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Merciless

Page 15

by Jacqueline Pawl


  “I pray he will.”

  An aged, ivy-covered arch marks the change from the Sapphire Quarter to the market district, the houses turning tall and lean, crammed beside one another with nothing but a few inches between the limestone bricks. They lean forward into the street so their tiled roofs create a sort of canopy, a reprieve from the sun for pedestrians on the road below. When the breeze calms, the houses in the distance appear to dance, waves of heat blurring their white facades.

  As they wander into Myrellis Plaza, Elise holds tightly on Mercy’s arm, concerned about being separated, but her worry is unnecessary; the middle-class workers and shoppers shift out of their way when they spot Mercy’s and Elise’s fine clothing. A few gawk at Mercy’s pointed ears, but they look away when she narrows her eyes.

  “You are very brave to venture into Sandori without guards, my lady.” Although Elise’s voice is nonchalant, she watches Mercy from the corner of her eye. “I’m surprised Queen Cerelia allowed you to come here without a company of soldiers at your back.”

  “I came to negotiate for peace. Arriving with a fleet of soldiers is hardly the way to earn His Majesty’s trust, don’t you think?” Mercy says. “Either way, I can handle myself with a weapon.”

  “Really? You were given lessons?”

  “I have an older cousin, Alistair.”

  “He taught you to fight? Against his father’s wishes, I assume.”

  “Yes. I beat him frequently.”

  Elise laughs. “You must teach me sometime. Some of the noblemen can be quite insistent, given a little wine. One mistakes an innocent comment for flirting, and the next thing you know, he’s dragged you into one of the spare bedrooms, pulling at your clothes, all . . . hands.” She shudders.

  “Perhaps I should have brought guards, after all.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They wander past the square and into the cluster of trading company warehouses crammed along the banks of Alynthi. The river is three times as wide as it had naturally been, Elise explains, the banks having been dug out when the dam was built. Colm Myrellis, a trader and engineer, had designed it to provide power to the factories, and later added two massive doors so his ships could pass through. The money he earned from the levy had made him the richest man in Sandori, and upon his deathbed, his son was made ruler of Sandori, and later, Beltharos.

  “The Myrellis bloodline has been royalty since,” Elise continues. “Not always without challenge, but they’ve managed to keep a tight rein on their power. Say, have you any plans for tonight?” She spins to face Mercy, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk with the abrupt change of subject.

  “No,” Mercy says hesitantly. Although she wishes to return to the castle and spy on the prince, there is no guarantee she will be able to find him, and no reason for Lady Marieve to be wandering the castle alone at night.

  “Wonderful. You shall come to my house for dinner. My father is having some of his colleagues over for a pre-Solari feast. You’re going to come, too, and I will explain more about the holiday to you.”

  “I— Very well.” Dining with nobles and listening to their incessant chatter is likely to drive Mercy insane, but if Seren Pierce is as quick to trust as his daughter, perhaps she can glean some information which will help her complete her contract.

  Elise smiles. “Then I will have the servants prepare an extra seat at the table. You’ll love it. My father brags that Liri is the best cook in Sandori. First, I want to introduce you to someone.”

  She takes Mercy by the hand and pulls her down a series of side streets. There are more workers here than anyone else; stout, red-faced men wearing tattered hats carry crates past them, and the tall masts of ships move steadily southward in the distance. When they near the docks, Elise freezes.

  “Where is Atlas?” she asks a soldier overseeing the loading of a shipment.

  “Elise? Didn’t think I’d be seeing you around for a while,” he says, frowning. “Positions changed. Atlas was assigned to Beggars’ End. He didn’t tell you?”

  Elise pales. “When did this happen?”

  “Two weeks ago. He really didn’t tell you?”

  “If this is about—”

  “No, it’s not,” he says quickly, raising his hands to cut her off. “Creator’s honor. He’s in Aldrich’s Square, last I heard.”

  Her jaw sets. “Okay. Okay.” She pivots on her heel and waves Mercy forward, waiting until she catches up to speak. “It’s my brother,” she murmurs. “The idiot. Allow me to walk you to the castle, my lady, or to your home. I will speak to my brother afterward. I will see you tonight, correct? Just tell me where your house is and I’ll have an invitation sent.”

  “That’s not necessary. Let me help you.”

  “No, it’s highly improper. You don’t need to see Beggars’ End. My family’s problems are our responsibility.”

  “I want to help.” After the warning at the city gate two days ago and Elise’s reaction to the news about her brother, Mercy’s curiosity piques. Every city has a slum, but half the nobility can’t say the name without a derisive curl of the lip or wrinkle of the nose. “Let me help, Elise. I don’t mind.”

  “I . . . Fine.” Elise nods, some of the color returning to her cheeks. “Let’s go, then.”

  21

  They smell Beggars’ End before they see it. The stench floods over the wall which encloses the slum, a rank combination of sewage, rotting food, and body odor. The wall is shorter and more haphazardly constructed than those surrounding the city, and in some places, small window-like holes where stones had fallen out—or been removed—offer a glimpse into Beggars’ End.

  Stone arches had been built into the walls at uneven intervals. At each one, a wrought-iron gate stands open, and a latch on the wall suggests a place for a lock. What occasion the king could have for locking people inside Beggars’ End is left to the imagination.

  When they step through the gate, the first to notice them is a young boy with lank black hair hanging in his face. He crouches in the street beside three other children, blinking at the strangers.

  Mercy forces her pace not to falter when she sees the boy lean forward and whisper to the other children. They turn and look, and—almost simultaneously—their expressions shift into replicas of the boy’s: a mixture of distrust and wariness, even hostility. They stand, but do not move closer. When she and Elise turn a corner, Mercy lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “Right over here,” Elise says, her voice trembling slightly. She points to a building which looks like an old storage facility, complete with boarded-up windows and a stack of broken crates against one wall. A man stands just inside the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Elise runs to him.

  “Elise, what—” The rest of his sentence is muffled as she tackles him in a hug. His eyes widen, then his arms close tighter around her and he smiles. “It’s good to see you, sister.”

  “You had not expected to see me so soon,” she says as she pulls back. “Atlas, what have you done to be transferred to this place? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ah, who is it you’ve brought?”

  “Lady Marieve Aasa—my brother.” Elise frowns, begrudgingly slipping into the poise drilled into her by years of working in the castle.

  “Aasa? You mean you’re . . .?”

  “Feyndaran.”

  “Royalty,” Elise says at the same time.

  “Well. Welcome to Beltharos, my lady. I must say, I applaud your choice of companions, but speaking as her brother, I’ll admit I’m biased.” He turns to Elise, whose expression hasn’t changed despite the praise. “I didn’t tell you about the change in posts because I didn’t know about it until the day it went into effect. Even if I had tried to tell you, do you really think Father would have let me speak to you?”

  “There are plenty of times Father isn’t around, but— You should speak to him, Atlas.”

  “He has made his opinion of me abundantly clear.”
>
  They lock gazes then, and it strikes Mercy how dissimilar they look. While Elise’s face is femininely soft, Atlas’s is long and lean, with high cheekbones and a hint of stubble along his jaw. His brows are the same dark blond his hair would be if worn longer than its current short crop, and they are several shades darker than Elise’s white-blonde locks.

  “Fine.” Elise breaks first, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But this doesn’t mean I approve.”

  “I thought Feyndarans want nothing to do with us,” Atlas says to Mercy, ignoring his sister. “You’re here about Cirisor, then?”

  “How did you know?”

  “There’s no other reason why Her Majesty would allow her granddaughter to journey here. I hope the king gives you the land. I’ve seen enough friends march off to fight and not return to know whatever Ghyslain hopes to win will never be worth it.”

  Mercy nods solemnly.

  “Atlas, what is this place?” Elise’s voice is pinched, her face stark white.

  She stares down the length of the building, at a crumbling doorway from which two elderly men have just exited. One has frizzy white hair which hangs around his shoulders, and the other is permanently bent into a hunchback, his head and neck jutting forward at an uncomfortable-looking angle. His hooked nose and wrinkled neck make him look like a vulture. The two men carry something wrapped in a sheet between them.

  “Leave.”

  The word is nothing more than a whisper, a hiss on the breeze, and, at first, Mercy isn’t sure whether she had imagined it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Atlas place his hand on the grip of his sword. Elise is still looking in the direction of the old men, and Atlas takes a protective step toward her.

  “Sister,” he says, his voice laced with caution. “I have told you before not to come here.”

  Steel glides against leather as he pulls the sword from its sheath. Mercy’s veins fill with ice, and by the time she realizes what she is doing, her daggers are already in her hands. She ignores Elise’s surprised gasp as she turns to face the threat.

  It’s the children.

  Not only the children they’d seen before, but at least a dozen more, as well as parents, siblings, elves, beggars, cripples. They surround Mercy, Elise, and Atlas, each holding a rock in one hand, poised to throw. They must have pulled the stones from the wall, Mercy realizes with trepidation, noting that many of them are large enough to fracture a skull.

  “Leave.”

  A four-year-old girl hisses it first. Brown hair hangs limply around her heart-shaped face, matted and tangled, and her cheeks are coated with grime. Her startlingly bright green eyes narrow and her upper lip curls, revealing a flash of tiny, crooked teeth.

  “Leave. Leave. Leave.”

  The others join in one at a time, until the words blend into a buzz. There is no organized chant; their voices are scratchy and dry like old parchment, each one a rasp. There must be at least twenty-five faces among them, but Mercy can’t look away from the little girl’s.

  “Enough.” Atlas’s voice cuts through the whispers. “Drop your weapons and leave. They are nothing to you.”

  “We are nothing to them,” someone corrects.

  “Go home.”

  Elise tugs on Mercy’s sleeve. “Marieve. A body. That’s—Th-that’s a body.”

  A body?

  Mercy follows Elise’s gaze to the two old men down the street, who still struggle with the bundle they carry, oblivious to the tension behind them. Something white sticks out from under the dark sheet.

  Oh.

  The hand bobs with every step, pale fingers grasping at empty air. A sliver of a wrist is visible under the fold of dark fabric, a red rash flaming brightly on the bloodless, pallid skin.

  Thunk.

  Atlas grunts—more with surprise than pain—as a rock thuds against his armor and skitters harmlessly to the ground. He scowls and pushes Mercy and Elise behind him.

  “Keep them out of our land.” An elf with a voice like sandpaper steps forward, his large eyes narrowed. He spits at Atlas’s feet, then reclaims the rock he’d thrown with practiced calm. “We don’t want them here.”

  “What you want is no concern of mine, Ketojan, and I advise you to consider your next move carefully.” Atlas lifts the point of his sword to Ketojan’s throat. The elf smirks condescendingly, his brown eyes peering out from under a shock of choppy white hair.

  The beggars shift their rocks and broken bricks between both hands, ready to throw. The hunger in their eyes is unlike any Mercy has seen before, scared and half-starved. It reminds her of a pack of feral wolves she had seen on the ride to Ellesmere.

  “Get them out of here, and we’ll go,” Ketojan finally says. At this, the beggars simultaneously step back, and most drop their rocks. Their hostile expressions don’t change, but they appear to respect Ketojan.

  “You are in no position to make threats here, friend,” Altas’s eyes flash with warning, his sword’s blade glinting in the sunlight. Even so, the corner of Ketojan’s lips quirks upward in a smirk.

  The elf holds Atlas’s gaze for a long time, then turns and walks away. The beggars follow him, and when they are out of hearing range, Atlas releases a breath and sheathes his sword. Mercy does not do the same with her daggers.

  “You must leave now, before he changes his mind.”

  “Atlas, what is happening here? Why are you here? Come with us, won’t you? Please!” Elise is near hysterics, her eyes wide as saucers. “Does Father know?”

  Atlas grips her shoulders tightly, his face flushed with anger and stress. “Don’t you think all the nobles know what’s happening? Do you think they care about the people here? They know, Elise, and they do nothing about it.” He lets go and runs a weary hand over his face, his anger sapped. Little bruises the shape of his fingertips form on Elise’s upper arms.

  She shakes her head. “You are far too kind for a place like this, brother.”

  He smiles and bows in respect to Mercy. “Should you have any need of me, send a message to Elise or one of the other guards. I doubt you’ll want to venture back anytime soon, even armed as you are.”

  “. . . Right.” Mercy hesitates, seeing Elise’s gaze still glued to her daggers, then lifts the hem of her skirt and tucks the daggers into their sheaths. “You should consider carrying one if you’re going to be visiting your brother here. I could teach you how to use them.”

  “Thank you, but, uh, that will not be necessary,” she says, her voice pinched.

  “You must leave.” Atlas scans the buildings, eyes narrowing at the shadows in the mouths of the alleys. “They won’t leave you alone for long; Ketojan doesn’t have as much power among his people as he thinks he does. I cannot leave my post for long, but I will walk you to the gate to make sure you aren’t followed.” Before he finishes speaking, he opens his arms wide and ushers Mercy and Elise forward, herding them down the street like sheep who had strayed too far from the flock.

  When they reach the gate, Elise embraces her brother once more. “Thank you, Atlas. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “Try not to do anything stupid, then.”

  He laughs. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Atlas says, turning to Mercy, “even if it was not under the best circumstances.”

  “You as well.”

  “I wish you luck on your future negotiations. May the Creator shine his light on the blighted land of Cirisor once more.”

  22

  Neither Mercy nor Elise had spoken much on the walk back from Beggars’ End, which is why when Mercy knocks on the front door of Elise’s house two hours later, the girl’s warm smile surprises her more than her uncharacteristic silence had. She stands in the foyer beside Aelyn, her family’s slave, and invites Mercy inside.

  Seren Pierce’s home is slightly smaller than Blackbriar, yet steeped in more finery than Mercy has ever seen—even more than Myrellis Castle. All the extravagance in the castle seemed to ha
ve been placed there as an afterthought, perhaps at the insistence of an advisor more concerned with the opinions of the courtiers and other visitors than the comfort of the king who lives there. Wandering the halls yesterday, Mercy had seen what the king’s advisors try to convince themselves is not true: the castle is a memorial for the phantoms of the women Ghyslain had loved and lost eighteen years ago, and keeping the castle furnishings the same as they had been is his way of continuing the charade of their current existence.

  A madman’s logic.

  Aelyn leads Mercy and Elise past vivid oil paintings, colorful tapestries, and several sculptures as they walk through a long hallway. Arched doorways draped in yards of chiffon offer glimpses into a sitting room, a study, a library, and—finally—the dining room. Inside, Seren Pierce and two other men are clustered around one end of the long rectangular table which dominates the room, bent over a map of the city. They speak in low voices. None of them notice when Mercy and Elise enter.

  “That’s Landers Nadra,” Elise whispers, nodding to the middle-aged man standing beside her father. Unlike the Seren, Landers is portly and round, his fine velvets straining over his midsection. Landers frowns at something Seren Pierce says and points to a building on the map with a heavily-jeweled finger. “The bald one is Cassius Baccha. He—” She pauses, then glances at Mercy with an appraising eye. “Do you know much about nobility titles in Sandori?”

  Mercy lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “A little.”

  “They follow titles from the old tongue, which is why they sound strange when we use them today, but the hierarchy is easy to understand, even for commoners. It makes it easy to keep records, too. They’re alphabetical.” She nods to Cassius, who is bent over the map, his scalp shiny in the light streaming through the windows. “Baccha is the second-highest rank, which means he’s the one lesser lords have to schmooze to get what they want.”

  “Must be nice for your father to have one of the most powerful men in Sandori as a friend.”

 

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