Light of the Outsider

by Matthew Wayne Selznick

  "There's nowhere safer."

  Lama gave him a look. "We can't sit in there until Runai, Kug. You know we can't." She indicated Sot with a toss of her head. "Look at him. He's going to soil his breeches. Besides," she looked at the floor, "it's no place for a kit."

  Kug gaped. "Much better Ra—" He could not bring himself to say the infant's name aloud. "…your… burden… be placed in the hands of magickers, right, Lama? Traded for a purse of equal weight, perhaps?"

  Lama turned away, muttering, "Much more than that."

  It didn't matter.

  She was right, and Kug knew it, no matter how angry it made him.

  Regardless of what ultimately happened to Ranith, Kug couldn't keep the infant locked up in a hollow in the wall, magickly drugged or not, while he tried to figure a way out of this dread catastrophe.

  He felt like spitting, and might have, if he hadn't been standing in his own room.

  "I'll put you in the room next to mine," he said.

  Lama clarified. "The corner room?"

  Kug nodded. "Better you share a wall with me alone. But you'll have to keep the windows shuttered, and you cannot make a sound, and you cannot leave the room until Runai night. Not for anything."

  Sot had been listening, and continued to bounce. "What about when we have to relieve ourselves?"

  "There's a pot in there. Keep the lid on the thing, because I'm not emptying it."

  Sot blinked. "Can we go there now?"

  Kug deliberately ignored him and felt good about it. "I'll close the entire floor. No guests until this is over."

  "That's not smart," Lama said. "Better to act as if nothing was different, right?"

  Kug snarled, "Don't tell me how to run my place, Lama."

  "Run this place however you please. I'm trying to keep my head off a pike. Dunak will have every eye on the Steadfast Capful. They'll be looking for any sign of disruption. The closer to normal you keep things, the better."

  Kug didn't enjoy admitting the sense in that, but she was right. He couldn't give over entirely, though.

  "How do you suppose I should explain I've closed one room?"

  Lama's smile dripped sarcasm. "I'm not one to tell you how to run your place."

  Sot shuffled, tight-legged, to the door. "Let's go there now. Please."

  Dennick

  Dunak did not care for Dennick, and Dennick knew it.

  Dunak, Dennick knew, did not care for the fact that, at the Alwardendyn’s behest, Dennick had trained nearly every guard in Dunak's command. Dennick suspected Dunak's dislike likely stemmed from awareness that only a fool taught their students everything they knew, especially when it came to martial matters.

  Dunak, Dennick assumed, knew Dennick was no fool.

  It followed that Dunak did not like Dennick because he suspected the sellsword could, through some savage trickery learned in the Alliance of Clans, overcome him in combat.

  Dunak was probably correct. Dennick had no desire to test the assumption.

  That did not prevent Dennick from leveraging their imbalanced tension when necessity brought them together.

  They toured the palace yard, headed for the ruined, charred mess that had been the launderer's warren.

  Dunak said, "You have no privilege here, sellsword. This is a courtesy."

  Dennick’s attention was on the smoking rubble. "You are always nothing less than courteous, Dunak." He nodded toward the warren, where a few bent launderers searched amid the ashes. "Is the body still there?"

  Dunak walked ahead of him. "This way."

  The roof had caved in on the small room that belonged, Dunak had previously told him, to Sot and Lama, a heartfast couple. Earlier, guards had cleared away much of the charred and fire-brittle bricks and detritus to reveal the corpse.

  "What was the female like?" Dennick asked.

  "You think I'm familiar with the magn who wash my clothes?"

  "Naturally not." Dennick gave Dunak a quick assessing glance, collar to boot and back. "Indeed, what favor might be gained from that?"

  He was rewarded by Dunak's slow scowl. Dennick pretended not to notice. He turned, caught the eye of one of the launderers, and gestured for her to approach.

  "Yes?"

  Dennick made the sign of the Shaper's Eye—palm up, index finger and thumb drawn together in a circle—and said, "Balance and harmony to you. This… is awful."

  The launderer, a sinewy female with ragged, short black hair speckled with ashfall, nodded with more impatience than grace. "It is."

  "What is your name?"

  "Tala."

  "Do you know Sot and Lama?"

  "Of course."

  Dunak said, "I, or my guard, already talked to everyone."

  Dennick kept his attention on Tala. He smiled gently.

  "Tala, I know it's a horror, but have you seen the magn who died here last night?"

  Tala glared at Dunak. "He made me look."

  "I know the body is badly burned," Dennick said, "but do you think it could be Sot? Or Lama?"

  "Who knows?" Tala seemed offended by the question. "It's charcoal now."

  Dennick nodded. "Indeed. Well. I know the palace yard warden will—"

  Tala went on, thoughtful, as if Dennick had not opened his mouth. "Too small to be Sot, though. Even all broiled away like that."

  Dunak said, "We already—" but Dennick held up a stifling hand.

  "Dunak, you've been so gracious, I hesitate to ask more of you."

  There was just a ripple of disgust along the surface of Dunak's voice. "What."

  "Let's wait until I've seen everything before you share what you and your guard have learned," Dennick said. "I want whatever opinion I form to be free of… influence."

  "Suit yourself," Dunak said. "It stinks here. And we still have to go into the tower. Hurry up."

  Dennick nodded low to Tala. "Thank you."

  "All right." Tala turned, gingerly stepping through the mess at their feet, and rejoined a small kit not far away. The little one's face was filthy with tear-striped soot.

  Dennick stepped over to the burned body. He had never before seen the result of death by burning, but as a youth he'd been told what to expect if a brush fire ever swept through camp.

  In a fire, panic and pain killed the mind before the body succumbed, leaving the victim with no sense save the instinct to curl up, arms tight to the skull, in a desperate and worthless attempt to hide from the flames even as flesh and muscle bubbled on the bones.

  This corpse was burned to black, as the saying went. But the magn had not assumed the bleak fetal position as it died.

  The corpse was bent and twisted, to be sure, but only so much as could be expected when muscles boiled and shrank.

  "Dunak," Dennick asked, "was the corpse moved in any way?"

  Dunak grunted. "No time to bury palace yarders today. No. We found it as it is. Probably—"

  "Please," Dennick said. "Not yet."

  "You asked."

  "Thank you."

  Tala was right. This was not the body of a male. Too delicate.

  He bent down, steeling himself against the smell of cold, smoking meat, and examined the silently screaming, empty-socketed skull.

  What he saw there, and the body's death posture… there was information there.

  This magn was already dead when fire came for it. For…

  Yes. Dennick was sure.

  For her.

  Dunak stood a few stride away, a gloved hand over his nose. "Are you done here, sellsword?"

  Dennick stood up and decided to keep his conclusion to himself.

  "I am." He stepped over to Dunak. "Should we see the other body?"

  "In the tower?" Dunak looked across the yard at the top floors of the stone structure, which, save for smoke stains here and there, barely looked as though it had held so much recent tragedy. "I've changed my mind. You can go in yourself, but the fire was set in the servants' wend, and it is all but destroyed. Break your ankles if you want.
I'm staying out here."

  "Hm. I need my ankles. What's your opinion of the other victim?"

  "Two magn missing from the palace staff," Dunak said. "Vadi, who had a… history… with the launderers Sot and Lama," Dunak's chest swelled with assumptions, "and an old magn named… Pak. No. Tak." He nodded as if he was convincing himself he'd guessed correctly. "The body's worse than the other one. Burned a lot hotter in there. No telling who it is."

  "Either would have access to Ranith?"

  "Sure. Vadi was on night wait, apparently."

  "So it's probably her body?"

  Dunak sweated scorn. "Then where's the old magn?"

  Dennick shrugged easily. "All right, then. I'm ready for your theories, Dunak."

  "Nothing complicated." Dunak stood a little straighter. "Vadi, she was part of the palace staff. Had access to Ranith. Worked the creche, and if she was on night wait, she would have been in Alwarden Deanae’s service as well.

  "Vadi and Sot, I've heard, used to be companions, along with Lama. Three of them stopped getting along a few years ago."

  Dennick asked, "Why?"

  Dunak shrugged. "Jealous of Vadi, probably. They all came to the palace around the same time. Vadi moved from the yard to the palace; the other two stayed where they were." He shook his head and laughed. "Sot… he aspired to join the guard."

  "No?"

  "He's a big magn. Naturally strong. But I wouldn't depend on him to empty my stickwater jug without soaking his boots." Dunak rolled his eyes. "Worthless."

  Dennick nodded. "All right."

  "I learned today," Dunak continued, "that Sot and Lama recently reconciled with Vadi. My guess is that Sot decided that between the two of them, he'd rather give his attention and his loyalty to Vadi. Maybe he'd always felt that way, but had an obligation to the other one."

  "This is sounding more complicated the longer you tell it, Dunak."

  "Fine. I'll spell it out: Vadi plotted the whole thing. Sot’s too stupid. Vadi used her access to get to Ranith, but was stopped by Tak. Killed him in the tower wend, grabbed the kit, then set the fire to cover her tracks. Meanwhile, Sot set the fire that killed Lama in her sleep. In the confusion, they slipped away."

  So Dunak had not noticed the crushed skull of the corpse in the launderers' warren. And there was another problem with the Ward of the Guard's scenario.

  "Didn't the Launderers' ward say he saw Lama with Sot during the fire?"

  Dunak shrugged. "There was a lot of smoke in the air. Lots of magn running around. He saw what he expected to see."

  "Could Vadi be readily mistaken for Lama?"

  Dunak was obviously growing irritable. "Apparently so, since that's what happened."

  Dennick didn't hide his skepticism. "If those two stole Ranith… to what end?"

  Dunak smiled with smug satisfaction. "You can't work that out for yourself?"

  "Assume I cannot."

  Dunak’s next grunt conveyed some self-importance. "Someone hired Vadi and Sot."

  "Who? And if so, why hasn't anyone come forward with a ransom demand?"

  “I’ve got Vadi’s mother. We’re questioning her, and we’re gathering up Vadi’s friends outside the palace.”

  Dunak spat. The phlegm hit the dirt and rolled, gathering ash and soot. "I suspect we'll learn something before long." He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward Dennick. "Don't you, Clanfolk?"

  Dennick avoided the weak bait.

  "You think it's an act of war, then?"

  "I think we'll make it one if the kit isn't found safe and sound." Dunak grinned. "All Aenik's enemies will be revealed, then."

  Dennick smiled slightly. "We shall see, Dunak."

  Dunak said, "My eyes are open."

  Dennick sighed. "Thank you for indulging me here today, Dunak."

  "Don't thank me for anything, sellsword. If your heartfast wasn't a favorite of the Alwardendyn, I'd be questioning you myself. You, and that skink cousin of yours."

  "You and I both serve the Alwardendyn, Dunak."

  Dunak turned his back on Dennick. "Find yourself beyond my sight, sellsword. And stay out of my way in this."

  He strode off.

  Dennick revised the degree to which he desired a test of Dunak's martial mettle. If the matter at hand came to Vuldt's intended conclusion, such a contest was likely.

  He would simply have to make sure it ended well.

  Whatever that meant.

  Dennick turned to once again look at the ruin of the launderers' warren. He was mildly surprised to see a kit about five or six years old standing before him.

  "I am at your mercy," Dennick exclaimed, raising his arms. "You're a stealthy one."

  Her tiny voice was full of fear. "Mama says you're a rich sword who wants to find the Alwardendyn's baby."

  "We all do, little one. What's your name?"

  "Sepi." She started to tremble. "I'm really sorry. I'm really sorry. Can you tell the magicker I'm sorry?"

  Dennick's breath caught.

  "What… are you sorry about, Sepi..?"

  "We were out past curfew last night. That's why he made everything get fire on it. I know. But we didn't mean to. Shaper's Eye, we didn't mean to. I just wanted to find Valoo 'cause he got out of his pen. I didn't mean it. Mama's friend warned me…"

  Dennick crouched down to be level with the little one. He forced his face to relax, to be open, to be kind and unassuming.

  "Who warned you, Sepi? Who was with you last night?"

  "Lama. Lama warned me, over by the hay bales. She told me the magicker would be mad. Please don't be mad at me, too."

  She gathered the hem of her filthy shift in her fists.

  "Please don't be mad." Tears flowed now. "There's nothing left to burn."

  Chapter Eleven

  Talen

  Talen woke slowly and easily as, one by one, his senses brought him back into the world.

  The bedcloth was cool and not too rough on his naked skin. Old Kug took pride in such things; it was one of many reasons Talen preferred the Steadfast Capful when he engaged Caela.

  He could smell her, and himself: not unpleasantly tangy; just a little stale.

  His eyes opened. Slowly, his vision focused on her bare shoulder blade and the spill of straight black hair, so much like Rajen's, down her neck.

  His hearing woke last, to Caela's soft, regular breathing, with just the hint of a snore riding every exhale.

  Talen could not say if Rajen snored when she slept. If he had been privy to that knowledge, he would have no reason to spend time or token on Caela.

  It was Caela's superficial resemblance to Rajen that had drawn him to her. Physically, they shared more than flowing black hair. They were of similar height. They both had dark brown eyes, though Rajen's were punctuated by flecks of gold Caela's lacked. Both had long, thin noses and wide mouths.

  Caela was much kinder to him than Rajen, in many important and specific ways.

  But then, Talen paid Caela.

  Without moving, still studying the back of her head, her silky hair, the smooth skin of her shoulder, Talen sighed.

  The transactional nature of their relationship had never been a problem.

  It was now.

  Talen suspected Caela genuinely appreciated him to a degree in excess of her fee. He was grateful for that, since her nonblood twin rarely ignored opportunities to show she did not.

  Caela was beautiful—obviously, given her similarity to Rajen—and quick of mind. Their conversations carried as much energy and enthusiasm as their more physical interactions.

  If not for Rajen, Caela would be a fine companion.

  But for Rajen.

  Rajen.

  Caela stirred in her sleep. Talen felt a clutching constriction of guilt.

  Which was, he argued with himself, unnecessary and foolish. Surely his arrangement with Caela was between two professionals, and nothing more. Just as he earned his way with stories and songs, she was part of a pleasurers' troupe. He was a client, albei
t, he suspected, a favored one.

  She would understand if, just for now, he could not pay her.

  Whence, then, this guilt?

  Sliding and smooth, with great and deliberate care, Talen removed himself from the bed. He began to gather his clothes, watching her side rise and fall as he did.

  He got as far as donning one leg of his trousers before Caela stretched and rolled to face him.

  "Talen?" One eyebrow arched.

  "Ah… I'm sorry; I didn't mean to wake you."

  "You should know by now I never dip too far below the surface of the sleeping sea."

  He grinned. "What an artful turn of phrase." Where was his shirt..? "We should trade occupations for a day."

  The way she said, "Should we, though?" made Talen suspect he was being insulted. Playfully, or not, he could not tell.

  He found his shirt and pulled it on. He smiled, wider this time. "I'm glad we got to spend time together."

  "Hm." She sat up on the bed. "Seems you're in a hurry to bring that time to an end. Another engagement?"

  "No, no… not specifically. I thought I'd test the mood of the common room. With everything that's happened today in the city. You know. See if I might earn my dinner."

  "And have I earned my dinner?"

  Talen laughed. He looped his belt, from which hung his token purse, around his waist. "I always enjoy seeing you."

  "You said as much."

  She let her gaze drop to his belt, then met his eyes expectantly.

  Talen laughed again. "Um… when does the troupe move on? Will you still be in Aenikantag tomorrow?"

  "We leave the city tonight."

  "And… when will you be back?"

  She got out of bed and pulled on her own trousers. "Too long to wait for certain sellsongs to sing up what they owe me, Talen. Let's settle our accounts."

  "Do you think your troupe warden would notice if I waited until we saw one another again?" Talen shrugged. "I have enough tokens for you… but I'll be left with nothing."

  Caela finished dressing. "As you said, though: you can earn your dinner. Craft a tale of the drama at the palace. Or of…" Her expression darkened. "…unappreciated affections. Or…" Her eyes narrowed. "Sing of the sellsong and the pleasurer he tried to cheat."