The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  But words weren't the only way to persuade. Often, what you looked like gave you more authority than the reasonableness of your words.

  Raxa looked down at herself and pulled a face. At that moment, what she most resembled was a charwoman who'd lost a fight with a team of pigs. Hundreds of miles of travel had left her clothes rumpled, patched, and dingy. She spent a while wandering around the plaza and watching the comings and goings from the Boxing Turtle. When she was satisfied she had a general eye for their style, she toddled off to find a tailor.

  Bressel had a full-blown garment district, but a few questions turned up the fact there was a small tailor's neighborhood just a few blocks from the Cutlery District. She hoofed it over. The shops displayed the latest in ruffian fashion. She settled on a young woman who looked eager for business. Raxa laid out what she needed, how fast she needed it, then haggled down the price. By modifying a few things she already had, the girl thought she might be able to have it done the following evening. Raxa gave her a down payment and went on her way.

  She couldn't get anywhere with the Red Ghosts until she had her clothes. To make use of her time, she walked all the way to the palace. It was big. Impressive-looking. Palatial, even. Almost entirely stone, which she'd been expecting, but that was nice to confirm. She smiled at it, as if admiring it, while she assessed ways to break in.

  Darkness came along. She found an inn and got a room. Downstairs, they were roasting chicken with potatoes and onions and carrots. Plain stuff, but they'd pinched some spices on it to dress it up. Anyway, after weeks of road food, it felt like a coronation feast.

  Her room was on the fourth floor. The night was cool and heading toward cold, but she opened the window to flush out the smell of the previous tenant. Outside, the night was its usual mixture of friendly shouts, laughter, and drunken singing. Raxa knew she should be doing something useful with her time, even something as basic as going downstairs to have a drink and brush up on her Mallish, but hearing the clamor outside in a language that wasn't hers, a strange sadness sagged her shoulders.

  Why had she come all this way? Why had she agreed to leave her people in order to meddle in the affairs of two countries she didn't give one shit about? To learn the shadows? Why? The ego of strength? She snuffed her candle, lifted her hand, and called the nether to her fingers. It was scary. Beautiful. Powerful.

  But was it worth it?

  ~

  By the time she woke up, she hadn't found any answers. But she didn't care, either. She'd made her decision weeks ago. She was here. She'd do her job.

  She spent the day touring the city. Talking to locals. Goading them into explaining politics to the wide-eyed foreigner. She tried to poke the conversation toward wars and foreign affairs, hoping the people she was speaking with would spit out a few names worth spying on. The name Harald Walstone came up three different times. He was the Minister of the Eastern Reach, and it sounded like he was a hardass.

  After a long day, the last light angled through the sky like it was passing through clear water. She headed back to the tailor. The job wasn't done yet, but the girl was happy to keep working—she was hungry, eager to prove herself. Raxa was happy to see it.

  As the nine o'clock bells neared, the tailor handed Raxa a bundle of clothes and showed her to a private room to dress. Were the Mallish that squeamish about the sight of somebody else's smallclothes? Raxa stripped out of her old junk and pulled on a linen shirt, trousers that were rakishly baggy yet contoured to her shape, and a woolen doublet with sleeves that stopped at the elbow. Some of her ilk liked fancy footwear, but Raxa thought that well-worn shoes were a mark of your character. She'd kept hers.

  All in all, it should have looked mannish, but the cuts and stylings kept it feminine. For her line of work, it was the perfect marriage of rebelliousness and practicality. On her way out of the tailor's, she felt enough swagger to be tempted to kick down the door.

  She made her way back to the Boxing Turtle. Good cheer spilled from the shutters. Her entrance drew a few glances. She found an empty spot at a shelf on the side of the room and flagged down the serving boy for a beer. As she made her way through the bitter drink, she surveyed the room.

  Didn't take long to find her mark: he sat at a table surrounded by confident young men and a few women who got a good laugh out of everything he said. His dark hair was swept back from his brow with an oil that surely smelled sweet, and when he gestured with his mug, he didn't spill a drop. Two types of people had dexterity like that: acrobats, and people who knew how to kill other people with swords.

  If she wanted access to the Red Ghosts and their underground contacts, information, and resources, that was who she had to convince. Raxa doubted that words or the right outfit would be enough. She bided her time until he rose to use the privy. As he returned through the room, she stood and cut across the pub to intercept him.

  The ol' bump-and-grab would be too obvious. He'd probably known that one since he was six. Knight-Saves-the-Lady? If she fell in front of him, he'd probably help her up—he had to look good in front of his crew—but if he caught on to her game, her attempt at something so obvious would be humiliating. Wreck her chances.

  No, there was only one way for it: do something he'd never see coming.

  He was halfway back to his table, smiling in the cocky, lazy way of people who think their success proves their superiority. Raxa curled her finger at the nether. It rolled out from under the tables and danced over to her hand. She tossed most of it aside. Using the finesse Galand had beaten into her during the trip, she sent a bug-sized dollop of darkness flying toward the man's head. It split apart, one half settling over each eye.

  He stopped mid-stride, eyes widening against his sudden blindness. Raxa moved beside him. He reached out for balance, or perhaps to reassure himself that he was still conscious. His hand brushed Raxa's side.

  She smiled, stepped away, and dropped the nether from his eyes. He stood there a moment, arms held a foot from his hips, as if ready to reach out and grab the world if it tried to slip away again. He muttered under his breath, then donned his cocky smile as if it had been a hat snatched by the wind.

  Raxa bided her time, letting him get back into the swing of things. But he was drinking harder now. Rattled. Before he could get so drunk he got unpredictable, or started forgetting his promises, Raxa waited until someone on the opposite side of his table had launched into the telling of a long story, then headed over.

  She stopped in front of him. He barely glanced her way.

  "Excuse me, good sir." Raxa gritted her teeth, praying hard to Carvahal that she didn't sound as stilted as she felt. "You will hire me."

  He swung his head around. A little drunk, but there was still some dagger in his gaze. "Fuck off."

  "I can't in good faith fuck off, sir."

  "I think you'll find it's quite simple. It's just like regular off, except you do it harder."

  "But I can't. Because I find this." She held out her hand.

  The thief-lord leaned forward. He gazed down at the gem-studded black leather bracelet in her palm, then felt his sleeved wrist. "Where did you find that?"

  "On your arm."

  "You stole my father's bracelet from me. And now you ask me for a job?"

  He'd kept his voice low, but the entire table was staring at them. Raxa nodded. "So I can use my skills for you."

  His hand darted out and crushed her wrist. He stood, taking the bracelet from her. His face was as red as if it had been struck. "You stole from me. In my own house? You have three seconds to get out before I steal your life."

  Raxa sucked in a quick breath. "Good sir—"

  "One. Two."

  She turned and ran from the pub. As she flung open the door, the whole room burst into laughter.

  Raxa jogged down the cobbles, then broke into a flat-out run. Not because she was afraid of pursuit—they'd gotten their laugh, that'd be enough—but because the pain of her disgrace was so intense the only way she could deal
with it was to run until her body hurt worse than her soul.

  A misty drizzle was coming down, slicking the cobbles and manure. After the second time Raxa slipped, she slowed and turned into the next alley. She confirmed it was empty, then hunkered down next to a stoop, raking her hand through her hair.

  Part of it was just a bad turn of the cards. Instead of being appreciate of her skill and amused by her audacity, he'd taken it as a blow to his status. Even worse, it hadn't just been a flashy bauble, it'd been his fathers. Even so, Raxa might have been able to turn things around if she wasn't so bad with Mallish that everything she said came off arrogant or foolish. Surviving on the streets depended on being able to read the people around you. If Raxa couldn't present herself so they could read her correctly, she was as doomed as Irrolen in the Hall of the Bone-Eaters.

  The rest of the night was a waste. Moping. Kicking herself. Worst of all, she stayed up too late and drank too much and couldn't roust herself until eleven in the morning.

  Her first meet with Sorrowen was late that night. She spent the early afternoon eyeballing the palace some more. Could she insinuate herself as a servant? Thing was, in a place like that, even the servants were scrutinized to hell and gone. No way they'd take on a foreigner who didn't have a single reference. Earning that reference would take weeks, if not months. Long enough that by the time she had it, and was able to worm her way inside, Mallon could have already launched a new campaign against Collen.

  Or Narashtovik.

  Scratch that, then. Coming at it from the other angle, she scrounged around until she found a neighborhood full of blond-haired, tan-faced Colleners. She grabbed a seat in a pub and left her ears open. The other patrons didn't talk much politics until she ordered a second beer in a very thick and very non-Mallish accent. After that, they did some jeering of the Mallish for losing the war, and some speculating as to whether the king would call for a final invasion, but it didn't feel any more substantial than typical drunken commoner gossip.

  Night came. Her old friend. She made her way past an arena, then a neighborhood of temples and monasteries and apothecaries, then old and rundown housing, then a park of statues of ancient dead men she didn't give a shit about. Sorrowen was already waiting for her. Knowing him, he'd probably gotten there thirty minutes early, then spent the wait worrying that he'd gotten the time wrong.

  She came up on him from behind. "Hey holy man."

  He started, banging his skull on the elbow of a beckoning statue. He turned, rubbing his head. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because I could. How's it going?"

  "Good, I guess. They accepted me into the priesthood."

  "Already?"

  He shrugged. "Dante was right. As soon as I showed them I could use the ether, they gave me my vows."

  "Now all you need to do is assassinate your high priest, take his place, and mount a violent investigation to find his killer, using the ensuing confusion to commandeer all the information you can grab about Collen."

  "I'm not…but why would they even appoint me?" He frowned at her. "Have you gotten anything from the Ghosts?"

  Raxa tilted back her head. The night smelled like trees. "There's been a snag. I'm working on it."

  "A snag? Like what kind of snag?"

  "Like they've resisted my efforts to be recruited."

  "But why would they do that? I thought you were the best!"

  "It's complicated. Could be they're about to pull a job and they're wary about being infiltrated."

  "Could you be pushing too hard?" He picked at a loose thread on his plain gray robe. "Maybe you should act like when you like a girl and she isn't so sure about you."

  "How is that?"

  "You know. Like you don't really care, but if she was smart, she'd go for a walk with you."

  Despite herself, she smiled. "Hear anything from His Holiness?"

  "Dante? Nothing really. They're on their way to Alebolgia."

  "Where are you keeping the device?"

  "Device? What device?"

  "I'm supposed to report what I find to you. Therefore, you have a way to get it to Galand. A magic bird. A flying bottle. An incredibly loud whistle that only he can hear. Whatever it is."

  "Uh," Sorrowen said. "It was entrusted to me."

  "And if something happens to you, and I don't know where it is, I won't have any way to get in contact with them."

  "I can't, Raxa. This is my duty."

  She grinned. "All right, altar boy. Then you better not get yourself killed."

  They set another meet for five days later. She spent a few days chatting up Colleners, hanging around public parks where angry people shouted at each other about politics, and, at night, seeing whether she could sneak into the palace. Not with dead mice. She didn't trust them. With herself.

  Problem was, once you got through the outer walls, which had been converted from fortifications into the poshest shops and tea houses, you were then faced with an inner maze of private residences that were very obviously not supposed to be approached by anyone lesser than the fringe of the noble classes. Most of these were recent structures built from wood. By shadowalking, she could probably find her way through their maze in time, but she'd only have a few minutes to get inside the palace, look around, and get back out again.

  Still, when you were digging out of prison, the only way for it was a few inches at a time.

  As she made her rounds, she spun herself yarns she could tell if somebody caught her snooping around the palace or anywhere else she shouldn't be. She avoided the Boxing Turtle. She also did her best to avoid the feeling she'd had long ago as a girl alone in a hostile city with no friends and nothing in her pocket.

  After four days of letting the Ghost's pub cool down, she made her way back to the Culinary District. The evening felt cool, but it was humid enough she was sweating into her shirt. A lone figure leaned against the outside of the Boxing Turtle. It was the guy she'd spoken with on her first try, the handsome young man with the too-thin beard. He tipped back a flask. The motion tugged his sleeve tight, outlining a knife strapped to his upper arm.

  Changing plans on the fly, Raxa stopped twelve feet away from him. "Hello. I return."

  The man wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "You sure that's a good idea?"

  "There was a mistake. I come to apologize."

  "Some things, it's better to get gone and stay gone."

  "I know who your people are. I know that I can help them to be more."

  The man took another swig, then tucked away the flask with a smooth brushing motion. "You don't have to convince me. You have to convince Errik."

  He jerked his head down the alley. Most of it was dark, but at the far end, a candle burned dimly from somewhere behind the building. Low laughter crept down the passage. Raxa bent her left wrist, reassured as it bumped into the hilt of the knife tucked up her sleeve. The pub's door squeaked open, disgorging a man and a woman. They glanced Raxa's way as she followed the man into the alley.

  It stank like piss both stale and fresh. The young man glanced over his shoulder. "Got a name?"

  "Xara," she said.

  He smiled. "I'm Tommen."

  They reached a T-intersection at the back of the alley. Tommen turned to the right, bringing her before a group of three men who had a shared interest in hostile looks and stupid mustaches.

  "This is Xara." Tommen grinned at them, putting a hand in the small of her back to guide her forward. "She's the one who was around the other night, yeah? One who nicked Errik's bracelet."

  The man with the pointiest mustache smirked. "Oh, he's going to be happy with what you brought him."

  Tommen thrust his fingers into Raxa's hair, entangled them, and pulled her head backward. She gasped in pain. He shoved his forearm across her collarbones, searching for her throat, but she was already blinking into the nether. She reappeared outside his grasp and pounded her fist into his left eye.

  The others called out in surprise. Raxa devoted a fraction of a
second to the idea of weaving herself in and out of the nether and her blade in and out of their throats. If not for the couple that had witnessed her entering the alley, she might have done it. Instead, she whirled and ran.

  She splashed through the alley, the three men close behind her, Tommen staggering along behind them and clutching his eye. They yelled insults after her, but there was nothing about witchcraft or sorcery. Too dark for them to have properly seen what had happened. Brains had convinced them she'd just slipped loose. As for Tommen, she'd hit his eye hard enough that he wouldn't be seeing much of anything for a while.

  She dashed from the alley, slipping on a clot of wet leaves. A short-handled throwing knife swooshed past her and clinked over the cobbles. Heart on fire, she picked herself up and ran on. If they'd been in Narashtovik, she could have lost them in any number of crooked alleys and secret doors that existed for situations exactly like this, but in Bressel, she could barely find her way back to her inn.

  Then again, she kept a hidden door on her at all times. All she had to do was swerve down a side street, pop into the shadows before they came around the corner, then wait for them to run past.

  She headed for the street on the south side of the square where she'd originally entered from. As she neared the corner, one of the men chasing her whistled two quick notes. Two men arose from a stoop on the corner and jogged toward her.

  Raxa swore and veered to her left. The men behind her gained ground, just steps behind her. She ran pell-mell for the eastern street entrance. A pair of blue-coated guards wandered from it, breaking off their argument to glance at the chase.

  Raxa swore again. How much bad luck could she eat in one night? She scanned the plaza for another way out, ready to make a break for it, then laughed out loud. She was so used to running from the city watch that she'd almost forgotten what they were supposed to be for.

  "Help me!" she yelled, exceedingly glad she was in a foreign city where no one she knew would see what she was doing. "They attack!"

  The guards drew their swords and jogged forward, the buckles jingling on their leather armor. Trying to bring tears to her eyes, Raxa thought about dead puppies and vagabond children trudging through winter with blue feet. The pack of thieves scattered, jeering at the guardsmen.