No, she wanted to say. That can’t be.
Aterallis didn’t just preach peace—he had just stopped the crowd from turning to a riotous mob even after the Indomitables had wreaked havoc on the Slave’s Tier. Issa couldn’t simply imagine that soft-spoken man murdering a Keeper’s Blade and an Indomitable patrol in cold blood.
“You’re certain?” She didn’t care that she was dancing close to crossing the line into insubordination and noncompliance to a direct order—Saba and Savta had raised her to ask questions when things felt wrong, to stand up against injustice. Situations like this and the rampaging Indomitables were the reason she had wanted to become a Keeper’s Blade.
“As a member of the Dhukari, Aterallis will be given a fair trial before the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council.” Invictus Dyrkton’s voice was heavy. “But for that to happen, he must first be taken into custody and brought to the Palace of Golden Eternity.”
“We understand that tensions are running high in the Slave’s Tier at the moment,” the giant with the braided beard said, “which is why you are given the task of bringing Aterallis in. Peacefully.”
A fist of iron squeezed at Issa’s heart. “His followers—”
“May resist.” Invictus Dyrkton inclined his head. “And it is up to you and your hand-picked contingent of Indomitables to bring him in without violence. I accept that this is easier said than done, but Lady Callista believes you are capable of carrying out this mission.” He exchanged glances with the others. “A belief that we all share.”
Pride filled Issa with a warm glow, yet she couldn’t shake the hesitant nervousness bubbling up inside her. This situation was all but guaranteed to go awry, no matter what she did.
“In addition to the two ten-man patrols of Indomitables that will accompany you to arrest Aterallis,” Invictus Dyrkton said, “we are sending four full companies into the Slave’s Tier and an additional two each in the Cultivator’s and Artisan’s Tiers, here, here, and here.” He gestured toward the map, pointing out where the companies would be stationed. “If the situation threatens to get out of control, they have full authorization to protect you and assist in any way necessary.”
Cold dread seeped into Issa’s bones. The Indomitables formed up along the Warrior’s Path wore heavy armor, the sort they’d wear into combat—or a riot. The last time they’d carried those full-length shields had been during the Fifty-Day Revolt. The casualties had numbered in the thousands—not only the Mahjuri and Kabili demonstrators, but Indomitables as well—before the unrest was quelled and the Blades restored peace.
“Sir, I believe that is a mistake,” Issa said. “The Indomitables have already caused enough damage in the Slave’s Tier with their hunt for the Gatherers. If the Mahjuri and Kabili see their streets flooded with soldiers in full armor, it will simply pour fuel on the fire. Even the tiniest spark could cause the situation to get out of hand.”
Invictus Dyrkton fixed her with a stern gaze, his face pinched and drawn with worry. “Precisely why we are expecting you to prevent those sparks.” He drove a clenched fist into his open palm with a loud smack. “Aterallis must be brought in peacefully, for all of Shalandra’s sake.”
* * *
Issa hated what she had been ordered to do—what she had agreed to do—yet had no other choice. The Elders of the Blade, highest-ranking Keeper’s Blades beneath Lady Callista, had given her an order. And there was no arguing with the evidence. Though she hadn’t seen the Indomitables’ bodies personally, she doubted the Elders would give an order like this without verifying the situation.
And yet, it still felt…wrong. In those brief seconds of speaking with Aterallis, everything he’d said had been about peace, forgiveness, and mercy. The low-caste Shalandrans were right to love and believe in him; he embodied the message he preached.
It didn’t make sense, but she had no choice. She was a Keeper’s Blade, first and foremost.
The gaze of every Earaqi followed her and her twenty Indomitables down Death Row. Fires shone in their eyes, anger twisting their faces into scowls. Fists clenched, shoulders tensed, men and women alike muttered amongst each other. Word of the Indomitables’ rampage through the Slave’s Tier must have reached every corner of Shalandra by now. Though the Earaqi had not been directly affected, they knew they would be next if the situation escalated.
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 bl
ankets, 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.
&n
bsp; 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.
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