At least she was not like those tar heads. Sure, a tar high was amazing, but she didn’t mess with that shit anymore. She’d never sink so low as to become like them.
But a piece of glitterkind? Even by the pale lantern light of her filthy squat, colors flashed from it like tiny reflected pinpricks. She couldn’t possibly become addicted to this, because there was so little of it and she was about to sell the rest anyway. Even if it was supposed to be powerful in very tiny doses.
Maybe she should cut the tiny piece in half?
Rulenya scooped the whole paring onto her pinky and pressed it against her tongue. Hesitation was for losers. She had to grab hold of every pleasure the world offered. What if Haliyal came back and killed her? What if she died thinking about this high she might have had?
The tiny flake made a slight tingle on her tongue, but it was so faint, it might have been her imagination. She swallowed, hoping that some kind of rush would hit soon. If she was going to risk a tiny cut that even a shitwit like Haliyal might notice, she’d better get something for it.
A moment later, her whole body seemed loose and boneless. She slumped to the floor with a small, helpless cry.
An odd feeling like nothing she’d ever felt before welled up inside, making her feel huge and diffuse, like the ghost of a giant. There was nothing physical about this rush, no sour stomach, blurred vision, or lightness in the head. Instead, she just felt large, and powerful, and so serene that she was without want or fear.
Rulenya cried out in pure joy, her voice high and squeaky like a child’s. She had never felt such contentment before, had never felt so complete.
By the fallen gods, she was going to ride this feeling until the very end, and then, when the pawnshop opened again, she was going to get the rest of that ear back and vanish with it. She’d just walk into the jungle, or swim to Vu-Timmer, or something—anything—to experience this again. And again and again and again.
Then, when her supply was all gone, she would be ready to die.
* * *
Riliska crouched in the darkness beneath the table. Something terrible had happened to her mother. Riliska hadn’t dared to open the door, but the sound that came from their shared bedroom terrified her. No humankind could make that noise. It was part shriek, part song, part joy. Something Else was in there with her mother.
She imagined herself flinging back the door with the force and confidence of a hero. Whatever she’d find there, whether it was a hungry shadowkind, one of the ghostkind clad all in black armor, or even a bloodkind that crawled up from the depths of Mudside, she would shout STOP AND GO AWAY, and the power of her voice would terrify it so much, it would leap through the shutters into the night and never return.
But Riliska would never risk it, because what she was most afraid of was that there would be no intruder in their bedroom. She would open that door and find only the usual filth, and her usual mother lying in it, writhing on the floor in the grip of some new drug.
Her mother’s voice squeaked, then held a long high rasping note. Riliska laid both hands over her ears, but nothing could block that sound or the way it made her feel.
* * *
Kyrioc took his black tunic, vest, and trousers from the narrow shelf above his bed. All were brand-new. He hung them on a length of hemp rope, wet a soft-bristled brush in the bouquet water, and carefully brushed the fabric. He’d worn finer clothes—the robe he’d slept in as a bedwetting child cost more—but this would do.
Today was Last Day, the longest day and shortest night of the year. Tomorrow would be Mourning Day, the first day of the new year. It was also the day families would mourn those who had been killed the previous year, or who had been missing so long that they could be legally declared dead.
Goosebumps ran down Kyrioc’s back. He could see Aratill’s bloody face in the moment before he died as though it was happening all over again. And that face wasn’t the only one. One after another ran through his thoughts, each as vivid as if they were in the room with him.
He suddenly realized that he’d been standing, motionless, in his room for… Actually, there was no way to tell how long he’d been standing there. He tried to clear his thoughts and set to work again.
When Kyrioc returned to Koh-Salash from his disastrous First Labor, he’d sought out the families of those who had not returned with him. They were not hard to find, but he couldn’t bring himself to approach them. He felt like a thief who had stolen something he could not return, and really, what could he have said?
The situation was impossible, so he did nothing.
But the Safroys planned a public Mourning Day service for their eldest child and their entire sail—along with those who hoped to join the sail—was expected to attend. With luck, Kyrioc could hide in the crowd, pay his respects to that lost thirty, and slip away without—
There was a knock at the door.
He glanced through the shutters and saw that night had fallen. No one would be looking to do business now. He threw the bolt and opened the door a crack. Riliska stood in the hall, looking up at him with an anxious smile. He opened the door all the way and stepped back.
Eyalmati’s bed was empty, but Kyrioc didn’t think it worth the risk of putting Riliska there. The old man’s benders usually lasted three or four days, but he was unpredictable, and if he returned early, blind drunk, he might fall on her.
So, he put the table away and laid out the spare mat, then fetched an extra blanket from his trunk.
She lifted the hem of her tattered shirt and wiped at the dirt on her cheeks. “I won’t be here long, good sir, I promise. Just until my mom finishes mixing the stinky paints and dyes for tomorrow. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“You won’t.”
“And I’ve decided that I’m not going to steal things anymore, good sir. You’re right about that.” He didn’t respond. Riliska’s stomach rumbled so loudly that he could hear it across the little room. She laid her hand over her tummy. “Sorry.”
Kyrioc put away the mat and blanket again. Then he took out the table and set it with the last two carrots and sole remaining bun. The little girl’s smile broadened and her chatter became livelier. She washed her hands and face without being asked, carefully removing the poppies from the bowl first, carefully replacing them afterward.
She tore into the food, smiling with delight when she discovered the bun had sweet fig paste in the middle. Kyrioc wondered if she’d eaten since he fed her that morning, and wished he’d bought more. When she finished, he cleared the platter and set the table aside. This time, she helped him unfold the blanket.
“You have a nickname, you know. The landlady’s nephew says he heard it in the market and out on the decks. I’ve heard it, too. Do you want to know what it is?”
Kyrioc rolled a blanket to make a pillow for her. “What is it?”
“The Broken Man,” she said. Kyrioc thought he should have some reaction to this, but he couldn’t imagine what it should be, so he said nothing. “Or sometimes just Broken, I guess. I said it wasn’t very nice, and he threatened to throw a stone at me, but that doesn’t make any sense. Where’s he going to get a stone out here on the plankways? He’d have to throw a coin or something, and I’d let him, because then I would catch it and it would be mine. Good sir, do you want to know what my nickname is?”
“Tell me.” Kyrioc turned from the mat and took a clean cup from the shelf. The wooden pitcher had a little water left in it. He poured until the cup was half full and set it on the floor beside Riliska’s mat.
She’d fallen silent. He saw her expression, then pulled out a little stool and sat against the wall, giving her his full attention.
That prompted her to speak. “It’s Long Hangover. Isn’t that funny? Mom says that most hangovers last until lunchtime, but I’m a headache she’s had for years.”
Kyrioc was still for a moment, then gently tucked her in. “Get some sleep.”
“Good sir, I promise I won’t stay too long.
”
“Sleep.”
As he went to his own bed, Kyrioc heard her say, “The Broken Man and the Long Hangover. It sounds like a funny play. I’ve never seen a play, good sir. Have you?”
Kyrioc didn’t answer. Riliska sighed in the growing dark.
For once, Kyrioc’s night was not full of flame, shadow, and death. For once, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke in meager daylight. The mat he’d laid out for Riliska was empty, the blanket folded and placed on top. It wasn’t folded well, but it was folded. The water from the cup had been drunk and the remains of last night’s fig roll was gone. He refolded the blanket and put the mat away.
Eyalmati had not returned. Kyrioc moved a few silver whistles and a silver beam into the drawer so the owner could refill his purse without bankrupting himself—assuming he returned to the shop today, which was doubtful. Mourning Day was an excuse for drink even among those who did not drink every waking hour.
The only light came from sunshine reflected off other buildings along the plankway, but it was enough to see the outlines of his empty room. He’d spent long hours there while Eyalmati was passed out in the supply room or wandering the city. Before this moment, he’d never felt lonely.
Kyrioc put on his funeral clothes. It was time to go up to High Square, where his family would be standing beside his own memorial.
Taking up his red poppies, he locked the shop up and went into the streets. Already, crowds of people in their funeral best gathered on the planks, making the solemn journey to a private or public affair. Many of them, he knew, would visit several ceremonies before sundown.
Tragedy was not just the parent of grief. It was the parent of toil and duty as well.
Glancing eastward, he saw bright sunlight. The sky must have been cloudless or close to it.
Upgarden would be full of people today—not just those who wished to curry favor with the Safroy family, but their servants and private guards as well. Kyrioc would have to be careful, and in this bright light, he would not be able to use his cloak of mirrors.
Head down, he joined the sluggish crowd moving toward the lifts at Undertower.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The year 395 of the New Calendar, eight years earlier
* * *
Kyrionik ward-Safroy defe-Safroy admir-Safroy hold-Safroy stood at the bow of Fair Season, hearing sails snap behind him. The wind on his face was called the Parsu—or among his own people, Parsu the Deliverer. It was the westerly that had carried the Salashi people to safety when the ghostkind drove them out of Selsarim. And now he was sailing westward again.
But not all the way back home. Not yet.
He couldn’t help wonder how this year’s Parsu, which the captain and her crew worked so hard to tack against, compared to the Deliverer itself, almost four hundred years before.
According to Kyrionik’s childhood history lessons, when Selsarim fell, the Parsu had been blowing unusually hard. The journey across the ocean—which normally took three months—finished in two. Many refugees survived the trip who would have died the year before or after.
They might have thanked the gods, but the gods were all dead.
So, once they were established in their new land, the heads of the noble families—in their humility—took the name parsu for themselves. The common folk pledged to a particular noble family and reliant on them for political favors, loans, or mediation with the bureaucracy were known collectively as a sail, and individually as stitches. But what good was a sail without a wind to fill it?
Someday, Kyrionik would be the Safroy parsu. Once he finished his First Labor, his mother would present him to the High Watch. Until then…
He raised his mailed fist, offering a challenge to the world. Everything was going perfectly.
“Your virtue,” a gruff voice said, “take that steel off.”
No one but Aratill would have spoken to the Safroy heir that way. Even though Aratill had explained many times that wearing armor throughout the day made a warrior stronger and quicker—had made Kyrionik wear it during long hours of exercise and scholarship—he would not allow it at sea. And, as Kyrionik’s weapons instructor and bodyguard, he had the authority to make the young noble obey.
“What about Shulipik?” Kyrionik asked. They glanced midship, where Shulipik tuto-Beskeroth stood beside the mast, his helm beneath his arm. His steel breastplate gleamed. The sea air blew his long braids, and his short glaive, taken from a ghostkind ranger in single combat, was strapped to his back. The shaft rose behind him like a pole stripped of its flag.
What about Shulipik? Kyrionik had meant to suggest that Shulipik was a celebrated warrior, so perhaps Kyrionik should emulate him. Instead, the question had sounded childish and petulant, as though Shulipik had been served a bigger slice of cake. He wished he could unask it.
“Let him play the fool,” Aratill said, too quietly for the man to hear. “He is not my charge, nor would I want him to be. My charge is a sixteen-year-old child of the nobility who has more courage than sense. I’ve seen ships pitch suddenly from an unexpected change in the wind or from the thump of a hungry beast hoping to shake loose a meal. If you are dumped into the waves, I’d like you to bob at the surface long enough to be pulled out again.”
Kyrionik sighed and unhooked the plate, feeling slightly embarrassed. Shulipik hadn’t just put on his breastplate. He wore spaulders, upper and lower cannons, and more. He was a warrior of great renown, and he looked the part.
In contrast, Kyrionik had just been scolded on the deck in full view of everyone. He shed the plate and mailed gloves, handing them to a servant. “Prudence, Aratill, child of Araphin. How many times have you tried to teach me this lesson?”
“The time for bold decisions will come soon enough, your virtue. This is your First Labor, not his. You command here.”
“With your consent.”
“No, your virtue. I advise—in my fashion—but you are the one who leads us. Our lives rest on your judgement. That’s what truly separates you from him, whatever his skill at arms.”
That and his ghostkind weapon. But Kyrionik didn’t say it, because he knew his instructor wouldn’t laugh.
Still, he hungered for what Shulipik had: renown. And he would have it if this First Labor succeeded.
Which it would. Why doubt himself?
The captain emerged from her cabin with Selso Rii, their guide on this trip. They stood together on the deck, framed by dark wood of a type Kyrionik didn’t recognize—his own home was made of pale skywood and paler stone. The captain was the same height as the guide, but she stood as straight as an oak, while he was a slender reed that bent under the force of her attention. Kyrionik almost laughed at the sight.
Oblifell joined Kyrionik and his bodyguard in the bow. “Our captain seems less happy every day.”
Aratill and Oblifell clasped their scarred hands together. The former was stocky, scarred, and tall, while the latter was stocky, scarred, and short, but they were a fine match. Clasping hands was the only affection the husbands allowed themselves on a mission.
“She’s been paid, hasn’t she?” Kyrionik asked.
“She has,” Oblifell said, smiling crookedly, “and it was an exorbitant fee. But treasure provides no luxury to the dead.”
“She has thirty loyal Safroy troopers aboard,” Aratill interjected quickly. “She’ll keep to her agreement.”
It suddenly occurred to Kyrionik that Oblifell’s remark about treasure and the dead might have been directed toward him. He stared out ahead of the ship. Vu-Dolmont, their destination, still lay beyond the horizon. They’d been at sea for six weeks. Could they have missed it? Sailed by it in the night?
“Aratill, do you think this trip is wise?”
“Your virtue, that’s a question you should have asked me half a year back. But I’ve known you for most of your life, and I knew your First Labor would be a challenge.”
Every child of noble birth took on a First Labor at the ag
e of sixteen. For many, it was a task of civic improvement: founding a school in the farmwilds, an orphanage in Mudside, or repairs to the downcity plankways and decks. Some took on intellectual pursuits. Kyrionik’s’ younger brother Culzatik was only fourteen, but he was already planning to take a team of scribes to the libraries of Koh-Gilmiere—which were rumored to have codices that were hundreds of years old—and return with a more complete history of Selsarim.
But for those who planned to one day stand as the Steward-General of all of Koh-Salash, their First Labor were supposed to be feats accomplished with sword and spear.
The most common Labor was for a young noble to sail up the Timmer to the northern farmwilds and kill bandits. When he was fourteen, Kyrionik undertook a trip like that. He’d brought his steed, his lance, his sword, and his desire for fame. He planned to accomplish what most young nobles undertook as their First Labor, but he would do it two years early.
It had been a repulsive slaughter worthy of no renown at all. Most of the bandits were starving farmers bled of their coin by a grasping local steward. Few knew how to fight, most fled, and those desperate enough to turn their billhooks against mounted, armored men died quickly.
Kyrionik himself had killed one man. The fellow tried to flee, but Kyrionik rode after him and called for his surrender. The man might have done so, except that Kyrionik’s voice cracked. When he realized he was facing a boy in full armor, the bandit flew into a rage and charged, his axe held high. Kyrionik reacted as he’d been trained, with shield and sword.
It had been absurdly easy. Shamefully so. Even now, two years later, he could still remember the bandit’s final expression. He swore then that his own First Labor, when it came, would not be to ride out and murder the poorest and most desperate of his own people.
His mother had been impressed when he announced his plan to build a tower in the Harkan borderlands, one that would secure a working port and establish a permanent Salashi outpost in the south. After decades of civil war, the mighty Harkan throne, built by the Ancient Kings themselves, had become little more than a monument. Stability and trade would be welcomed by the local Harkan farmers and crafts folk, and bring wealth to Koh-Salash.
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