“Went to the ocean and stuck in a toe.”
“I don’t—wait! Stop, stop, stop . . .”
“Snap went the fish, and it never let go.”
“Damn you, Garden!” Mag hollered. “Just stop and listen to me for a—”
“Iminee Jiminee Jabbery—”
“Wait!”
“Joe.”
Snap went the next finger, a pinky.
Mag screamed. His voice cracked into a gagging choke. Then he started to shake.
“Don’t, don’t, please, don’t. I . . . Please, I . . .”
“You what?” Garden leaned forward conspiratorially. “You have something to tell me?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I’m telling . . . the truth.”
“Oh, that all? Well, let’s try again.”
“Wait!” Damn it, Mag, think of something, something, anything! “But I . . . I can tell you who has it.”
“Oh ho, now!” Garden’s eyes danced. “That’s a better tune. Sing for me, dandy.” He grabbed Mag’s hair and jerked his head back.
Mag’s mind spun, desperate for a story to satisfy the man, something he couldn’t prove wrong for a while, something close enough to the truth it might just work. There was always that bastard, one of the Duke’s contacts. He squeezed his eyes shut so Garden couldn’t see the wheels spinning.
“Please, he’ll . . . kill me if he finds out, so you can’t . . . tell him it was—”
“Least of your worries, darling. Spill.”
“It was all . . . all planned. I dumped it, soon as I could. Met one of his . . . one of . . .” He had to stop and take a few breaths, trying not to think of the blood pumping from his hand, the pain freezing his whole arm.
“Yes, turnie. Keep singing.”
Mag puffed and panted. The sweat was soaking his back now, sliding down his chest, filling his own nostrils with the stench of fear.
“One of his spies.”
“The pig’s?”
Mag nodded. “Met me at . . . Carrol’s on Deln. That’s where I’d meet him. He took it.”
“Who took it?” Garden shook him, rattling his head back and forth. “I want a name, or we pick something else to come off.”
“F—Fetch. And he works for a guy called Azor Lee, runs a shop on Hon . . . uh-h-h . . . South Port. A gunshop. But it’s a cover. He deals in information, precious goods, rare artifacts. He’s got an in with the Duke. That’s your man.”
“On Hon?”
“Yeah. He’s got it. Not me. That’s the truth.”
Garden straightened, and Mag felt a shot of relief run through him. He took a few steadying breaths, then risked a look at his hand. The ruined thing would never hold a gun again. Just a thumb and two middle fingers, and the rest was blood. A claw. An animal thing. He was shaking.
You’re dead, Mag. You’re not getting out of this one.
Abruptly, Garden seized him by the hair and slammed one cheek into the stump. “Filthy little turnie spy,” he spat into his face, the knife digging into his cheek. “You think I wouldn’t recognize a fat lie when I heard it? Tell me it’s the truth one more time. Go ahead.”
“It is!” Mag shouted.
Garden slapped the flat of his blade against his face, leaving a burning welt.
“One more time, and I’ll take your eye out.”
“Shit, shit . . .” Mag’s heart was racing. “It’s the truth. What else do you want to hear?” Garden gripped his head like a vice, while the knife stabbed towards his eye.
Mag shrieked. “It’s not true! It’s not true!”
The knife hovered, a huge, unfocused, deadly blur.
“Then what is?”
“The first thing . . . the first thing I told you. It was stolen from me. I tried to get it back, but I couldn’t, I swear. I’ll tell you anything else you want, anything, but that’s who’s got the stone. I’ll help you get it back. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Mag started to sob.
He was going to lose an eye. The terror of going half-blind was too much, and he could only shake and weep like a pitiful fool.
Then Garden released him. He patted his cheek, stood up, and left Mag sobbing on the stump.
“There now, turnie. I knew it was the truth, but one can never know with little spies. Had to be certain. But you’ll tell me more about this Azor Lee later, won’t you?”
Mag nodded and clutched his hand into a fist, pressing it to his bare chest, unable to control the spasms that ran through him. Get it together. But he wasn’t strong. He wasn’t Aunt Tan, and he wasn’t cut out for this, and why, oh why, hadn’t he shot himself when he had the chance?
Garden was still talking. He knew he should listen, but he just wanted to pass out. And were they planning to kill him with thirst?
“Look at me, turnie!” Garden snapped. It seemed an enormous effort to raise his head and see those granite eyes staring back at him. “Did you hear anything what I said?”
“Water,” Mag finally managed. “Please . . . water.”
Garden struck him across the face. It was enough to knock him to the ground, right on his elbow, and he lay there, curled around the stump, trying not to whimper like a kicked puppy.
“You’ll get water when I say so, and not before. Now what did I say?”
“I don’t . . . know . . .”
He got a boot in his injured thigh. “Pay attention.”
“I am, I am!”
“Then what’d I just tell you?”
Mag’s mind churned. “I won’t get water ‘til you say.”
“Good. And what else?”
“That . . . that . . . you want to know more about Azor Lee. I can tell you more. I can tell you—”
Another few kicks, this time in the back, hard and bruising.
“Please, please, just say it again, I’ll listen this time, I’ll . . .”
Garden crouched at his head, knife still twirling around his fingers, as he grabbed Mag’s chin and forced their eyes to meet. “What I said, turnie, was I’m going to take your eye out anyway. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but when I damned well feel like it. Might be for no reason at all. You said you’re eager to take what consequences I deem proper, so consider yourself warned, my dandy, ‘cause I deem it proper. And if, say, you try to lie to me again, for any reason at all, then I’ll take two. You hear me, now?”
Mag clenched his teeth, mostly to keep them from rattling, and he managed a shallow, stiff nod.
Garden smiled. “Wonderful. Now what’d I just say?”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Jerad Amanti
Jerad couldn’t relax. His body was glad for a break, but the rest of him was on edge. Listening to the Northman screaming and pleading was enough to drag anyone to the brink. But for Jerad, there was a thorn of guilt lodged in his throat.
He’d led Garden straight to that man. The slavers would have marched past him if it weren’t for Jerad. And no matter the poor man’s crime, there was no justification for what Garden and those filthy scum were doing.
Hyranna would try something, he thought. She’d use that shard of stone if she could. She’d never just sit here and listen to this.
He caught Mirren looking at him.
“Not your fault, Jerad,” she said under her breath.
He swallowed. “I know.”
“Do you? You did it for us. So if it’s your fault, it’s all of ours.”
“Dacka!” one of the men snapped, striding up and kicking Mirren in the back. She gave a hiss of pain, but said nothing.
There was silence now but for low voices from the Northmen, or a chuckle here and there. They were probably discussing their new captive. Jerad wondered what it would mean for the rest of them. Would they move on again? Would Garden sell them now and be done with it?
A snap and a shout from Garden hustled him to his feet.
No, he groaned. I don’t want any part of this. Don’t involve me. But he was being shoved over to Garden anyway.
He tr
ied not to stare at the man on the ground. The captive was naked and bleeding, curled up on himself, shivering, all the determination driven out of him. Blood covered a nearby stump, and it was splattered all over the ground. It stood out, a vivid stain against the man’s white skin. And was that a . . . a finger?
Jerad forced his eyes away and looked at Garden instead.
The Northman was less gleeful than he’d been at the prisoner’s arrival. That dangerous glint was back in his eyes. In this mood, he might do anything.
He was twirling his bloodied knife, back and forth, tapping it. Thinking. Jerad waited, trying not to focus on the stench of blood and sweat.
“Change of plans, Feddel,” Garden finally said. “We’re going hunting again. Seems this here turnie’s given us a new target. Isn’t that right, Yourk?” There was no reply. Garden kicked him in the ribs and hollered. “Yourk! Eet tach in, tegint? Glaffir neek ol bit, seyah?”
The man stirred and started to nod, but he seemed unable to move. Then one of the Northmen grabbed his arm and yanked it up. Jerad saw where most of the blood was coming from: not just one, but two fingers were missing, and the movement caused a fresh squirt of blood. The man just groaned and struggled to his knees, hair clinging to his pale face. He started to mumble.
Garden struck him in the mouth. “He doesn’t know what you’re saying. Tell him so he understands, turnie.”
The man shook his head and stuttered out some explanation, already cringing away. Sure enough, Garden hit him again, and again, spattering more blood. Angry words flew back and forth, and Jerad shifted, uncomfortable.
Finally they seemed to come to some understanding. The man was speaking, voice pitched high and panicky, and when he’d thrown out a few gasps, Garden struck his knife over the man’s lips, bringing an abrupt silence.
“He’s a dark fellow,” Garden translated, turning his cold eyes back to Jerad. “Darker than you, he says. Six feet tall, if he had to say, but not as broad as you at the chest. Southerner type. You follow?”
Jerad felt a sinking in his gut. It was starting all over again. Off after another, and of course Garden would expect him to track this person.
He also knew he couldn’t say no. Slowly, he nodded.
“Kratofan,” Garden pulled the knife away and prompted the young man again. There was another halting slough of words, tumbling one over the other. “He wore old, tattered robes. Strange ones. Not anything he’d seen before. And he carried a black shard of rock, dear to him, like. His feet were bare.” There was a pause. “That enough for you, Feddel?”
Jerad swallowed and nodded again. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do more than your best. You’ll find me this man. And if you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in another of those slaves you seem to care so much about, and I’ll make you pick. Are we clear?”
“Always.” Jerad fought to suppress a scowl.
“Good. Then we leave first thing in the morning.” He turned his attention to one of the other Northmen. “If we’re not back in five days, hurt the old craf he talks to. That ought to put a fire under his step, don’t you think? Oh, and Feddel, this should go without saying by now, but if you try anything, one of them will suffer for it.”
His smile made Jerad’s teeth grind. So this was what he got for showing his weakness, that burden of responsibility he couldn’t shake. He glanced once more at the naked, shivering captive. This is where hope had brought him. This was the end of all his efforts. Obedience without choice. The loss of his freedom, one soul-crushing command at a time.
Just like Garden had promised.
The transformation was nearly complete. He felt it in himself, the growing inability to refuse. The shifting of his nature. If he did this, then he was exactly what Garden said he was: a slave.
And if he wasn’t, escape would come now—or never.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
I tightened my fingers around the cold stone wall of the lookout and tried to ignore the looming presence behind me—not Sumadi. A thousand times worse.
“Your plan will never work,” said the voice like water.
Don’t engage. Don’t engage.
I glared across Anuai. My settlement. My well. My Guardians. Or so I imagined.
It was foolishness. Nothing was mine so long as he hovered over it, watching from the shadows like a ghost. Reminding me of my weakness, my failure.
I was deluding myself.
He drew closer, mirroring my posture: shoulders back, one hand resting on the wall, while the other gripped an invisible hilt. “Ishvandu’sal, Guardian Lord of Anuai.”
“What do you want?” I snapped.
His eyes glittered through the dark. “For you to see how ridiculous you’re being.”
“We’re making progress.”
“Are you?”
“Twelve attacks, only one dead and he was a fool. I think we’re doing fine.”
“Two.” He held up his fingers.
“And here I thought you were clever enough to count.”
He smiled. “Two graves. Well . . . one grave, and one body dumped for the rats.”
“Nolaan?” I snorted. “He was executed.”
“I saw.”
Something about the way he said that, as if he were actually there . . .
I shivered.
“Fine,” I snapped. “Two dead. Two dead in four months is nothing. Which means we can do it. We can make this work. What in the sands do you want from me? You want us to break free from the Avanir? This is what it looks like.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” I glared at him.
“You know you are. Deep down, you know this will never work. You think they’ll follow you? You think they’ll abandon everything they know, the safety and familiarity of Shyandar, to scratch starvation out of a mud hole?” He laughed. “You know exactly what’s going to happen.”
“I don’t care what happens, so long as my people never have to face the Choosing again.”
“Ah.” He smiled.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I hated him. I hated that he could lead me on like that, anticipating my every word.
Just walk away.
I didn’t need to stand here. I could patrol the settlement, visit Arkaya on watch, check on Antaru. Anything.
“There’s a better way to stop the Choosing,” he said. “And you know it.”
“No.”
“Her words terrified you. Is that why you killed her?”
“No.”
“Power is a frightening thing. But Kaprash will return. There will be another opportunity—if you survive that long.”
I was hardly listening to him. He knew. Of course he knew. We’d been over this before. Over and over.
You killed her.
“No.”
You killed her.
“No, no, no. Shut up and leave me alone!”
Silence.
I glanced up. Shatayeth was gone. Just like that, melted back into the shadows.
If he had even been there in the first place.
I stumbled down the steps of the lookout, brushing cold sweat out of my eyes. I searched the Unseen.
Nothing. His presence had gone. Vanished.
Yl’avah’s might, was I going completely insane?
I stumbled towards the well, feeling flushed and cold all at once. The dark swam around me. The shadows . . .
A flutter of my old panic. The pressing dark. The shadows. The cold . . . the cold . . .
I growled and hauled on the rope, clutching a bucket of water, upending it over my face and letting it run down my chin and soak my back. A shiver ran through me.
“What’s wrong?”
I glanced up, disoriented. “Mani?”
The woman crouched next to me. “Ishvandu . . .”
Sands, Vanya—get it together. I shook the water out of my eyes.
“I’ll . . . I’ll be fine.”
&n
bsp; “You don’t look it.”
A trickle of rocks sounded. I snatched my keshu, spinning, heart pounding.
Nothing in the Unseen. No Sumadi. No Shatayeth. Probably a digger rat snuffling for grub.
“Ishvandu.” Mani took my arm. “Go eat something. Rest. I’ll finish the night.”
I shook my head. “I can’t rest.”
“Then you can’t lead.”
“And I can’t argue with you either, can I?”
“Exactly. So let’s skip to the part where you listen.” The woman smiled. In the dark, I almost thought she was Tala. I almost reached for her.
She glanced down and saw my hand waver between us, empty, longing to be filled.
Saying nothing, she grasped it between both of hers. The touch filled me, steadying me—exposing me. Tenderness and vulnerability. The ache of being known.
My eyes burned. I muttered something unintelligible and hurried away.
“Ishvandu.”
The voice cut through my sleep. I was so tired it hurt. My first instinct was to scream and hurl the heaviest object within reach. But since retaliation would require moving . . .
“Ishvandu!”
I muttered something, forcing my eyes open. Where was I? The image of grizzled ab’Tanadu swam into view.
“Sands . . . what . . . ?”
“Get up,” he said. “Now.”
He left, and for a moment I lay there dazed. What had happened? Why was I sleeping? The last thing I remembered was being on watch, and then . . .
Him.
I groaned and fumbled for my keshu. Yl’avah’s might, why couldn’t E’tuah leave me alone? But focus. There was something about ab’Tanadu’s tone. Trouble. Something was wrong. Dimly, I heard shouting.
“Shit.” I staggered out of the Guardian’s quarters, struggling to strap my keshu on, patting down my braids, rearranging myself into something resembling a leader.
It was early. The sun was a throbbing red bruise on the horizon. I had been asleep less than a quarter. No wonder I felt drugged.
“I must speak to him!” came the gruff shouting. “I don’t care if he’s mid-shit, there’s no time for this sand-blasted nonsense.”
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