by Sam Hawke
When a creepy, echoing windy sound erupted right next to me, I started, one hand flying into my paluma to reach for the concealed pouches there, before I realized there was a young man on a perch above, concealed by the curtain, playing a long, tubular instrument that created the eerie sound of wind. Rather than releasing the tension it only looped it tighter inside me.
And then I saw him. Perhaps he moved, or was caught in a bit of reflected light from the stage, or maybe my restless gaze simply happened on the right place at the right time, but I looked up, and in the shadows of the ceiling, balanced on a support beam in the center back of the room, there he was. A man—or a figure, anyway, but already my brain was filling in the rough shape, barely lit in reflected stage light—crouched above the audience, utterly still. Not moving ropes or directing lights, he might have been part of the structure itself if I hadn’t seen the gleam of brown skin, an unmistakable curl of hair against a cheek. Already the ceiling had fallen into darkness again and there was nothing to see but indistinct blackness.
A cool, hard sensation filled my chest. There was no pleasure in being right. It was him, the man I’d glimpsed following the Chancellor over the past few months, a man with unremarkable features and the studied air of normalcy only a fellow practitioner could identify. Every time I’d seen him he had disappeared before I could point him out to the blackstripes, and I suspected even they thought I was imagining things. But this time he was here, ready to act, and so was I. Staying tight against the curtains, I moved slowly up the aisle, my eyes fixed on the mass of black, trying to find him again. My heart pounded. Of course it could be someone from the production staff. But almost all the people I cared about most in the world were sitting below, clumped together and vulnerable, and I wouldn’t risk their safety for the sake of my pride.
I glanced behind at the blackstripes. The two on the nearest door weren’t looking in my direction; one had her back half-turned, eyes roaming the audience, while the other seemed to be watching the play, his posture bored and languid. I started toward them, but had only taken a few steps when someone opened the door at the other side of the theater and the dim light leaking in illuminated the ceiling for a moment. My head snapped up and I saw him again, crouching like a statue on a wall, something drawn to his face—a thin stick of some kind—and instinct took over.
“Assassin!” I yelled.
In the temporary quiet, my cry rang out, explosive. The door slapped shut and patrons leapt to their feet, the crowd erupting into chaos in the darkness. Someone screamed. Panicked voices swept the room. On the stage, the performance stopped and someone swung one of the big focused-beam lamps in our direction, so the writhing black mess of bodies disappeared in an explosion of white across my eyes. When it cleared I could no longer make out the figure on the beams above. And from behind, someone strong seized my arms and hauled me backward.
I struggled to turn, to pull free, but no sooner had I yanked one arm loose than a thick forearm was around my neck. Terror filled me. How many were there? I’d been so focused on the person above I hadn’t stopped to think they might have accomplices. My vision was streaked with spots and stripes, obscuring my view of the crowd now struggling to escape their rows, so I could not make out Tain, or Dija, or Lini, or anyone. People were streaming past me, pushing for the exits, too many for the blackstripes to contain. Someone shoved into us and the grip around my neck tightened. Dizziness closed in around my head.
Then, “Uncle Jovan! Let him go!”
“Let him go, by the fortunes! That’s Credo Jovan.”
The pressure around my neck released abruptly, and I half-stepped, half-slid away. It was one of Tain’s blackstripes, the man by the door, who’d had me. Dija pushed her way over, her glasses askew and her eyes frightened, but apparently unhurt. I patted her shoulder weakly as I scanned the room. The high lamps on the walls were stuttering and starting, and though I searched out the interlocking beams on the ceiling, there was no sign anyone had ever been there. Tain appeared a moment later, his hand on my shoulder to steady me as I sagged with relief to see him safe.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
I shook my head and massaged my throat, scanning the crowd, looking for the man whose ordinary face I would surely recognize. Half the theater had already emptied, and those who had stayed were standing, staring, their alarm fading. Most of the half-lit figures were people I knew, and none looked suspicious, merely confused. Hot frustration doused me. “There was someone there. On the beams in the ceiling.”
“What did you see, Credo?” the blackstripe asked politely. Tain’s brows were drawn in concern, and Kalina joined us, breathing heavily.
“Someone was crouched on the beam, there, above the Chancellor,” I said, gesturing to the ceiling. “I saw them put something to their mouth. I thought—” My voice faded. It would be too specific to say they’d had some kind of projectile, perhaps a poison dart like the Marutian one that had killed Chancellor Ardana eighty years ago. Kalina was frowning, following my gaze; she knew what I had suspected of the man who had been watching Tain. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I only saw them for a moment when the light from the door came in.”
“And you got out of your seat?”
“No. I was already in the aisle, I—” Again, I dropped off, not wanting to admit it had only been a feeling that something was wrong. Already the expressions of the people listening were changing, growing skeptical. I cleared my throat. “I was going to go out for some air. I saw movement and noticed the person on the ceiling.”
“It was very dark,” the other blackstripe offered, her voice not quite disbelieving. She stared up at the obviously empty beams. “You might have been mistaken?”
“I suppose,” I said, unable to keep the stiffness from my reply.
The first blackstripe’s expression remained neutral, without judgment. “Sorry for grabbing you, Credo. I heard the cry and you were in the aisle, rushing in, like. Thought you were the threat.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. As the alarm died down, more and more of the remaining people were peering curiously at our little huddle. The show manager, in obvious distress about the ruin of her opening night, was in close conversation with Varina, who kept trying to make eye contact with me. “It was so dark in here, it’s perfect conditions for an assassin.”
Tain squeezed my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t look—”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I’m not seeing things, if that’s what you’re—”
“Jov,” he interrupted gently. “I just meant, is your neck all right? My man half-choked you there. I didn’t doubt you saw something.” He glanced around. “Not sure we can do much about it now, though.”
If there had been anyone trying to get to him, they were gone now, and even my certainty was slipping. What if it had been a member of the theater staff, up there for some innocent purpose and holding a pen or a straw or a stick of janjan in their mouth, who had simply panicked when I’d cried out?
Most patrons seemed to be regarding the incident as a false alarm, their initial panic fading to be replaced by whispers and condescending looks in my direction. My face grew hot.
“If the Chancellor’s guard check our audience carefully, may we continue the performance?” the show manager asked. Tain hesitated and looked at me, and other heads swiveled in my direction. I had to shrug. An assassin who had waited for us in a dark theater would be unlikely to try again once we were on alert. I couldn’t think of a reason why the play could not go on, other than the obvious reason that I did not want to keep watching it.
“You don’t have to stay,” Kalina said quietly as people began filing back to the benches, and the actors, with nervous looks and some muttering, took their positions again. Kalina’s onstage counterpart, having undertaken a brave and desperate journey to bring word to our army, had uncovered the Warrior-Guilder’s betrayal and was about to be chased down. I had ruined one of the most d
ramatic moments in the story. “I can keep an eye on things here, and the blackstripes will be patrolling.”
It was tempting. If it had felt strange and wrong watching actors “die” in the earlier battle scenes, it would be nothing to the unpleasantness of watching a reenactment of my sister’s near-death at Aven’s hands. But if I left now it would only make the whole thing look more like a stunt. And I’d be even worse stewing outside, wondering if I’d missed something in there. At least this way I could keep eyes on Tain, Dija, and Kalina. I took my seat again.
This time, the lanterns stayed lit at the edges of the room, and the blackstripes patrolled, alert. One part worried, one part embarrassed, I sat through the remainder of the play in a familiar internal storm of self-recrimination, counting squeezes of my hands to keep the anxious dread at bay, hardly following the events unfolding onstage. So focused was I on staying calm and not jumping at every movement in my peripheral vision, I barely took in the impressive choreography of the battle at the lake, the cunning use of color and light to suggest water. I watched Tain’s grand plea for peace, and numbly noted the cleverness of the production when, just as the battle seemed to be over, the real Os-Woorin emerged, a fluid and strange shape created by acrobats balancing on each other’s shoulders underneath a semi-diaphanous fabric shroud. It shouldn’t have worked but it did; something in the combination of grace and unnaturalness of the thing genuinely recalled the weird and awesome sight of an ancient spirit. I missed Hadrea all over again when her onstage counterpart fought the spirit and felt a bone-deep relief when at last it was over.
I stood with everyone else, politely applauding, counting the moments until I could flee. Varina, in the row below us, turned around. “I know the cast were keen to meet you three,” she said over the applause and the general hubbub. “But if you slip out before the manager gets up here, I’ll make your apologies.” Technically she was addressing the three of us, but her gaze was on me.
“I’m feeling a bit unwell, Uncle Jovan,” Dija said, in a clear, carrying voice. “Would you mind if we went straight home?”
Kalina gave my apprentice a very soft look. Affection and gratitude swamped me, tinged with guilt that she’d already had to learn how to handle me.
“I’ll tell them you had to take her home,” Tain said easily, understanding me immediately and regarding us without judgment. “I hope you feel better soon, Dee,” he added gravely, and she bobbed her head in thanks.
“I could walk her home if you like, Credo?” Tain’s page, Erel, a few years older than Dija, had appeared at the end of our row with the kind of beaming smile and helpful attitude that had propelled him from messenger to Tain’s personal page. I tried not to glare at him.
“That’s fine, thanks, Erel. I’ve got a lot to do at home anyway.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Credo.”
I started to answer, but Tain interrupted with a tap on my shoulder and a whisper. “Looks like Bradomir didn’t appreciate being faceless, eh?” He gestured below and to the right, where Credo Bradomir, in contrast to everyone else, had not stood to applaud.
I shrugged. “I guess they already had enough villains for the narrative.” Bradomir had resigned his Council seat under considerable pressure in the aftermath of the siege and revelations about the extent of his role in the abuses at his estates. Though his family still held considerable wealth and power, their honor and social standing—Bradomir’s particularly—had diminished as a result. “I’m surprised he even came.”
“Gotta keep up appearances,” Tain muttered. “Speaking of those, you’d better head out before we get caught.”
Dija took my hand and started to lead me out just as the show manager called out, “Honored Chancellor!” and I hurriedly followed. Kalina, whose energy levels had not increased with her public profile, joined us without a word. But we’d only taken a few steps when a woman’s voice, raised in alarm, cut through the chatter of the crowd.
“Uncle!”
I glanced back. Credola Karista, Bradomir’s niece and replacement on the Council, was shaking his shoulder, urgent. “Uncle!”
Only then did I register his slumped posture, the tilt of his head. Warmth drained out of my body as if we’d just stepped out into a cold wind. Bradomir wasn’t standing, not because he was an angry old man, refusing to show appreciation for a show he had not enjoyed. He wasn’t standing because he couldn’t.
“Call a physic!” the elderly woman on his other side cried. Varina turned from her conversation with the theater manager, the bright beads in her hair swinging as she spun about and stared up. I sometimes forgot she was a Leka—our relationship had somewhat surprisingly evolved into mutual respect, even friendship—but in that moment her resemblance to Bradomir was vivid.
“I think it’s his heart,” Karista moaned. She took Bradomir’s cheeks in her hands and stared into his face. “Uncle. Uncle.”
I half-turned away, not wanting to gawk, as a physic in the audience pushed his way through the crowd. If Bradomir’s heart had given way, I could say I was neither surprised, given his overindulgent lifestyle and general ill health, nor saddened. But I did not want to intrude on the legitimacy of his family’s grief, either. Before I could make my polite escape, though, Karista’s eyes locked on mine as if she’d sought me specifically out of the crowd, and their hostility took me aback. She didn’t like me, had never liked me—as peers at school, my particular oddities and compulsions had been a cause of much mockery from her—but this was a look of unabashed hatred and fury.
Uncomfortable, I tried to convey sympathy in my expression. Whatever my feelings about her uncle or her personally, I knew the devastation of the unexpected loss of a mentor. Two years on, I still felt Etan’s absence every day as I floundered around my attempts to be a good teacher for Dija, and despite Bradomir’s public withdrawal, rumor had it that Karista still leaned heavily on her uncle’s advice in managing Leka interests.
Her glare only intensified, and unpleasant understanding struck me as I turned away. Her look was an accusation. Just like the Ash family after Credola Nara died, as if my ill will had contributed to her heart failure. Irritation replaced my initial sympathetic urge. Disliking Bradomir or Nara couldn’t cause their deaths or they’d have died a long time earlier, and not just because of me.
But the thought did occur to me, as I slipped from the theater with my sister and ward, that the assassin I had been so sure I had seen targeting Tain could just as easily have reached Bradomir, seated only a row in front of the Chancellor.
Other families’ poisonings weren’t my business, I told myself firmly. My job was to protect the Chancellor, not to usurp the significant protections the other Councilors employed. If Bradomir had made an enemy, that was not unexpected and absolutely not my problem.
* * *
“And how is this your problem, precisely?”
Thendra sounded more irritable than usual, and barely slowed her pace, forcing me to trot after her. The physic’s skin gleamed with sweat and her arms were laden with supplies; belatedly I hurried forward to awkwardly share the pile. The hospital was crowded with physics, assistants, and patients, with people moving in every direction and a constant hum of noise and activity. I followed along down the corridor and into a treatment room with four separate patients on pallets, where Thendra handed off her pile to a harried-looking assistant and gestured for me to do the same, before pivoting from the room again.
“It’s busy today,” I said, avoiding her question by stating the obvious.
“The city is overrun, Credo,” she replied without so much as glancing at me. I didn’t need telling. Every guesthouse in the city (and plenty of opportunistic un-Guilded private residences and businesses) had long since filled, and even the rougher options in the fledgling settlement outside the walls were bursting. “More disease, more accidents, more foolishness, more conflicts.” The last was snapped with obvious disapproval. With the population of the city multiplied past capacity, inclu
ding people whose homelands had a higher tolerance for violence than Sjona, the karodee influx had led to additional disputes and injuries, both accidental and deliberate. “We will need a second hospital if this is to be sustained.”
“Karodee will be over in a few days, at least.”
“This is not a karodee problem,” she replied, terse. “It is a population issue, Credo. It did not start with the festival.”
It was true. Over time the city had changed. Immigration led to a denser population, more competition for resources, more pressure on the Guilds and consequently more un-Guilded work at lower standards. We had greater crime and constant pressure on the determination council adjudicating petty and serious disputes. It would be easy to miss the peaceful, sophisticated city of my memory if only that enforced civilization had not been bought and paid for by the suffering of others.
“These gangs, these drugs…” Thendra was continuing, her expression grim. “I am seeing things I have never seen in all my years’ practice here.”
I sighed, fists clenching. “I know.” There was always crime in a big city, but its apparently successful organization was a new phenomenon. Chen, the Captain of the Order Guards, seemed to be locked in a perpetual battle with the most powerful gang. It was likely linked to the increased use of recreational drugs, but drugs were one more entry on the list of problems my fellow Councilors had no appetite to pursue. Encouraging the government to act on an issue was challenging when a good proportion of them, I suspected, had come to enjoy that particular vice. “I’ve raised it, Chen’s raised it. They’ll give you more funding.”
