by Daryl Banner
Mercy isn’t shaken in the least by the threat. In fact, it amuses her, that this woman thinks she has any power over her.
Still, Mercy learned a lot living among the Sisters Of Sisters. And I know how to play a demure role to my advantage.
“Understood,” Mercy replies evenly.
Liggie’s right eye flinches. It might have been a wink. “Let’s get ourselves some feasting, then. Ladies.” She marches proudly out of the room to scavenge a meal from the Lifted Lady’s kitchen as the women rise from their various seats to follow, chatter breaking out among them along the way.
Two and a half hours later, Mercy is seated on the roof of the house, having found a latch that opens up on the second floor. Since she left the latch open, Scot finds his way up there too, and it’s by her side that he takes a gentle seat.
“They’re talking about the Tri-Ward Unity,” Scot tells her. “The head lady thinks that this so-called Slum King might—”
“Her name is Liggie.” Mercy winces. “Sounds like loogie.”
“Loogie?”
She rolls her eyes at him and masks an annoyed chuckle. “You Lifted boys and your lack of crudeness. Loogie. It’s a glob of snot you spit out your mouth.”
Scot wrinkles up his face. Then he lowers his voice. “You said that first part a bit too loud. They could be listening through a window.”
“Fuck them if they are.”
“Mercy …” he implores.
“Fine.” The pair of them decided, before joining the women, that they would keep Scot’s Liftedness a secret, since the women have a strong distaste for Lifted folk and might use or torture him for gold in a bank that he clearly does not have. Mercy sighs. If they hate Lifted folk so much, they ought to have celebrated my murdering of Lady Bitch downstairs. “And it’s no longer the Tri-Ward Unity,” she points out. “It consists of four wards, now.”
“And spreading.” Scot’s face shrinks. “They think he might have some connection with the Lifted banks. Since he’s young, he may—”
“Lies. I heard the Slum King’s eighty-eight years old and wears all white.”
“Wears all white, yes, but he’s young.”
Mercy shoots him a dubious look. “Where’d you hear that?”
“The market where our last mission took place.”
It was a stupid mission following a false lead on some man from the edge of the seventh who claimed to attend Ruena’s parties at the Mirand-Thrin Palace. A total waste of time …
“Mercy …”
“What?”
“What if …” Scot bites his lip nervously, then finishes. “What if we find out that she really did take her life?”
“She didn’t.”
“But what if she did?”
“I won’t believe it. Ruena is alive, and I will prove it in time.”
He shifts his weight, folds his legs differently, then gives up his point with a light sigh. Scot’s soft arm rubs up against Mercy’s side by accident, proving he’s sitting too close.
Mercy finds she doesn’t mind as much as she used to. Perhaps she’s warmed up to him. After all, the sad, lost Lifted thing followed her when she ditched the Sisters Of Sisters long ago. Scot has no more of a home than she does, his Lifted City stolen from him along with his girlfriend named Amma.
If she even exists.
Mercy eyes him suspiciously. No, he’s far too weak a man to lie to me anymore. I’ve outed all his falsehoods. We are one, now.
And I’ll keep it so. “Scot, tell me something.”
He turns to her. “Anything.”
“Why are you still around?” She gives a gesture toward the city before them. “There’s countless places your like can hide. A hundred places where the Lifted are seeking refuge right now, waiting out the storm. You could have stayed at Eleven Wings. Or with the Sisters, who I heard found a home in the fourth, now part of that White King Coalition shit, if it’s true. I would not have resented you for it.”
Scot flushes at once, then looks off toward the street, unable to look her in the eyes. Mercy bites her lip, amused by his reaction. It used to annoy her, how weak and afraid of everything he is. Now, he is like her toy to tease and taunt as much as she pleases.
But there is something in it for him. And other than some sick attraction to her, she cannot pinpoint what it is. Is there more than what meets the eye with this Lifted Lord Scot?
“Can I ask you a question?” Scot counters.
Mercy shoots him a look. “You still haven’t answered mine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just … I’m not sure I have an answer. I like being around you. I want to help you find your happiness. And I am a healer at heart, so—”
“Are you thinking yourself to be some kind of cosmic balance to my poison?”
Scot is still flushing horribly, as if all his horny dreams of Mercy will spill forth if he opens his mouth too much.
I’m certain that you, right now, are thinking of ten different places you’d like to touch me, Scot. You are imagining it. You grow a stiff twig of appreciation in your pants every time you come near me.
“Go ahead.” Mercy puts him out of his misery. “Ask it. To hell with my question. Ask yours.”
A wash of relief crashes over him. He parts his two tiny lips. “I was just wondering …” He blinks firmly, bracing himself as words gather upon his uncertain tongue. “I was wondering … where you see your life ending up past the darkness.”
Mercy wrinkles her face. “Darkness? … What?”
“Sorry. I’m being too poetic and stupid with my words. I don’t know how to ask it. I’m afraid to be too blunt.”
“Be blunt.”
“But I—”
“Be blunt, Lord Scot.”
He lets in a breath of air, shoots it out his nostrils, then turns fully to face her. “Where do you see yourself ending up after Ruena is proven dead and gone once and for all, and your lover’s death is avenged at last? How … H-How do you picture your life?”
Mercy averts her gaze. The question takes her mind to a darker place. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
“I have.” Scot takes her hand suddenly. Mercy flinches at first, eyes darting to their hands, and then she looks up at him, confused. “I’m really worried about your humanity, Mercy. The stories you’ve told me … what you’ve done … what you’re wanting to do … and some things you almost did … I fear that you’re carving out bits of your soul you’ll never get back.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say to your friend,” is Mercy’s kneejerk reaction, fighting back his assault of emotions with her attitude.
“You wanted me to be blunt. Perhaps I need to be.” Scot meets her eyes importantly. “It concerns me how little you think of the woman downstairs with a sheet over her body.”
Mercy rolls her eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes. You may not think of these things, but I do. Maybe it’s because I’m Lifted, like her, but I think them. I think of that woman, no matter how rude or entitled or cold she was, and I think about what her last meal was. I wonder what her thoughts were when she noticed the sun coming up for another day. I wonder if she had any sons or daughters, and when the last time she saw them was. I wonder if she’d ever stayed outside long enough during the rain to see a rainbow. I wonder if she had any dreams she’d yet to fulfill. Maybe she wanted to be a painter. Or had some idea for a story she never got around to writing down on paper. Or perhaps there was a certain special dish or delicacy that was her favorite, and maybe she, even as recently as a week ago, was standing in that kitchen downstairs wondering when the next time would be that she’d taste that delicacy on her tongue.”
Mercy’s eyes closed halfway through his spiel, and then her face turned away soon after. Even now, she isn’t sure whether to be more annoyed or sympathetic to Scot’s words.
“Do you think of these things, Mercy?” he asks softly. “Do you wonder … Do you wonder what that … that woman’s last thought
was before you opened her neck?”
“No,” Mercy answers flatly, then flicks her eyes onto him. “I do not.”
It is clear and visible that Scot is exercising a great deal of focus to not cower under her stern, cold words.
Of which she has more: “And it doesn’t mean that I’m losing my humanity. I’m human. I feel and I hurt and I make mistakes—many, many mistakes—and I’m not killing for sport, despite what those bitches downstairs said. I don’t feel anything for that old Lifted crone in that chair with a sheet over her wrinkly face because she felt fucking nothing for me. If you’d seen the way she treated me, like I wasn’t human, like I was an alley dog she couldn’t stand to share air with … you’d be a lot less sympathetic to the bitch.”
“You can’t know a person in a day, Mercy. You don’t know who she really was.”
“I knew enough.”
“I disagree.”
Scot certainly took the “blunt” thing to heart. “And what’s your ultimate point you’re trying to make?” she fires back, her eyes going dark. “That I did not know Ruena Netheris, the Queen who ordered the execution of my fiancé and his brother? It wasn’t King Greymyn. It wasn’t Impis Lock-fart. It wasn’t Taylon Red-fucker. It wasn’t the Peacemaker or any member of the Court of Old Corpses. It was the Queen everyone loves so much. It was the Queen who ordered them dead. Ruena Netheris. She is the reason they are no longer here. I’m sure she ordered their deaths, then procured a tasty meal with a cup of tea in the Glassy Squares for herself.”
Scot swallows hard. “G-Glassen Square,” he chokes out.
His correction is ignored. “So are you suggesting that I ought to consider what Ruena Netheris dreamt of, what she wanted to paint, or what delicious delicacy she wanted on her tongue before she took her own life—if I even believe that for a second? I’ll tell you what delicacy that will be: my sweet poison. You don’t know fucking shit about the world, Scot.” Her tone ignites into flames. “You spend a minute or two in the slums and now presume to be the expert of grief. You, the person who grew up with a full belly, gold in your shoes, books in your brain, and a hundred other privileges that our like aren’t afforded. If Ruena Almont-Sunsong Netheris is alive right now, I guarantee you the bitch isn’t shedding a tear about Dran and wondering what the fuck his unrealized dreams were.”
Scot’s face has drained of all color. He doesn’t even move, his eyes staring out at the street, dumbstruck.
Mercy turns her dark eyes to the sky, seeking the only solace that can touch her right now, a solace in the night sky. Nothing at all matters but those stars high above her—and one particular star she is trying to discern. She lifts her chin and squints, certain that the star will reveal itself at any moment. She used to find it with ease. For the past few months, the star has gone missing.
It’s the only star in the sky that matters, even more so than the sun itself. The dark star of mercy, the one Dran named after her …
And I can’t even see it anymore.
0266 Athan
A cool breeze brushes past his face from the opened window.
Athan opens his eyes from his nightly meditation.
For a moment, he could almost believe he just woke up from a real dream, the morning sun upon his hair.
He imagined that Wick was in his arms, and the two of them were sharing funny stories of their day. Wick had met some strange old couple down at the Noodle Shop who made him laugh with their funny banter. Athan had cooked a meal with the Penlings next door and sang little Rip to sleep. It had been a great day. Then Wick said he was going to head to his dad’s shed down the street to check on something, stood, and left the room.
Then Athan’s hair was stirred by the cool morning breeze that opened his real eyes.
I might almost believe my entire meditative imagining happened, and Wick only just left the room to head to the shed.
The thought, strangely, makes Athan more happy than sad.
He rises off the floor, pulls on the pair of jeans he wore the day before, and slips on the red sleeveless hoodie. Voices downstairs catch his attention. He descends the narrow stair to the kitchen to find Edrick and Ivy chatting by the sink, each holding a mug.
The two draw quiet and look Athan’s way. “Morning,” says Ivy softly, followed by Edrick giving a curt nod and a, “Good day.”
“Good day and morning,” Athan returns with a tiny smile.
A noise in the backyard brings his gaze to the sight of Arrow at the teleporter charm. He has a bunch of gadgets all around him, little bits of metal and small computers and oddities arranged on portable tables. He seems to be scowling at the giant metal disc charm, his forehead screwed up in concentration, his jaw tightened.
“He’s been at it all morning,” mumbles Edrick. Ivy gives a soft, “He really has, poor thing. Didn’t even join us for middle-night meal, or even breakfast.”
Athan gives them both a nod. “I think I’ll visit the Penlings,” he decides suddenly, perhaps inspired by what he imagined last night as he lay there meditating, “and see about—”
“No use,” interrupts Edrick. “The pair of them have gone to the Greens today to assist with the spreading disease. One of them has a Legacy that might help, so I heard? Arrow was dubious. Arcana …”
Athan stiffens.
Edrick clears his throat, catching his mistake. “Sorry. I keep … I keep forgetting that the woman’s name is off-limits in your vicinity.” Just as quickly, he adds, “Why, exactly? I mean, she isn’t her twin.”
“Edrick,” chides Ivy softly, looking at him with meaning as she clutches her mug with two small hands.
“Seriously. I love you to bits, Athan, you beautiful monster, but shouldn’t you stop blaming the one sister for the other’s evil?”
“I …” Athan finds he can’t quite broach the subject, then shuts his eyes, his face tensing up. “It’s just … It’s just …”
“Fine,” mumbles Edrick carelessly. “You don’t need to bust your brain trying to answer my slightly rhetorical question. Really, it is just an obvious thing I’m stating. Oh, that boy came looking for you.”
Athan’s eyes flap open. That was certainly an abrupt change of subject. “Looking for me? Who?”
“The one from the pits.” Edrick inclines his head. “The orange-haired boy who wants to make a fuck of you.”
Ivy blushes and turns slightly away, uncomfortable.
Athan smirks. “Nickel.” Then he eyes Edrick. “And he doesn’t want to make a fuck of me. He is simply …” Athan doesn’t seem able to find the rest of his sentence floating in the air before him.
Edrick helps him out. “He is simply craving your Lifted cock.”
Athan waves his hand dismissively at Edrick. “Good day to the two of you. I’m off to get some sun.”
“To the pits again?” Edrick sets down his mug. “I’ll join you.”
Is he crazy? After what happened? “No, not to the pits. I told you, I’m through with the pits. They only hold battles at night, anyway.”
“I’ll join you anyway. Ivy, too. We’re bored.” Edrick eyes her. “Aren’t we bored?”
Ivy just blinks and says nothing, her lips forming a tiny “O” of indecision.
Athan shakes his head. “No, really. I think I need some time to myself this morning. I … would like to clear my head of things.”
Edrick scoffs. “You’re no fun.”
He gives them both a smile, then heads for the door.
Ivy asks a soft question that stops him. “Have you seen Sedge?”
Athan turns rigid at the mention of the strange, young Lifted boy’s name. With his back to the pair of them, he doesn’t need to hide the look of annoyance and pity that now clouds his face.
Vaguely, he says, “I know not where that little Morph is,” before softly pushing through the door.
He takes a stroll down the street, his hands in his pockets, the cool wind brushing through his hair, and the warm sunlight high overhead, eclipsed only
by the smallest arm of the Lifted City that reaches these parts. He gives a wave at a few of the neighbors who have come to know him, even greeting some farther down the street who are sitting on their porches to enjoy the sunlight themselves. He doesn’t see as much metalworking and weapon-building as he does most mornings. Perhaps the people of the ninth are taking a more relaxed approach to things lately.
Athan wishes he could.
No matter what pleasant nightly imaginings he has, or lovely greetings and small conversations with neighbors and friends, his thoughts keep stubbornly returning to that building where he and Edrick were taken to. He relives the throwing of those darts, over and over again. He sees the hole appear in that enraged man’s arm, and then in his head moments later. Kinni was his name.
And now he’s dead.
Is he dead because of me?
Sure, the other man, the Garros fellow, apparently cursed his darts or something. But how did Athan know that it would happen? How did he know he was safe when he taunted Kinni, warning him that the unleashing of that dart would mean the end of his own life. None of it made sense.
Suddenly, Athan ends up precisely where he wished to: in front of the shed at the end of the street where Anwick’s father made his personal weapons and trained his son in the early morning hours. After just one brief moment of drama, Athan slips through the door of the shed and brings his eyes upon the strange scene within. Half of the contents within the shed are still turned to stone, including a hammer on the floor and three or four pieces of armor—a back-plate here, half a set of greaves there, and a knee brace, all turned to stone.
In the corner of the room stands the stone statue of a girl—Elle, Wick and Lionis’s sister.
Athan walks right up to her, his eyes pleading for answers to questions he can’t even ask. “Auto-borne,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “If you are auto-borne, then I would turn to stone just by touching you. Anyone would. Isn’t that how an auto-borne works?” He tilts his head, staring into the creepy, stony eyes of Elle, which almost look human. Like living stone … “Does your Legacy truly persist after your death, or is it just that Wick was powerful enough to draw a Legacy from a corpse?”
