down a darkened alley and then took a side street which would bring me out on the other side of the square. As I made my final turn, I spotted Trader Yiltak again.

  She was trotting now—traders didn’t sprint in public. Noticing me, she nodded. “With me,” she said.

  I didn’t need any encouragement.

  At the edge of the square, House Yiltak guards materialized from the crowd. I saw relief in their eyes. They’d probably been near panic when the alarm was sounded, after dark, with their patron nowhere to be found. Trader Yiltak’s height made her visible in even the densest crowd; they’d probably been waiting, as eager for a glimpse of her close-cropped hair as for a meal after a storm-tide fast.

  Her trader mask firmly in place, Trader Yiltak simply nodded at them, offering no explanation for her tardiness. “The nightcaller is with me,” she said.

  Forging a path through the crowd, the Yiltak guards quickly escorted us to the Council hall. Upon reaching the stairs, Trader Yiltak stopped. Many of the other traders had already assembled just outside the door.

  “I see that Trader Ulstat has neglected to join us,” Trader Yiltak said. “Past his bedtime?” I noticed that she didn’t mention the warships. Either that was just a rumor, or she was failing to acknowledge them on purpose.

  “He sends us in his stead, Trader Yiltak.” An older woman, apparently cast from the same angular mold that had produced Mieshk and her sentinel, Laiska, stepped forward.

  “I’m sure you intend to explain why he shows this lack of respect to the Council, of which he is a senior member.”

  “Inside,” the woman said. “Trader business is not for commoner ears.” With that, she cast a pointed look at me.

  Ignoring her, Trader Yiltak produced the key to the Council Hall and unlocked the doors.

  “We’ll convene a session. Whether we’ll deem your message valid—considering that it is not issued directly from an Ulstat throat—will depend on the contents.”

  Inside the hall, the lamps still burned. I wondered whether they were ever snuffed, or whether the traders just didn’t care about the waste of lamp oil.

  I stood to the side as the traders filed in, unsure where or whether I should sit. Trader Yiltak offered no guidance. When Heiklet’s grandfather shuffled through the door—he looked as if he’d been asleep when the alarm sounded, no surprise with the sun long since set—I caught his eye. I nodded at him, hoping to show support. No matter the trader calm he attempted to maintain, the anger he felt toward the Ulstats was visible on his face, in the stiffness of his shoulders.

  Finally, the Ulstat representatives strode through the door. Guards from half a dozen Houses stepped into the doorway as soon as the officials had entered the building, hands on swords. Barred entry, the Ulstat guards took up positions on the stoop, but not before the leader made eye contact with the Ulstat woman who’d spoken. A slight nod passed between them. I wondered what it meant and considered informing Trader Yiltak, but decided that my attendance at the proceeding was
uncommon enough. It wasn’t the time to make a nuisance of myself.

  The traders took the seats I’d seen them occupy before while the Ulstat woman strode to the speaker’s podium. Either she’d attended a Council session before or she’d been coached before arriving. Surrounding her, the other Ulstat officials formed a semicircle, as if adding weight to her words.

  “Shall we get on with it then?” Trader Yiltak asked. “Arriving in warships in the late hours without a proper Ulstat representative—frankly I’m tempted to escort you back to the quay. As far as I’m concerned, your House can either send an appropriate delegation or forfeit its council position.”

  The Ulstat representative cast Trader Yiltak a sly smile. “It’s a difficult time when the heir of a household isn’t available to stand in for the prime trader, isn’t it. You must sympathize, with Moanet . . . absent.”

  “My daughter’s actions are not your concern.”

  “Perhaps not,” the woman said. She ran her eyes over the gathered traders. “And I apologize for the late hour. This won’t take long, particularly if you elect to meet the Ulstat demands without negotiation.”

  “Demands?” I was surprised to hear Raav’s mother speak up. For that matter, I wondered where Frask was. Nowhere good, I assumed. Or sleeping off the night’s drinks.

  The Ulstat representative nodded. “Indeed. I’ll start with the easiest. Heretofore, Mieshk Ulstat will be given sole dominion over the island Ioene.”

  Protests erupted from the traders while I cringed. Mieshk? Officially ruling Ioene? Ridiculous.

  Apparently, the traders felt as I did. Standing, they hurled insults at the speaker. Some of the representatives from the minor Houses crowded forward from the rear.

  “Order!” Trader Yiltak yelled. She stood, using her height as an advantage once again. She didn’t have her gavel on hand, but her voice was effective enough. Though they didn’t sit, the traders quieted.

  “Clearly, we reject your first demand,” she said mildly. “Any more?”

  The representative inclined her head. I noticed that none of the other Ulstat officials seemed surprised by the traders’ reactions. In fact, most watched the speaker with a sense of eagerness. There was something else going on here. Warships or not, the Ulstats had no business taking on the Trader Council, and though madness ran in their family, I doubted that Mieshk’s father expected the demands to be met. Edging toward the semicircle of delegates, I watched keenly, opening my ears in case they tried to whisper to one another.

  “Trader Ulstat further demands that the Kirillti capital be moved from the city of Istanik, on Stanik Island, to Ilaraok, upon Araok.”

  “Madness!” Trader Srukolk was red in the face, his calm finally crumbled. And no wonder. Mieshk Ulstat had killed his granddaughter.

  “Lastly,” said the representative, voice raised. The angry yelling of the traders covered her words, and she paused, apparently content to wait for quiet.

  What does this mean for Ioene? Tyrak asked me.

  I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts, struggling to concentrate with the noise.

  I don’t know, I managed to say.

  Returning my attention to the Council chambers, my brows drew together. Rather than standing at ease as they’d previously been, I noticed that the Ulstat officials had tensed. One of them was staring out a window on the southern wall. Tapping his neighbor with the back of his hand, he nodded. Something was happening.

  From my position, I couldn’t see out the window. I wondered what the man had noticed out there. I slipped along the wall until I could get a look. Over the harbor, the night sky glowed a peculiar blue. Moving closer still, I understood. Though I couldn’t spot the source, new fires burned, the flames a deep azure. But what did that mean? With the alarm lamps burning red—they wouldn’t be doused without notice from the Council that the threat had passed—the blue must be a signal. Most likely, a means for the warships to communicate with the delegation.

  Attempting to catch Trader Yiltak’s attention, I sidled toward the trader seats.

  The first concussion knocked me from my feet. More booms shook the city as I sprawled, while a loud grating noise came from directly behind me. I rolled to see the wall open, a previously hidden door yawning in the polished marble stonework. A narrow hallway stretched into darkness, dotted every few paces by a dim candle lantern. A figure stood in the doorway, light from the council chamber falling on his face.

  Frask Ovintak.

  With a glance at me that quickly turned murderous, he gestured at the Ulstat delegates. They’d already begun moving, racing toward the secret exit. In their haste, they leaped my body. Flinching, I tucked my knees up to cover my belly.

  Now, Tyrak said. Stop her.

  Just one Ulstat official remained in the hall, the speaker. As she ran toward me, I kicked out. My foot tangled with hers, and she slammed the ground, chin splitting on the stone. Scrambling to my feet, I dove atop her. Raising Tyrak, I held the point of the blade against the back of her neck.

  Frask’s eyes met mine. He stood paralyzed, unsure whether to abandon the woman. But something over my shoulder caught his attention, and he quickly decided. Raav’s brother retreated into the tunnel, shoving the door shut as House guards thundered for the passage. Throwing themselves at the closed portal, they scrabbled fingers over the marble in search of the seam.

  No use. Whether the door only opened from the inside or whether Frask had managed to lock it, the passage was sealed over the Ulstat retreat.

  Beneath me, the woman squirmed and grunted.

  “She’s got one, you fools,” Trader Yiltak yelled, dashing toward me.

  Moments later, a guard replaced my weight with a foot upon the Ulstat woman’s spine. Sword drawn, he laid it alongside her neck. She stilled, recognizing her odds.

  As I clambered to my feet, Trader Yiltak looked me up and down. “Not bad. I suppose I owe you my thanks.”

  It was the closest I’d get to a compliment, but I didn’t bother to bask in it. The days that I cared for trader regard were gone. I did, however, hope that this helped my case with the return to Ioene.

  “Trader Yiltak,” someone called breathlessly. I turned to see a House Yiltak functionary approaching. The front doors to the hall had been reopened, and were once again defended by a wall of guards solid as iron.

  Panting, the man stopped in front of Trader Yiltak, and went to a knee.

  “It’s not the time for etiquette, Tren. What is it?”

  The man stood. “It’s the harbor, Trader. It’s burning. Buildings toppled. The Ulstats have something we’ve never seen. Rumor is, they’ve figured out how to use the black powder from their mines in some sort of weapons.”

  “They’re called cannons,” the Ulstat woman said from the floor. “We knew the demands would be rejected, so thought we’d offer a demonstration.”

  I stared, disgusted. As if Mieshk hadn’t already caused enough problems, this conflict with her family would hopelessly delay the return to Ioene. Once again, I thought of Nan’s words. Maybe I should forget the traders. Focus on the resources I already controlled.

  Captain Altak was on my side, and we had Zyri’s Promise to sail us, but—

  Panic stole my breath. The harbor was burning, isn’t that what the guard said? Buildings demolished. Warships attacking.

  Whirling, I ran for the door, no longer caring what passed between the traders. Zyri’s Promise was tied to the quay.

  Chapter Seven

  THE WATERFRONT WAS in chaos. Gaping holes had been ripped through warehouses and the offices of House clerks. Inside the buildings, scraps of burning paper danced on the night air, sparks whirling. Smoke poured from a dozen fires, set when torches and street lanterns were toppled. I coughed, blinked, squinting through darkness and flame for a glimpse of Zyri’s Promise.

  She’d been moored at the far end of the quay. Smoke searing my lungs, I sprinted over stone blocks that had been reduced to shards, past heavy metal cleats sma
shed flat against the stonework. I couldn’t understand what could do this until I saw an iron ball resting in the crater it had smashed in the masonry.

  My eyes turned to the warships, dark shadows crowned with blue flame. The vessels floated hundreds of paces away. A weapon that could hurl the heavy balls so far . . . I struggled to even imagine it.

  Another scream tore me from my thoughts, and I continued on. There would be time to consider the implications of the Ulstat’s new cannons later.

  Near the exit of one of the city streets, a makeshift hospital was already in use. The injured had been dragged clear of the waterfront and laid upon sacks of cargo, mattresses pulled from the nearby soldiers’ barracks, and in some cases, upon bare cobblestones. One of the men nearest the water had a broken leg. I swallowed, stomach clenching, at the sight of exposed bone. When he screamed, a healer handed him a small cup. Liquor or evenshade. Something to calm him.

  I kept running.

  Halfway down the waterfront, a large pit cratered the stonework, chips strewn, the ball bounced up and away to smash the glass windows of the harbor authority. I leaped the hole, and my sandals skidded on the loose rock opposite. My feet flew from beneath me and I smacked hard stone, rattling my teeth.

  From the water beside me came a loud groan. A ship, still cleated to a pier which jutted from the main waterfront listed hard, her hull gaping where a ball had punched through. With the hull lit an angry red by the fires, the gash in her side was a black pit.

  Zyri’s Promise momentarily forgotten, I stared, dumbstruck. As the ship heeled farther and farther, the pier shrieked and cracked in protest, pilings lifting from the harbor floor, dripping algae and mud. With a final moan, the decking toppled into the sea, and the ship sank with a splash quieter than I’d expected.

  I clambered to my feet, wincing at the pain where my hip had slammed the stone. I set off at a sprint for Zyri’s Promise.

  Around me, men yelled, aghast at the devastation, angry and confused. Where fires burned hottest, bucket brigades formed, anchored on one end by men tossing water onto the blaze, and at the other where people tied ropes to the bucket handles, lowering the containers down to the sea to fill.