Books of Bayern Series Bundle

by Shannon Hale

  “Ah, Captain, don’t tell me that. They’ve got to be!”

  Talone shook his head. “I don’t think so. They belong to that Manifest Tira group. One was former military and from a moderately wealthy family, the other a poor boy who felt cheated when the quick end to the war stole his chance to fight. Their confidence was frightening—they believe all of Tira will hail them as heroes for even attempting to kill the ambassador. They hate Bayern, no doubt, but a bungled assassination of the ambassador in the midst of the assembly is juvenile, desperate, clumsy. The burner is following a much more sophisticated plan.”

  “Aimed at the same results—a repeat of the war.”

  “Perhaps.” Talone’s voice was too tired to have emotion. “Manifest Tira claims that Tira is destined to inherit any nation that touches its borders, and war is the sacred means to claim that destiny. They are brash, fearless, like the soldier who flung himself into the Bayern barracks just to kill as many as he could before being killed himself. But the burner is shrouded, slow, and secretive, and seemingly murdering fellow Tiran just to incite hatred of Bayern. That’s a different kind of evil. Smells like revenge to me, vengeance for a deep, ugly wound.

  “This does not bode well for Megina, or any of us,” said Talone, rubbing his eyes. “The burner attacks from the shadows, secretive, calculating. But Manifest Tira . . .”

  “People know them,” said Razo. “They’re cousins and neighbors, and they’re out in the market saying vile things about Bayern. They couldn’t be a secret if the people of Ingridan didn’t choose to protect them.”

  Talone nodded, his eyes closed. “Those two would not give up the names of their cohorts, but one did reveal the location of their meetings. Belvan’s men will have cleared out any lingering members of Manifest Tira by now. Even if they’re not the burners, they’re still a threat to our mission. I want you to take a look.”

  Talone gave him directions to a warehouse on the western edge of the city and was half-asleep when he told him to be careful. Razo clicked the door shut under the sound of a snore.

  He wore plain Tiran garb, the only bits that had as yet escaped the dye pots. The sky was vague with clouds still disputing the question of rain, but Razo shaded his head with his lummas and hoped no one would wonder why. He hopped in the back of a penny wagon through the heart, then made his way on foot past the pungent luxury of the spice market and the sour, stifled air of the slaughter district.

  Sometimes his sandals flapped on the stones, echoing in alleyways, invoking the sound of someone following. Razo earned an ache in his neck from looking back so often. He was negotiating a fringe area of the city—weeds cracked through the cobblestones and tough green moss crawled under shadows, hinting that not all in Ingridan was scrubbed clean.

  He thought he was lost and used that excuse to run, shake off the feeling of being followed. He scampered over four or five streets before discovering the Rosewater, the river that formed the city’s western border. It was thick with rubbish this far south, and the blue-tiled sides did little to brighten the waters. An occasional boat slid past, but all business was halted for the feast of cedar fires, and the day was as slow and sluggish as the clouds.

  A couple of Belvan’s men milled outside the warehouse and gave Razo a nod of permission to enter. It was a one-story, thin structure and smelled like sodden wood, cheap and sad. The floor was littered with grubby straw, a few empty crates the only remnants of business before the warehouse became the meeting place of angry politics. Nothing looked burned. Razo pocketed a few scraps of paper and besides that found only a copper ring, cut straight and stamped with a ram’s head. It fit his left middle finger, so he slipped it on for safekeeping, recalling one like it on the man who killed Veran. And now that he thought of it, he believed those two assassins also wore—

  “Psst.”

  Razo had not expected to hear someone from behind. He held still, the hairs on his neck rising to listen. His left hand was up, the ring visible.

  “Psst, there are guards out front. Where is—”

  The voice cut short, perhaps doubting for the first time whom he was talking to. Razo turned, met eyes with a man of thirty, hair shorn, a copper ring on his left hand. When he saw Razo’s face, he pulled a knife from his belt and charged.

  Razo lowered his shoulder and rammed into the man’s gut, forcing him to stumble back and giving Razo time to draw his sword.

  “Hel—” Razo began to holler, but the man was upon him again, slicing the air with his dagger. Razo thrust with his sword; the man dodged, grabbed Razo’s sword arm, and slashed his skin.

  Razo exclaimed and dropped his sword at the slicing pain, but he managed to grab the man’s arm, gripping fiercely until his arms shook with the effort of keeping that dagger one thumb away from his belly. He stepped back into his foe and bit down hard. He tasted blood before the man dropped his dagger. Razo elbowed behind him and heard a grunt but soon had two arms around his neck. He was brought down, unable to breathe.

  He thrashed, he screamed, dry and silent. Through a crack in the door, he could see the back of one of Lord Belvan’s men, casually standing guard. Tiny black dots played across his vision. Panic clawed at him, bony fingers pulling him down.

  If you’re going to win one blasted wrestle in your life, he thought, this should be the one.

  Razo relaxed his whole body and closed his eyes so he would not have to see the going-black that meant he had no air. Then, pulling all his strength together, he whipped his head back. There was a crunch, and Razo laughed breathlessly that he was the one breaking noses for once.

  Intoxicated by the air in his lungs, he leaped to his feet and stormed into the man. They locked arms. The man tried to trip him with a leg behind Razo’s knee—an old trick. Razo managed to stay on his feet by crouching down, then shoved his head up into the man’s chin. The man’s jaw snapped shut. As he fell back, he kicked Razo in the gut. They both hit earth, Razo gagging at the pain in his belly, rasping for breath to call for help. The man was crawling for his dagger. Razo lurched forward, throwing himself on the man’s back, scrabbling to keep his foe from reaching the weapon.

  “In here,” said Razo, his voice chafing. He gulped for more air. “In here!”

  Belvan’s men peeked through the door, then ran in when they saw. The soldiers seized the attacker by his arms, allowing Razo to roll off his back onto the floor, slump against a crate, and breathe. Slowly, the black dots swam away.

  “Another one?” asked one of Belvan’s men.

  “Climbed in a window, I guess,” said Razo. “I thought I’d bought it, but I bested him in the end. Me, Razo, grappled down a bigger foe. Don’t keep this one a secret, fellows.”

  The soldier sniffed. “And what should we do with him?”

  “Uh, take him back to Captain Talone and Lord Belvan, would you? I’m going to keep poking around.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Razo twisted his forearm, trying to get a good look. “That fellow had teeth, sure enough.” The cut was not deep but might leave a striking scar. He tore a strip of his lummas cloth and wrapped the arm.

  For some time after the soldiers and their prisoner left, Razo stayed put, his eyes half-closed. His solitude fastened around him.

  Something rasped. Something else squeaked. Razo snatched up his sword, holding the weapon before him as he scoured the warehouse.

  “Anybody home?” he called out, swinging at every mouse scratch or board creak. “I’m so lonely,” he said in mock-timid tones to make himself laugh, but he glanced at the door once or twice, wishing he’d thought to ask one of Belvan’s men to stick around.

  He was sorting through the detritus of broken crates when movement outside made him look up. Fifty paces off, on the bank of the river, stood Tumas.

  Razo dropped down, breathing so loudly that he was put to mind of his brother Jef snoring. His calves began to tremble from crouching, and he knew if Tumas found him here, far from watchful eyes, he’d break b
ones bigger than his nose. The waiting made him ache with impatience. After a time, he gave up thoughts of self-preservation as boring and scuttled to the doorway. No one there.

  Calling himself a fine spy to hide instead of hunt, he ran toward the river, looking down every alley, glancing at every window. Near the place where he had first spotted Tumas, a narrow stairway tumbled into the water, joining a small dock. Had he rowed away?

  Razo kept a careful three-pace distance from the edge while he walked, scanning the water, not watching where he stepped. His boot stuck something yielding.

  The smell of burned bodies was becoming uncomfortably familiar to him now, a foul mix of baked meat, garbage fire smoke, and weakly built privies. He could taste the smell, and he spat over the side of the river.

  The face was burned to black indistinction, the body nearly as brittle as charcoal. No jewelry, no indication of who the poor fellow was. In a second-story warehouse, Razo thought he saw the pale sheen of a face staring out, but when he looked, no one was there. He had to get rid of this in a hurry, before someone discovered a Bayern and a burned body together. With his feet, he rolled the corpse toward the water and sent it hurtling into the river below.

  “Sleep well,” he whispered. He hated the burner for forcing him to bury another person like that, with no family knowing where their child or sibling had gone to, with no mention of great deeds and loving friends, the body not embraced by earth but tumbling into the unsteady sea.

  The squeak of a sandal brought Razo up. There she was, Dasha, standing so close that he was startled by her blue eyes when everything else was so dull—a leaden river under the sunless sky, a smudge of ash on gray stones. He took a step back from those eyes.

  “Razo,” she said.

  There was something tight in her voice, and he wondered if she would admit it all. Just then, he could not bear to hear.

  “It was you.” He backed away from the thought and, like a fool, moved closer to the river. His heel bumped a stone, he stumbled, and then came the astonishing sensation of falling.

  19

  River Fingers

  The tumble seemed to take hours, giving him time to realize he was falling a long way, to wonder if hitting the river below would hurt much. He imagined being carried away to the sea and meeting up with scores of burned corpses and generations of dead Tiran, all sitting on the sea floor, grinning their bare grins, motioning for him with naked hands.

  Then the water struck his gut, and he could not have breathed even if there had been air. He flailed, wishing a scream. The water seized him and pulled him down.

  Razo thrashed his way up once. His face scraped the surface, and he sucked in air and water. Dasha was running on the bank above him, not quite keeping pace with the river, and yelling at him to swim to the lower bank on the other side. Now he wanted to laugh. As if he could swim two paces, let alone across a river.

  His clothes, his sword, and his bag of stones were as heavy as the world. His head went under. The water sang in his ears.

  As the dark and cold and confusion lulled him, rocked him, he thought to feel embarrassed to be dying so easily, and in front of a pretty girl no less. His arms and legs still wrestled with the deep, but his mind was falling asleep.

  A sudden lift startled him to gasp. He was on his back staring at the gray sky, wrenching air into lungs, coughing out water. Then he noticed that he was not floating downstream but gliding toward the opposite shore, like the waterbirds that propel themselves with wide, flat feet. Razo glanced at his own feet and saw his toes peek through his sandals. At least he was not a duck.

  He thought he saw Dasha swimming some distance off, but when he turned to look, water gushed over his face, so he kept his face up and focused on making certain he had plenty of that wonderful air.

  His head bumped something hard, and he twisted around, somehow keeping afloat until his fingers grasped a tiled edge and he could pull himself up. The far bank of the river was built into a series of wide steps, so as the river rose and fell it would always meet an easy dock. Razo crawled away from the water and lay on a step, coughing his breath, his legs trembling. He could not quite believe he was alive.

  A hand reached out of the water. Another. Dasha pulled herself up and sat where she was, her legs knee deep in the river. Her hair was straight and dripping, one tiny silver star clinging to a strand, the others washed away. She looked at him, her lips parted.

  “Did you pull me?” Razo asked. “Is that how I made it across?”

  Dasha did not answer. She turned to the river as if considering jumping back in.

  A heavy gust wrapped around Razo’s face and warned of more than wind to come. Darker clouds pushed through the gray ones, swirling and undulating as though the sky mirrored the river’s waves.

  “It’s going to storm soon.” Standing up, he felt like a newborn colt, shaking on unfamiliar legs. He searched for a bridge to take them back across the Rosewater and into the city, but no arch interrupted the slate water. When he started to climb the bank steps, Dasha did not follow. Now she was watching the sky.

  “Come on, noble girl.” He put his arm around her waist to lift her to her feet. “We’ve got to get away from the river. If it rains much and this wind gets tougher, we could be swept away.”

  She let him lead her. The wind grew more insistent, pushing them from behind. He scrambled up the steps and saw dark fields, the laborers absent for the feast day. A squarish shape in the distance was the only destination. Dasha’s steps seemed reluctant, so Razo put his arm around her shoulders and made her run.

  It was a small hut, rattling in the wind like chattering teeth and likely to crumble in on itself any day, but it was empty and had a roof, so Razo tore the knotted rope off the door and pulled Dasha inside.

  Lightning sliced the gray; thunder hurled itself across the sky. There was a pause, as if the world took a deep breath, and then rain struck. The thin metal roof shuddered, the walls groaned once, and Razo leaned toward the center of the room, uneasy with a storm that seemed intent on clawing its way inside.

  He shrugged and chuckled at himself. It was just weather, nothing to get his boot straps tangled about. Then he looked at Dasha—pale, crouched on the floor. She was staring straight up. He could not help but follow her gaze, but nothing hung in the air above them.

  “What ails you?” he asked.

  “Did I do it?”

  Razo’s heart seemed to fall a long way. It was her. She had killed those people. The question in her voice encouraged him somewhat that she was innocent, in a way. In the way that Enna had been during the war, in the way that Finn forgave Enna.

  “Did you mean to do it?”

  Dasha looked at him. In the dim light, the blacks of her eyes nearly crowded out all the blue, giving her a startled expression. “Sometimes I do.” She returned her gaze upward, opening her face and neck to the sound of rain. “I want to, the desire pulls me, and I can’t help it . . . or I don’t want to help it. I love it, though I didn’t mean to do it this time.”

  The room seemed to slant now. Razo was backing away. “What do you mean, you love it? You love killing people?”

  “Killing people?”

  “I thought that you . . . I can’t believe you enjoy it, I just didn’t think . . .” An icy shiver scratched at his back, like the warning before he went too far taunting his big brother Brun. “So, you going to kill me next?”

  “Kill you next? Razo, what—”

  “Those bodies, that one by the river, you burned them.”

  “I did not! I found it there, just like you did.”

  “You said you loved it, but you didn’t mean to—”

  “I was talking about something else, just forget about it. . . .”

  “What was it, Dasha? What didn’t you mean to do?”

  “The rain!” She stood up, her arms straight, her fingers straight. “I was talking about the rain.” Her voice went low, and she turned her back on him, resting her forehead agains
t a shuddering wall. “Never mind.”

  Razo was done with tiptoeing around slippery places. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Tell me.”

  She blinked fast, as though she were battered by sharp rainfall; then the release of her shoulders spoke of defeat. She held up her hand, and her forefinger and thumb met, pinching the air. She put her finger out and showed a drop of water hanging from its tip. It got fatter and heavier, sagging until it dropped.

  Razo gaped. “What’re you . . . ?”

  She did it again and again, plucking drops of water from the air like berries from a summer bush. Her expression was calm, rapt, pleased.

  “My grandfather taught me this. He called it river fingers. After I got the hang of it, he taught me this, too.” She grabbed at the air, and water hung from all five of her fingers like long, luminous nails. She shook them off. “And this.” She cupped her hand around nothing. Her palm filled with water, and she sipped it dry.

  “It’s easy on days like today, so much water in the air, not just the rain, but the invisible damp. The world is full of water we can’t see. But I can . . . feel it.” Dasha stared at her open hand as drops of water gathered on her fingertips and rolled into the cup of her palm.

  “You know the language of water,” Razo whispered. “You can draw it to you, like some folk can with wind or fire. You got the river to carry me, didn’t you? Ho there, now, I just realized something—that day in the assembly! You made the stair wet so the assassin would slip.”

  She nodded. “I try not to use it much, but I wanted to help. That was all I knew how to do from that distance.” She shrugged, the gesture a self-criticism.

  “I’ll bet you could do more than that,” said Razo, remembering how Isi had once pushed back five goose thieves with the wind, how Enna . . . Enna had done a lot of things.

  Dasha tilted her head, crinkling her nose without smiling. “On days like today, I can feel how heavy the clouds are. My skin aches, and I know if I just feel it, just close my eyes and hear the clouds release, the rain break apart, the world sigh in relief, it will happen. But I don’t.” She touched her breastbone. “There’s a funny tickling inside me when I’m near the ocean, near a river, itching me to leap in and try something more. What I did with you today in the river, I had never done before.”