Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  “I'm sorry. Truly. I don't know what—”

  “Yes you do. It's easier to forgive a brawler than a liar. It was those damn books you buried your nose in back on Davos. You know I'm right.”

  Argus's cheeks flushed, and it wasn't from the ale. Suddenly he couldn't look his friend in the eye. Siggi had a way of shoveling right through the horseshit. He cut right to the essence of a thing, and lifted it high for the world to see.

  “You're right,” he said. “They were making me crazy.”

  “Aye. So crazy you damn near got yourself killed on the Cradle. And you're still itching to get back to them.”

  “Siggi—”

  “No. You aren't harming anyone on Davos besides yourself. Nasira and I have been talking it over. You want to go back and disappear for good? Fine. We won't stop you.”

  Argus looked away, swilled the rest of his ale, and slid the empty mug toward the barman for another. He listened to the honey-voiced woman sing of Garvahn and wished he could wake up there, or, better yet, some strange kingdom without a name.

  He wished he could start all over—and never hear the word “magic” again.

  Nasira asked Siggi about the gods of Eld. Siggi said he was making good progress. But he'd almost exhausted the Atheneum's resources, and was itching for something less theoretical.

  “All I've seen in Azmar are scholars' treatises of scholars' treatises. There's no telling what's real and what's distortion. The scholar responsible for that section—he's a surly fellow, from Calladon—recommended visiting a sap reader in Nalavac. At first I thought he was just trying to get rid of me. And maybe he is. But he says the Nalavacians still practice some of the old rituals. That got my ears perked up.”

  “You've changed,” Argus said.

  “How do you mean, friend?”

  “I spent half the day scouring every brothel and establishment of ill repute. And here you are. Drunk with excitement about some holy women in Nalavac.”

  Siggi shrugged. “I can't deny it.” He tipped his ale to his lips. “This here's only my second. I need to rest before a long day at the Atheneum tomorrow. Then it's on to frozen Nalavac.” In those brown eyes, crinkled with concentration, Argus spotted the same all-consuming obsession that burned in him back on Davos. Siggi was drunk, all right. He'd just replaced pleasures of the flesh with that aching need to know. Argus turned to Nasira, who was watching the Garvahnish woman sing. Her eyes were distant. He realized then that the three of them were waging different kinds of battles.

  They shared the same bar, but they were alone.

  Siggi slapped him on the back and gave Nasira a quick kiss. “I'm off to bed. Come on up to my room if you want to collect your things. And if anyone wants to join me tomorrow, I'll be waiting for those old curmudgeons to open the Atheneum doors at dawn.”

  They followed him upstairs, where Argus retrieved his pack and fresh clothes. “Get a room if you can,” Siggi said. “It's been a long day.”

  The barman told Argus and Nasira that all the rooms were already booked. She ran upstairs to tell Siggi, promising to meet him the next morning on the Atheneum steps. They listened to a few more ballads and nursed another ale. The crowd started to thin; one sullen face after another streamed into the night, reluctant to climb into beds and rise the next morning to don debtors' robes.

  “Shall we try another inn?” Nasira said.

  Argus nodded. He led them through clouds of black smoke, past patrons smoking pipes by the roaring fire. Coughing, remembering the time he nearly drowned with his father—that half man, half ghost who refused to leave him—he shoved open the door and wandered into the street.

  Nasira asked where they could find another inn. Argus grumbled, thinking of the open sea—the sea he should have been sailing on. Instead he led them to the nearest inn, a flea trap called the Drunken Cobbler. That one was full too. So were the Maiden's Bonnet and the Wayward Bastard.

  Argus grew angrier and drunker with every step. It didn't help his mood that Nasira was laughing and singing songs. He couldn't help but feel that she and Siggi had conspired with Azmar's innkeepers to keep him there just a little longer.

  Swearing, he turned into an alley that looked vaguely familiar. It was mostly houses in these parts, but Argus thought he remembered an inn tucked away in there somewhere.

  “It's so quiet,” Nasira said. “I don't think I've ever seen Azmar so quiet.” She weaved from one side of the alley to the other, flailing her arms.

  “Not as quiet as the Cradle,” Argus muttered. The street wavered before him, but when he focused hard enough he thought he saw an awning with a yellow horse. “I think that's one there.”

  “Oh, gods. Don't torture me, Argus of Leith. My poor feet can't bear—”

  Argus jerked to a stop and grabbed her arm.

  “What? What is—”

  “Shh. Listen.” He looked ahead, then glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. That didn't explain the phantom footsteps that had filled his ears a moment earlier. His heart galloped. The ale cloud lifted, and Argus heard every little thing: a mewling kitten, laughter, an oxcart creaking a few streets over.

  “I don't hear anything,” Nasira said. “Your time on the Cradle must have left you paranoid. Ow!”

  She glared at him when he dug into her arm. Argus kept still. He wondered if Nasira was right. If she was, his paranoia had conjured up some awfully convincing silhouettes.

  He watched them shuffle, disappear into other shadows and reemerge closer. Everywhere he looked. In front, behind, on all sides. One edged out of a doorway, and Argus spotted a jagged dagger.

  “Whispers,” he hissed.

  Nasira lolled her head beside him, and suddenly her arm was covered in cold sweat. “What do we do?”

  Argus looked back. Back was the only way to run because it was familiar. But it was also blocked by three pairs of eyes colder than the Bonefrost Mountains. The assassins loped closer without a sound, wrapped in cloaks and smiles.

  Surely they'd gotten word of what happened to the last pair who went after him. They brought more this time: three up ahead; two behind; and one on each side.

  Seven! Not even Brenn the Bold could fell seven Whispers and live to tell the tale.

  “Argus,” said Nasira. “What do we do?”

  Neck twitching, he drew Reaver. “Get ready to run.” Out came her falchion. It rang, echoing, and the smiles on the hooded faces widened.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shoulder to shoulder they waited. But the assassins would expect that. The only way out—if there was a way out—was to upend those expectations.

  Argus roared. Blood pumped into his limbs. Reaver was ready, dancing in his hands. At that moment he craved nothing more than to maim and kill. To flood the streets in hot blood and savor their cries of anguish, cries that would make him laugh while gooseflesh prickled.

  He charged for the trio blocking their retreat. Three sets of eyes—one blue, one brown, one green—widened. Nasira rushed beside him, shrieking. The Whispers circled and readied their daggers.

  Argus met the first with a vicious two-handed slash. His brown-eyed foe parried, but the impact sent his dagger flying into the street. He swung again, aiming for the neck, but a boot to his chest sent him sprawling. Brown eyes pounced before he could get up, clawing for Reaver.

  Nasira screamed.

  Her falchion plunged into the Whisper's back. He groaned and writhed, then went limp. Argus shucked off the corpse and scrambled to his feet.

  Too late.

  They already had her.

  Nasira reached for her dagger, but a pair of Whispers pulled her away from the one she'd slain. They dragged her under the armpits while the others closed in.

  “Nasira!”

  She ducked just as one of their daggers whistled by her ear. A chunk of black hair sheared off her head and fell to the street. Argus ripped the dagger out of the dead Whisper and flung it at Nasira's captors. His wild throw found a thigh, and the blue-eyed assas
sin released the Comet Tailer, limping.

  Argus glanced back. Five of them back there, darting through the shadows. This time they'd left behind their bows, but gleaming blades were everywhere he looked.

  Nasira grunted.

  A dagger disappeared into her shoulder, and out streamed a torrent of blood. Argus ran toward it. He reached the blue-eyed Whisper first, who was hobbling on his wounded thigh. Argus ran him through and kept moving.

  Whistling steel.

  He swung Reaver so hard she barely slowed down when she passed through skin and bones and tendons. The blade flashed by in a beautiful, sweeping arc. When it was over, the green-eyed Whisper's head tumbled through the air and landed with a splatter.

  Argus turned to the five Whispers who remained. He kept his blade between them and Nasira, who stood hunched over, trying to staunch the bleeding.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I… I think so.” She had the dagger out. But she was covered in blood, and her shoulder resembled a hunk of raw beef.

  I can heal her, he thought.

  Another look at the Whispers made him reconsider. He couldn't heal if he was dead, and, judging by the hungry eyes filling the alley, that would happen sooner rather than later.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  Those eyes glowered. Everyone started moving at once, killers rushing forward. Argus whirled and sprinted away, grabbing Nasira by her good shoulder. They raced past doorsteps and darkened windows, stunned onlookers standing on quiet corners. He was vaguely aware of eyes on him. Curtains pushed aside. Doors creaked open. When those eyes landed on the Whispers they bulged, disappeared into houses and locked deadbolts behind them.

  “Hurry,” said Argus, pulling Nasira by the hand.

  She groaned and forced her feet to move faster. She kept looking back, warning him that the assassins were getting closer. Their footsteps were a stampede. Any attempt at secrecy abandoned. Argus didn't let himself look back because he knew that if he did, he'd end up fighting.

  And a fight was exactly what they wanted.

  They ran, turned and weaved through alleys filled with puddles and broken glass. Horses whinnied. Gamblers dove aside, their dice forgotten. Whores shrieked and stood motionless while they dodged around them.

  Argus glanced aside, into an apothecary window. A row of daggers dominated the reflection, nipping at his neck. He felt Nasira slipping away and tightened his grip. Two Whispers wrapped their gloved hands around her, securing her ankles and wrists.

  Olive Cloaks.

  Argus spotted a pair of them up ahead, coming to investigate the commotion. He yelled and they came running with hands on their sword belts. An instant later they were sprinting in the opposite direction, where they turned into an alley and disappeared. One look at the Whispers' viridian daggers was all it took to send the pride of Azmar scurrying away like children.

  Argus turned, shouting, hacking away to Reaver's delight. He knew one thing those Olive Cloaks didn't; these bastards bled and died just like everyone else.

  “Let her go.”

  Whisper eyes glinted. They brandished daggers. Nasira disappeared among them and then she was gone—a ghost except for the blood trail she left on their cloaks.

  Argus leaped into the crowd. Surrounded by biting daggers, he held them off with a spinning blow. An arm fell away, blood spurting, and landed with a satisfying plop.

  Go on, Reaver. Dance.

  She led him through a forest of wool cloaks. Grunting. Thrusting. Slashing into warm flesh. Sometimes daggers flashed into the gaps and bit him. His limbs burned. The slashes enraged him. Argus kept hacking until he found Nasira at the bottom of the pile, doubled over from a new wound to her stomach.

  A gray-eyed Whisper towered above her. Nasira raised her arms to ward off a killing blow. The assassin was taking his time. Licking his lips and sniffing the blood his dagger had collected.

  Argus chopped him clean in half. He kept chopping until two pieces became four, and then eight. Bathed in a river of blood, he turned to those still living and counted three left.

  They backed away. He didn't need to see their faces to know they were petrified. Those cloaks quivered. Argus was drunk again; the sensation was more intoxicating than even the headiest of ales.

  “I…I… he cut me pretty badly,” Nasira said. She eyed the slash in her stomach. Groaning, she reached for her dagger.

  “Don't move. Keep your hand over the wound. Keep it tight!”

  Nasira looked up and nodded. She looked like she didn't quite know where she was. For a moment she was that young girl again, the one whose bounty Argus had hunted in Calladon. Those amber eyes flickered. Then they rolled to the top of her head, and Nasira slipped unconscious.

  She doesn't have much time…

  A pair of flashing daggers interrupted him. Green eyes and blue eyes converged while the third survivor, who'd lost an arm in Argus's attack, watched from a distance. Argus parried one blade and endured the other.

  Pain seared his side. His ribcage had deflected the brunt of it, but an alarming amount of blood poured through his tunic. Argus gathered himself, readying Reaver for another flurry, when a different idea struck him.

  “Luctis sityr valis. Luctis sityr valis. Luctis sityr valis!”

  He'd used sight magic to alter his own vision countless times. But he wasn't sure if he could creep into the mind of another. Slowly but surely, he felt himself slipping into the Whisper. He saw the world through his eyes. He even saw himself a few feet away, holding Reaver with his jaw clenched tight.

  Argus started to weave his spell. He thought of his face, and projected an image of it where the blue-eyed Whisper stood. Then it was just a matter of slipping into his mind and projecting a duplicate where the green-eyed man had been.

  Luctis sityr valis, he said to himself one last time, the illusion complete.

  Argus stepped back and watched the two Whispers square off. Neither of them spoke. Their eyes bounced around for a while before settling on each other. Their daggers followed.

  The Whispers lunged, covering the street in sparks. When their daggers locked they made terrible grating sounds—so loud they drowned out the voice of the third Whisper screaming, begging them to stop. The timbre of the voice marked her as a woman. She edged between them, dodging daggers, nearly getting herself killed.

  Argus ran her through while she was distracted, then backed away to let the others fight. He scooped up Nasira and draped her over his shoulder. She was limp, and bleeding freely onto his chest. He pulled her into a claustrophobic alley and didn't look back.

  Argus hustled through the alley. All of his attention was spent on Nasira. Feeling around inside her. Stitching up her wounds. It could take hours to heal them, and he was already beyond exhausted. He stuck to the shadows and glanced back every few seconds to make sure he wasn't being followed.

  They passed a few people in the alleys. Those who looked their way quickly pretended they hadn't. Drunks and feral dogs fled from the man hobbling with an unconscious Comet Tailer, his sword still out, clothes and blade covered in blood. One teenage powder fiend uttered a curt “gods!” as they passed, then disappeared into another alley.

  The Azmarites who lived in these parts knew to mind their own business. Lord Lucius Syrio didn't pay them to sling gossip or meddle in others' affairs. Of those midnight wanderers, Argus worried only about the Olive Cloaks. He kept to the tiniest alleys he could find, snaking his way east. These outskirts were too impoverished to warrant much Olive Cloak protection; Argus didn't spot a single patrol.

  Woozy, he kept on. He hoisted Nasira onto his other shoulder after switching half a dozen times. She was still unconscious, occasionally moaning as if trapped in a nightmare. She grew heavier with every step he took. Finally it was all he could do to bear her.

  Argus let Nasira slide off and caught her in his arms. Trudging along, he heard footsteps and whirled. Just another powder fiend. Whispers would never make their presence so obvious. With
any luck the last of them were dead, victims of their own daggers.

  At last he found the street he was searching for. A Tokati merchant rolled up in a cart, scowling at the stranger who blocked his path. When Argus stepped aside, revealing the unconscious woman and coat of blood, the Tokati spurred his donkey and hurried on.

  Argus staggered behind those creaking wheels until he spotted the pair of wooden doors. They were locked. He leaned against them, listening to Nasira's heavy breaths.

  He pounded on those doors until he couldn't lift his fist any longer. His vision narrowed and he slumped against the rough wood, wishing, waiting, praying for an answer.

  What if they're gone?

  The only thing worse than that thought was the long, slow collapse that followed it. Argus slid down the doors, painting them with blood. He couldn't hold Nasira anymore. Couldn't even hold himself up. All he could do was close his eyes and slip away.

  Something groaned.

  Argus lurched forward, landing face-first on a floor of sooty stone. At least nothing hurt anymore; everything went numb. Beside him shifted a pair of slender feet. Argus tried to look up and see whom they belonged to, but couldn't.

  “Oh my,” a voice said. “My my my…”

  The feet padded across the stone floor and disappeared. Argus groaned. In his mind he reached for them, doing what his useless limbs couldn't.

  He was still reaching when the floor dissolved and everything plunged into darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cold water splashed his face. “Oh, gods. What's he gotten himself into this time?”

  Janna.

  Argus's mouth wasn't working. All he could do was listen to the desperate whispers as she commiserated with the other woman, the slender-footed one who must have opened the door. “Go fetch some pillows and blankets, Morgan. We'll need them to keep him warm.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  A few seconds later footsteps creaked up the stairs somewhere behind him. More water trickled down his face, this time guided by a warm hand.