The Burning White

by Brent Weeks

  She looked back to the street and the bustle of carts, then opened the door—neither fast, which would draw the eye, nor too slow, which would make any who saw wonder why a door was swinging open by itself. Nope, this was just as if someone in the house had opened the door, changed their mind, and closed it again.

  Her heart was in her throat as she stepped inside, hands baring daggers from sheaths, paryl readied for the attack. She pushed the door shut with one foot.

  The trap would spring shut now, if there was one.

  One breath passed with no attack.

  Two.

  She streamed out clouds of paryl again, moving from room to room quickly, not really noticing anything, merely feeling for life or empty places, trapdoors, hidden alcoves.

  It was clear.

  She breathed easy for the first time in half an hour.

  Empty. Like she’d supposed it would be, after all her time watching the place.

  Now to work.

  There was a bed that was too rich for this neighborhood by half, a closet with various clothes rich and poor, and a woman’s white Braxian robes.

  That was good. At least it told Teia Halfcock had been honest with her about that much. This was someone in the Order’s safe house.

  Teia examined everything for some hint of who the woman was. The sheets were Ilytian cotton, but had no tailor’s mark on them. The nicer clothing came from a variety of tailors around Big Jasper, but not a piece was monogrammed.

  So whoever owned this place wasn’t stupid, then.

  Teia searched for two hours and found nothing.

  She sat on the bed and sighed. What was she going to do? She could set Karris’s people on it—the White did have many other eyes and ears—but Karris had asked that Teia reserve that for an emergency. Anything to do with the Order should be held closer than close, lest they all get killed.

  What were her other options? If she set Karris’s people on this, she could get back to hunting for her father, which almost certainly would be where Murder Sharp would have his best traps set. But some traps you have to risk.

  It was hopeless. For months and months she’d been hunting the Order, and she had nothing. She was a total failure.

  If she could just think. There had to be some way forward.

  She closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she couldn’t tell how long they’d been closed. Had she fallen asleep? No, surely not.

  The rattle of a key in the lock sent a jolt through her. Shit! She hadn’t even locked the door behind her.

  But it bought her an extra couple of moments now, as whoever was on the other side had first locked the door, tried it, and now unlocked it.

  She jumped to her feet, pulled the cloak shut, went invisible, and roughly smoothed the blankets from the depression her sitting on them had made.

  The door cracked open, and a man poked his head in, a puzzled look on his face. When he saw no one was inside, he stepped in. He was fair-skinned, dressed in slaves’ garb, dark hair oiled back, clean shaven.

  He checked the rooms, and straightened out the wrinkles in the bedspread with a disapproving look. Just a slave checking the house for his mistress—of course she wouldn’t clean a safe house herself.

  Rich people. So helpless.

  The slave busied himself, dusting the already clean surfaces, and Teia had to dodge him a few times, as silently as possible, regulating even her breath, and looking only at his feet. He was soon finished, but when he got to the door, he paused. “It’s madness, Micael. Don’t do it. It’s the whipping post and salt packed in the wounds unto death if she catches you.”

  He reached his hand to the door, but instead of opening it, locked it.

  He went to the sideboard, opened a drawer, and took out the silver. He laid the silver-polishing kit next to it, but he didn’t polish the utensils, as if still momentarily at war with himself.

  Then he held the front of his trousers away from his waist and scratched his pubic area with a fork.

  He examined the tines carefully and then put it back away, glancing around guiltily.

  Teia’s mouth dropped open. She almost lost hold on her invisibility. But he worked systematically through the silver, until every piece had been down his pants.

  “‘Thank you, Mistress.’ ‘Your crop, Mistress?’ ‘With pleasure, Mistress.’” He repeated the phrases like they were a meditation prayer: he must have had to say them hundreds of times, but now he was reclaiming them. In the future, whenever he said those, he would think of this.

  He was grinning like a maniac.

  He moved to the bedroom, and he wiped his ass across every single one of the pillows, both sides. “‘How did you sleep, Mistress? Oh, a scent? Odd. I’ll have a stern word with the laundress. This old house is a little fusty, despite my best efforts. But I’ll try harder, Mistress.’”

  Teia had heard rumors of others doing this kind of thing when she’d been a slave, of course. She’d fantasized about it herself when her owner, that cunt Aglaia Crassos, had dreamed up some new humiliation for her or her friends. Watching someone deathly ill be forced to lick up their own vomit, or seeing a boy ten years old beaten to death because he’d peeked in on the mistress noisily having sex with someone.

  Later she’d heard the same kinds of stories among slave owners, albeit repeated with more horror than glee: stories of slaves drying the dishes with their poxy undergarments, of men putting their cocks in the cups, or urinating and worse in the soup. They were the kinds of stories that played on the fears of those served and the fantasies of those enslaved, so of course they were popular.

  But she hadn’t thought anyone actually did it.

  It was hatred to the point of suicide.

  If she’d heard someone else tell this story, she’d laugh about it. But here, seeing this man do it, it was desperately unfunny. This Micael was risking torture and death merely to secretly dishonor a woman. He likely wouldn’t even be here to see her use the forks or pillows. He was right: it was madness.

  Enough, Micael. Just say her name. I don’t need to see all this.

  He finished doing everything he could think of, and went again to the door. “I should clean it all,” he said. “Vengeance defiles the hand that enacts it. Orholam will bring justice in its appointed hour.” He leaned his head on the doorframe, leaving a gap behind him.

  He still blocked half the doorway, but Teia realized it was her best chance. She could easily leave after he left—but she had no way to relock the door, at least not in time to follow. Now or never!

  She slipped out behind him, not even brushing his tunic.

  She’d never been so happy to be petite in her life.

  “No,” Micael said. “Fuck her. Fuck her.”

  Say her name!

  He left, and Teia followed him.

  In several blocks he arrived at a small hovel, opened the door. It was apparently his own house. But there he stopped. Looking suddenly skyward, he said, “Orholam, You know she deserves it. If I stay my hand from vengeance, Orholam, You have to promise me…”

  He stood there for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. Teia could tell he was walking back to his mistress’s safe house to clean it up.

  She didn’t follow. She’d hoped that he would take her directly back to his mistress’s estate, but it looked like she wasn’t that lucky. Whoever the noblewoman was, she was too lazy to clean her own safe house, but she wasn’t completely stupid. Her slave had his own hovel.

  The Order really did do a good job enforcing all the disciplines of secrecy.

  Quickly, Teia ransacked the slave’s belongings. There were several tunics, with old bloodstains on the backs from whippings. Last, there was an overjacket with a family insignia on it.

  Teia had been unlucky that it had taken her so long to find a time when she could get Halfcock alone and isolated. She’d been unlucky that the noblewoman hadn’t been at her safe house, and that the slave had never said her name. She’d been unlu
cky that this slave was new and so Teia didn’t recognize him and therefore his owner right away.

  But finally. Finally luck turned its golden face full upon her.

  For the first time in weeks, Teia smiled. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, it seemed Orholam had as black a sense of humor as any soldier: according to this livery, the slave Micael belonged to Aglaia Crassos. Teia’s very own former owner, that utter abomination, had joined the Order.

  As Teia walked the streets home, she actually laughed aloud at a thought: Micael had prayed for vengeance on his owner. Teia was going to be an answer to prayer!

  Aglaia was in the Order. Sooner or later, Teia was going to get to kill her.

  Sooner, Teia thought. Definitely sooner. Just in case.

  Chapter 57

  Worried they were stepping into a trap—still—the Mighty didn’t let Kip climb the luxin ladder until second to last, but at that point it didn’t matter. He joined them atop the new wall.

  The White King was no Gavin Guile. This wall was no Brightwater Wall; it wasn’t luxin but simple wood, more a frontier fortification than a work of art. It wasn’t high, either, less than three paces in most places. But it was vast, encompassing a half circle nearly a league across.

  A nearly empty league, now.

  “Huh! There’s no one here,” Ferkudi said.

  The others looked at him. Big Leo cursed under his breath.

  “Can I push him off the wall?” Winsen asked. “Please?”

  “He’d probably survive,” Ben-hadad said.

  “You’re right, that is a problem,” Winsen said.

  “Not the first time he’s been dropped on his head, I’d wager,” Big Leo said.

  “Question is,” Tisis said, “if he landed on his head, would that set him right, or make him more Ferkudi?”

  Some scowled. Some shuddered.

  “Yeah,” Winsen said, “best not to risk it.”

  “Ah, come on, Ferk,” Cruxer said, hugging the hurt dope around one boulder-sized shoulder. “You know we love ya.”

  It was a beautiful morning, sunny and clear. The forests were a green to make your eyes ache, rolling to the Cerulean Sea which was still and dark as wine from last night’s glass at this early hour.

  “But they’re gone,” Ferkudi said, re-restating the obvious. “There’s no boats. Am I the only one surprised by this? Are you telling me we hurried for no reason?”

  Ben-hadad was staring through a far-glass. “There are some people still here. Looks like they left most of the camp followers behind. At least, I hope that’s most of them. If Daimhin Web’s telling us the truth, though, that’s only those who haven’t already left.”

  “But no army,” Winsen said.

  “They’re already gone,” Kip said.

  “What’s that mean?” Ferkudi asked.

  “It means we have to race them,” Tisis said. “We didn’t make it in time to stop them. We—or our messengers—have to warn the Chromeria.” She glanced at Kip like, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  “All of us,” Kip said. “We’ll join the fight.”

  Tisis sighed. “I know. Sorry.”

  “It’ll be our last stand, won’t it?” Ferkudi asked. He looked at the grim faces around him, then bobbed his big round head. “All right.”

  “Something occurred to me,” Cruxer said. “Your half brother.”

  “Yeah?” Kip asked. He suspected where this was going.

  “He’s a straight-up murderer. No boundaries at all. And he’s the Prism-elect. Prism fully in less than a week.”

  “On Sun Day, yep,” Kip said.

  “And he’s got the Lightguard, which have already committed atrocities for him.”

  Kip nodded, as everyone looked harder at them both. He knew where this was going.

  “We’ve got no evidence for what he did here,” Cruxer said. “But he’ll worry we do.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kip said.

  Tisis took his hand and squeezed. “I didn’t say anything, I swear.”

  “I know,” Kip said. “This was going to come up sooner or later.”

  “We’re heading back to the Chromeria with purely good intentions,” Cruxer said. “But men with impure eyes see dirt everywhere they look. We’re headed for two kinds of fights, aren’t we? And one of ’em isn’t the kind where we can save you.”

  Kip looked from face to face: these boys he’d watched become men. He said, “I didn’t know who he was then, but High General Corvan Danavis half raised me, and he used to say politics are more dangerous than sharks or sea demons. We have to be ready to make sacrifices,” Kip said. “That doesn’t just mean you. It means me, too.”

  “If we go back, Zymun will kill you,” Cruxer said.

  “Nah,” Kip said with a wink. “My grandfather will kill me first.”

  Chapter 58

  “I will have my vengeance, Ravi.”

  “Shh, no names, no names!” the man whispered.

  Though she was nearly dozing behind a curtain, Teia’s ears pricked up immediately.

  “In my own home?” Lady Aglaia Crassos scoffed.

  Teia had been following Lady Crassos for days now. She’d learned all sorts of things about her, from her numerous lovers to her far more numerous business associates. The last few years had been disastrous for the Crassos family, starting with the death of Aglaia’s brother at Gavin Guile’s hands, so Aglaia had been cobbling together allies and coin in ways she’d never paid attention to earlier in her life. Teia couldn’t even tell where the lines between lovers, business associates, and political allies might be drawn, either.

  She’d made no secret of her hatred for the Guiles, though.

  Which might have been why some of the men who met with Aglaia wanted to do so privately.

  Teia had endangered herself unnecessarily at first, when she’d presumed a furtive little banker who was meeting with Aglaia must be in the Order. That had been merely an assignation: the man was married, and the only conspiracy he seemed to be part of was disguising the true extent of his fees from his clients.

  So Teia tried not to get too excited as she drafted paryl once more—when was she going to go wight on this stuff? She’d been using so much!—and peeked out.

  Aglaia was checking the jewels glued to her fingernails. “I only joined your little club to get vengeance on the Guiles, Ravi. And I want that magnificent asshole Murder Sharp to serve me. I want him to be the one who does it, and I want him to know he’s serving me. Where is he? How do I hire him?”

  Oh, so that was why Aglaia had been screwing a banker. She was angling for a future loan.

  But Teia was only trying to feel matter-of-fact. This was her lead!

  Ravi was a little beaver-faced man who fretted with his hat. “It doesn’t work like that, and don’t let them see you with that attitude. I’ll… I’ll speak with the priest on your behalf.”

  “The high priest, and I’ll speak to him myself.”

  “I have no idea who that is!” Ravi said.

  “Fine, then, the priest. Which one is he?” Horse-faced though she was, with her perfect braided blond hair and her tiny vest worked with coins, Aglaia could be attractive, Teia had to admit, and Ravi had certainly noticed her cleavage and the familiarity of her wearing house clothes in front of him.

  He made a pained noise. “It doesn’t work that way, really. Even I’m not supposed to know who he is, and I’ve been in the Order for three years. Each priest has several congregations and they’re always very, very careful.”

  “If you figured it out, then I would have, too, within a few more weeks. I won’t tattle on you, Ravi… sweetest.”

  “A little fear is appropriate. These people aren’t safe.”

  She leaned forward, clasping her hands and making the most of her cleavage, and did she pout her lips just a little? Regardless, she waited until Ravi’s eyes flicked down to her breasts, which only made it more withering when she said, “Get some stones, dear man. We are these
people now.”

  His jaw twitched with momentary indignation, but then Teia saw that he was the small kind of man who, when insulted, tried to prove he didn’t deserve the insult. “I suppose… maybe they’ll forget that I was the one who brought you in. He’s of medium height, thin…” He seemed to lose his nerve and stopped.

  “We’re masked and robed, Ravi. You’ve described half of them.”

  He gulped. “I just—I just have to think! The disguises rotate with where we meet. I can’t remember!”

  “Ravi,” she said soothingly. “Haven’t things gone well for you as long as you’ve been with me? Trust me, and things can go better yet.”

  He sighed, defeated. “It’s Atevia Zelorn.”

  “Zelorn? The wine merchant?!”

  “You can’t approach him until after the Feast of the Dying Light. There’s a huge party afterward. Stuff slips. He won’t know it’s me if you wait. Please, Lady Crassos, please be respectful. These people…”

  “Of course, of course, my dear.” Aglaia put a hand on Ravi’s cheek, softly kissed his lips, then firmly pushed him away.

  The man was reduced to a stammering flubberkin, which was frankly bizarre. It was painfully obvious that Aglaia despised him, wasn’t it?

  If Teia hadn’t already reasons beyond counting to hate Aglaia, she would have added this easy manipulation to the list. Although it had been rather smoothly done, hadn’t it? The woman wielded what she had like a chain whip.

  Add another reason to the list of reasons to hate her: making Teia admire something about her. Sweet Orholam’s garlicky breath, Teia was going to enjoy killing her.

  She didn’t think that the Order was going to kill any of the remaining Guiles just because Aglaia Crassos wished it, but she didn’t know how much she should bet on that.

  She couldn’t let Aglaia get in touch with Murder Sharp. Right now, as far as Sharp was concerned, Aglaia was just one barely initiated member of the Order among many. But the woman’s whole purpose in joining was vengeance on the Guiles, which Teia wasn’t going to allow. But wouldn’t the Order find it suspicious if Aglaia disappeared right after she insisted on killing a Guile?