Flame's Shadow

by Anna Eluvae

  Dravus wasn't quite ready to nod along. "If they were so great and powerful, what happened to them?" he asked.

  "They discovered the opposite of fame," said Lexari. "Not obscurity, that's only fame's absence, but the true opposite. The Harbingers destroyed themselves with it." He leaned back. "Nemm will tell you that I've pulled together a story from too many different threads, but you're on my side, aren't you Dravus?"

  Until that point he hadn't realized that there was a side to take. He swallowed once, and said, "Yes, of course."

  Chapter 7

  Nemm walked through the city streets of Meriwall, incognito. She had a hood up to hide her hair, and had pinned it back in a tight and efficient way. In the stories, a woman who was traveling as a man was always revealed by her hair, which was dramatic but also stupid. The sole tactical advantage to that reveal was an element of momentary distraction, and that wasn't enough for it to be worth it. A woman who couldn't secure her hair properly had no place trying to be sneaky, in Nemm's opinion. The rest of the disguise was a bulky coat and thick pants, with fifty pounds of glass armor to give her some bulk. The beard she wore was made from beaver fur and tied in place; she was less sure about that part of the disguise, but it was easy enough to stick in a pocket. With the disguise on, she was a burly, if short, man, and no one would bother her. The only way it could have been more convincing would have been if she'd had Wenaru reshape the muscles of her face, but asking him for that would mean that Lexari would know, and she wanted to avoid that.

  Leaving Grayhull Palace had been simplicity itself. Getting back in would be slightly more difficult, but only because she didn't want them to raise the alarm. Half of the illustrati that Nemm had seen were taking the same concentrated dose of narcotic that the Flower Queen had, albeit less intensively. The other half were more concerned with palace intrigues and political positioning. Only a fraction of them were in fighting shape, and the palace had no illustrati as guards. If the Iron King attacked, his illustrati would move through Meriwall like a flash flood, leaving buildings toppled and trees uprooted.

  Kendrick Eversong still lived in the same place; she'd checked on that before donning her disguise and making her journey. The lower portion of the building was a shop that had previously sold heavy fabrics and now fishing equipment. Kendrick owned the entire building, which he'd inherited from his father, but he only lived in the upper half of it.

  This area of Meriwall was primarily home to shops and industry, with few living spaces, and the crooked roads meant that line-of-sight was poor. When she'd assured herself that no one was looking, Nemm set her sights on the two feet of roof outside one of the upper windows and leapt up towards it. She landed perfectly, stuck her hand straight through the glass like it was a cobweb, unlatched the window, and stepped into Kendrick Eversong's bedroom with her daggers drawn.

  It was late, but he would still be out carousing, and probably singing that infuriating song in whatever tavern would have him. He wouldn't be one to squander the fame he'd just gotten, and no doubt if he'd seen the show he would be spinning up some new verse to replace the old one about Zerstor, or claim that the fight in Genthric had been something of a lover's quarrel, or a mock battle turned real. Nemm could see the shape of those stories, but they were weaker than what Lexari had presented on stage, and couldn't hope to match the reality of the missing fingers.

  Kendrick's bedroom had a large bed, a number of outfits draped over chairs and dressers, and half-melted candles sitting on a multitude of surfaces. Nemm looked around only briefly before moving into the next room, which Kendrick used as a place for reading, composing, and occasionally meetings. Six years had done little to change it. The smell of tobacco smoke was stronger, and there were more books on the shelves, but it was still substantially the same. There was a small staircase at the back of the room that led down to the street; Nemm pulled a chair from behind a desk, placed it so that she could sit with moonlight striking her face, and waited.

  It was only a half hour before Nemm heard raucous laughter coming up from the otherwise silent streets. It came closer to the house, and Nemm worried briefly that Kendrick would bring people up with him, but then the conversation began to grow distant, and the sound of a single man's unsteady footsteps came up from the stairwell.

  "Kendrick Eversong," said Nemm, a fraction of a moment before he would have noticed her.

  Kendrick swayed slightly and peered at her. "What heavenly beauty is this that I find lying in wait?" he asked. A grin spread across his face. "I find myself flushed and flustered by this marvelous militant, clad in her domain, a reflection of its sharp yet brittle nature." He swayed slightly. "Come to kill me, Nemm? No, but you're too practical for these theatrics, were that the case. You use the drama only when it suits you, and slip out of the role of actor just like you've slipped out of so many dresses over the years."

  Nemm's hands rested on her daggers. "Purify your blood. This isn't a conversation that you want to be drunk for."

  Kendrick sighed, but closed his eyes and did what he was told. His swaying stopped, and when he spoke, his words were precise. "I do note that you didn't say you weren't going to kill me," he said. "Was my song really so offensive?"

  "What do you hope to gain from all this?" asked Nemm.

  "'All this'," repeated Kendrick Eversong. "If you mean this conversation, then I suppose my hope is to see you disrobed and bent over my bed." He leered at her, in a way that men sometimes did when they wanted to make her uncomfortable. It had stopped having an effect long ago, but coming from Kendrick she felt a small twinge of sadness that her face would never show. They had once been friends.

  "There's no audience here," said Nemm.

  "If by 'all this' you mean the duel, then I suppose my aim is to put an end to the — I'm certain — wonderfully charming Lightscour, and then do the same to the monster Wenaru Mottram," said Kendrick. He made no indication that he had heard what she'd said. "And if 'all this' is to mean anything after that, then I would suppose you've already made your guesses about that. It's no secret that I'm in with the Council of Laborers. I'm certain that you didn't come here to talk politics though, and seeing as you're still dressed, I suppose it's not a yearning in your loins. So that means you're here to make a deal."

  Nemm shrugged.

  "A play is always better when everyone is following the same script, isn't it?" asked Kendrick. "I consider you a great thinker, did you know?" Nemm only stared at him. "You know that coming here gives me ammunition against you, and you know that it allows me to know that there's a very good chance I'll win this duel, and you came here all the same in order to try to work something out. So I'm left wondering what incentive I would have to make a deal, do you see?"

  "Your victory is far from assured," said Nemm. Her hands clenched around her daggers. "I can still take Lightscour's place, in which case there would be little chance of you walking away."

  "At great personal expense," said Kendrick with a shrug. He leaned back against the railing of the staircase.

  "My reputation would take a hit," said Nemm, "Lexari's reputation would probably also take a hit, and Lightscour's as well. I don't want to make you into a martyr either. But on balance, it might be worth it if I thought that the risk of us losing the duel was too high with Lightscour fighting. I wouldn't have any trouble killing you."

  "There's no narrative to spin there," said Kendrick with a wave of his hand.

  Nemm shrugged. "The narrative isn't always the most important thing." The fall back plan was to fabricate a romance with Dravus. If she could convince Dravus and Lexari, this could be done prior to the duel itself, and she could stand in Dravus's place in much the same way that Dravus was standing in Wenaru's, though she didn't imagine that anyone in the audience would like it. Failing that, if it looked like Dravus was going to lose, Nemm could step in, claim that she wouldn't let her lover die, and kill Kendrick. And if Dravus lost so quickly that she couldn't do that, then she could pretend to fly i
nto a rage using that romance as her motive and kill Kendrick before he had a chance to demand Wenaru's head. These plans had flaws in them, but they made the best of a bad situation.

  "You negotiate by saying that you'll kill me?" asked Kendrick. "Well, I can't say that I care for that."

  "That's the stick," said Nemm. "As for the carrot, you haven't made your demands."

  "I have," said Kendrick. "Wenaru Mottram, dead."

  Nemm frowned. "He's been my traveling companion for six years, whatever else he's done."

  "So you'd have me believe that you're loyal to him?" asked Kendrick. "No, I rather think not. Wenaru is powerful, and a useful man, but he's a liability, now more than ever. It wouldn't have escaped your notice that much of the messiness of the Peddler's War could be cleaned up by putting Gael in a shallow grave. By all rights it should have been done years ago, as soon as Lexari saw the man who'd saved him. Do you remember me telling you how my father died? Ripped apart, piece by piece, because Gael wanted to know how the brain controls its limbs. They told me it took a dozen hours, as the Red Angel prodded at bundles of nerves in the spine with a needle. Can you even imagine the betrayal I felt when Lexari brought him into the fold?"

  Nemm could have mounted a defense. Wenaru killed prisoners that the Iron King had condemned to die. He had saved hundreds of lives in the past six years, ever since joining up with Lexari. The lives lost in Wenaru's hospital counted for less, if they were men who would have died anyway. Eventually the balance of good and evil would swing the other way, if it hadn't already, and Wenaru would be a net good in the world. It would be possible for a skilled bard to paint Wenaru as a tragic figure. He was a man forged by the Iron King, and aimed like a cannon along a specific trajectory.

  She'd given these defenses before. Yet with every year it became more difficult; there was something unsavory that lay within Wenaru, a way that he never took full responsibility for his actions, or pretended that they could be justified on their merits. His pacifism and nervousness were hiding something in his core; she had no idea whether he had killed Wealdwood, but her suspicion was that Wealdwood would never be seen again.

  If she was being honest with herself, she'd first thought about getting rid of Wenaru after the fight with Cerulean Bane. She had heard the noise from down in the cabin, and her immediate reaction had been to hope that Wenaru had been killed. It would have been convenient for him to have finally gotten his redemption through a timely death.

  This wasn't what she had planned when she'd decided to pay Kendrick a visit.

  "Your original goal couldn't have been to kill Wenaru," said Nemm. "It was to bait Lexari, and the point of that was — well, unclear to me, but I presume you thought he would show you mercy, and you would get a free stage to incite the people of Meriwall against their queen?"

  Kendrick shrugged again, an elaborate roll of the shoulders. "Plans change."

  "You don't want to die," said Nemm. "Dravus doesn't want to die. If we agree on this script together, it's the only way that everyone gets what they want." She took a breath and tried to map out her course. "Wenaru … was a friend."

  Kendrick grinned in the moonlight.

  * * *

  After the conversation with Lexari, Dravus hadn't been able to sleep. He'd thrown on his now-familiar outfit that Nemm had procured for him the day they left Genthric, with its purple tights and baggy sleeves, and wandered the hallways of Grayhull. It was quite late; no one was awake, and the hallways were in darkness save for the moonlight. He could see perfectly, without need for a candle, and went so far as to admire the paintings on the walls in the pitch blackness. After looking around for a moment, he unlatched one of the side doors and stepped out onto the manicured grounds that surrounded the palace. He looked at the empty space in front of him for only a moment before getting down into a crouch, counting silently to three, and then sprinting forward.

  The grass was slick with dew, and Dravus was faster than he'd ever been before. Each step put on more speed, and though the grounds were as long as a full city block, he didn't have nearly enough room. A wrought-iron fence decorated with tastefully-sculpted spikes loomed in front of him, nearly fifteen feet high, and Dravus leapt over it.

  He rolled into a landing on top of a house, and pitched over the side of it when he was unable to find his purchase. It was a two-story fall, and it hurt, but the pain was only temporary, and he'd suffered none of the broken bones he would have in his old life. Lexari had fallen down from above the clouds and suffered relatively minor injuries for it, and some day Dravus would be at that level too. For now, falling down from rooftops was no longer a concern. Dravus got up, brushed himself off, and leapt back up.

  The rooftops of Meriwall weren't as conducive to a run as the rooftops of Genthric, but Dravus was stronger and faster than he'd been, and could compensate more easily for the dips and valleys as he passed from house to house. The darkness was a friend to him, and no hindrance to his ability to see, and he was soon moving faster than he'd ever moved before, save perhaps for when the Zenith was moving at full sail and a strong headwind. He began to sweat from exertion, and pushed himself harder, until he began to feel a familiar ache in his lungs that came more sharply with every breath.

  He dashed across the city until the buildings grew thin, then dropped down onto a wide street and kept on going. A pair of constables spotted him, but made no move to stop or even call out after him. He hooked right, nearly skidding across the cobblestones as he made his turn, and leapt back up onto the rooftops to continue his run. He had no particular destination in mind until he saw the spires of Laith's Cathedral, and then he forged a lazy path towards it.

  Laithism had been founded a hundred years ago, when Laith was in his waning years. He had been fading away, with all his attempts at gathering more fame or forestalling his decline doing little for him, and had invited spiritualists and scholars in from all over the known world. He had taken many of the ideas about reincarnation to heart, and began to write a lengthy tome filled with his own ideas on the subject. The central idea of Laithism was that he would one day rise again, and that the citizens of his kingdom would one day be ruled over by a King Eternal. The religion (such as it was) was only practiced in Torland and its colonies, and was largely seen as being both inauthentic and derivative. Much of Laith's book had been copied wholesale from other tomes; the ideas in it were already well-worn when it was written. Still, the clergy held some power in Torland, and the Vicar Most High was an illustrati in his own right.

  The cathedral was silent and empty. Dravus began his climb. It was easy going, for the most part. There weren't any convenient handholds, but the cathedral was constructed like a tiered cake, getting smaller as it rose and having a number of nearly flat surfaces to stand on. Dravus could simply leap from one landing to another. He was halfway to the top, five stories up, when he realized that he was being followed.

  A figure stood twenty feet below him, on one of the gently sloped parts of the cathedral's lower tiers. It was a short, stocky man with a thick beard and what looked to be a pot-belly. His head was covered by a hood, but he was staring up at Dravus. The man was an illustrati, that was clear enough by the fact that he was on the roof, but Dravus hadn't memorized the list he'd been given well enough to know who it might be. It was also conceivable that this was the man that had set Cerulean Bane and Wealdwood on them, or someone in his employ. Dravus crouched down slightly and began to form armor around himself, which was a serious violation of etiquette if the man was friendly but quite sensible if he was an enemy. The figure leaped up towards Dravus, and landed on the rooftop near him just as Dravus finished making a sword of shadow — now a firm and substantial blade, not the wispy construct of his first night as illustrati.

  "We need to talk," said the figure, in a high voice that momentarily startled Dravus. When he saw the scar, he dismissed his sword and armor and flopped down on the roof.

  "How did you find me?" he asked.

  "You
weren't exactly being secretive," said Nemm. "I spotted you running along the rooftops, and thought that I should make sure that you weren't doing anything foolish."

  "Sorry," he replied. "I know I shouldn't have. I just needed time to think."

  "The palace isn't a prison," said Nemm. She pulled her false beard aside and drew back her hood. "We're free to come and go, so long as we don't commit any breaches of etiquette in doing so. Which, of course, is what you've done. Leaving a domicile in which one is a guest without first informing the staff is a gross violation of protocol. Unless you did inform the staff?"

  "Etiquette," said Dravus with a shake of his head. "I hate that word."

  "This indiscretion doesn't matter," said Nemm. "I'll help you to sneak back in." She looked out over the city, at the river that meandered through the heart of it and at Laith's Face, always present wherever there was a view of the horizon. "I've cut a deal with Kendrick."

  "The Blood Bard?" asked Dravus, but he knew this was a stupid question, the kind that only leaves the mouth because the brain is still trying to catch up. "What sort of deal?"