Fortune's Fool (Eterean Empire Book 1)

by Angela Boord

  “You were bent on killing him a few moments ago,” he whispers.

  Was I bent on killing Arsenault? It’s hard to remember now. And it doesn’t matter. I can’t be the cause of his death.

  I disentangle myself from Arsenault so I can stand and grab Mikelo, then shove him down to the stones in front of Arsenault. Mikelo’s knees smack the pavement, but I am through with words. I try to tighten my hand on my sword hilt, but it isn’t there. It’s on the ground beside Arsenault.

  “Andris,” Mikelo whispers, crawling forward on his hands and knees, “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Your uncle trained you for it.”

  “But it was only teaching.”

  “Do it!” I shout. “For the gods’ sake, Mikelo!”

  He flinches, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He holds out his hands, close to Arsenault’s chest.

  “What do you see?” Arsenault whispers.

  “Blood,” Mikelo answers. His voice is strained. He’s sweating. “Blood and bone and tissue and…”

  He turns aside and retches on the pavement. “I can’t do it,” he says, wiping his mouth with a trembling arm. “I can’t.”

  “Mikelo,” Arsenault says, his voice scarce, hoarse. “Go deeper than that. What do you see?”

  Mikelo takes another deep breath and closes his eyes again. “Heart,” he says, his voice wavering. “Lungs.” He opens his eyes. “Gods, Arsenault, my uncle didn’t teach me about this; there wasn’t—”

  “Mikelo!” I say.

  “Ah,” he says, a strangled sound, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Heart, lungs, veins, arteries, blood, blood, blood…”

  “Deeper, Mikelo,” Arsenault gasps. “Hurry.”

  “Deeper than what?” Mikelo shouts, his eyes still closed. “That’s what makes you up; that’s what you are—”

  I go down on one knee beside him. “We are more than blood and bone, Mikelo. When you See, you See through.”

  “Through?” His voice takes on a helpless note. Arsenault stares up at the ravens hovering on the rooftops, breathing in short, sharp gasps that make his wound quiver.

  “Through,” Mikelo says, breathing deeper himself.

  Hesitantly, he touches the wound. His fingers slide in the blood.

  Then his eyes fly open. He stares at Arsenault in surprise, but Arsenault is looking up at the sky, and his breathing comes farther apart now, more shallowly. He is sliding. Dying.

  I expect something, some kind of light or music or fanfare, while all this magic is being worked. But at the most there is a soft glow, as if twilight had become wedged in this alley, trapped in Mikelo’s hands. He looks on Arsenault in awe, then lays his hand upon Arsenault’s wound as if he were taking and shaping a lump of clay.

  Beneath his palm, new flesh ripples over the gash like water, covering it top to bottom.

  Flesh ripples the same way metal does, when it’s newly a part of you.

  Arsenault writhes beneath Mikelo’s touch. I put all my weight into holding his shoulders, pinning him against the wall. He throws his head back and bites his lip so hard, blood flows from it, trying not to scream.

  I remember that screaming. I lean into him, harder, and Mikelo makes one more pass with his hand, down the right edge of the wound. The wound bucks. Arsenault grasps at the crates that lie next to him, but he has no strength to hold on.

  Then Mikelo falls forward onto Arsenault, sweat running down his face. Arsenault sinks back against the wall, groaning and closing his eyes.

  I can’t quite make myself let go of his shoulders. “Mikelo,” I whisper. “Did it work?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  His hair glints gold against the deep wine-colored strips of Arsenault’s shirt.

  Arsenault is wearing burgundy.

  Part V

  Chapter 25

  Arsenault’s breathing flutters and skips but doesn’t stop. Night deepens on the streets, and I am faced with the problem of how to move him, and where to go.

  We can’t go to an inn. Duels are a fact of life in Karansis, but innkeepers still call the Guard if they think the duel will be one that isn’t good for business. In most places, a good fight will only draw customers, but we have been political. And politics, in this land of close boundaries, is never a good idea.

  Mikelo tries to stand up and retches again. He can’t help me carry Arsenault; he can barely carry himself.

  That leaves Silva.

  He lay stunned in the alley while Mikelo healed Arsenault, and now I stand with my boot securely pressed down on his chest, the tip of my sword at his neck. He can only twitch because if he tries to get up, the point will go straight through his throat.

  “Did your serving girl go get the guards?” I ask.

  He stares up at me, his violet eyes wells of fright. “I don’t know. But if she did, so much the better. If he’s not dead already, let him die in prison!”

  “You’re not entitled to his life!”

  “But you—”

  Every befuddled accusation is like a tongue probing at a canker. I jam my foot down harder on his chest.

  “I’d kill you right here, but you’ll have to help carry Arsenault.”

  The boy’s face transforms. “I’m not going to carry him! He deserves to die.”

  “How do you know what he did?”

  Something rustles at the mouth of the alley. I turn quickly without moving my sword. If it’s the Guard, I’ll have some explaining to do.

  The serving girl from the Beautiful Youth stands there, cloaked, her hood thrown back. She stops when I turn around, then steps forward with trepidation.

  “The Guard is coming,” she says. “But I didn’t call them. The mistress did.” She glances over her shoulder. “She sent a runner as soon as you left the building.”

  Mikelo curses, from the wall near Arsenault. “Kyrra. We can’t move that fast.”

  I don’t want anything to do with the Guard, though we could probably just let them have Silva. Mikelo’s the problem. He bears enough Prinze features that word would get out about a Prinze involved in a duel in Karansis, and by process of elimination, the family would figure out which Prinze it was.

  And Geoffre knows how to spread word faster than mouths might carry it.

  “We’ll have to hide him, then, and talk our way through it.” I glare down at Silva. “I’d give you up, but you’ll be helping me carry Arsenault, won’t you?”

  “Go ahead and give me up,” he says. “I don’t care.”

  “Silva?” the girl asks, her voice rising in fear. “What did you do?”

  “I killed our traitor,” he says with a note of pride. “Like I promised I would.”

  I bend down past the hilt of my sword. “He’s not dead yet. And you’d better help me hide him quick. Unless you want to hang surrounded by Aliente and Prinze.”

  Surprise crumbles his mask. “Who are you?” he asks.

  My thin smile becomes a grin. “I used to have a name, but now I’m nobody. And I’ve got nothing to lose. When I let you up, you will help me move Arsenault. Otherwise, I have no problem running you through and saving the guards the trouble.”

  He looks at me with the utter understanding of one who has seen war. “Go ahead—” he begins, but then the serving girl interrupts: “Silva!”

  His eyes flick in her direction, and something changes on his face. “Yes,” he says. “I understand.”

  I wish my Sight didn’t come and go. But I don’t have a choice, so I let him up.

  Between the two of us, we manage to drag Arsenault down the wall and cover him with crates. His chest moves so slightly, I have to put my cheek to his mouth to feel his breath on my skin.

  His stubble rakes my cheek as I draw away. I wrap his cloak tighter around him and arrange a few more crates around his legs. Mikelo half-crawls into the pile and sinks down into his cloak until he looks like a heap of trash in the darkness.

  I wonder who else has been teaching him.


  The Guard clatters down the road in a jangle of tack and steel horseshoes on cobblestones. The low, burbling noise of the river, which drops down in a series of small falls from the town, hides the sound until they round the corner, but when they do, the sound explodes; it’s like the whole Night Watch of Liera has come down on us.

  The girl shrinks back to stand beside Silva. I step between them, and she looks up at me in surprise.

  The front riders ride past, until an observant rider in the middle of the pack shouts, “Ho!” and they all come to a clattering stop.

  Horses snort and whinny. The captain of the guard rides at the rear. He swings down from his horse, long black mustaches flopping, and draws his sword before he approaches us.

  “We had a report of some trouble,” he says. “A man arguing with a woman?”

  “A man tried to accost me,” I say. “A gavaro hired by my husband, who felt cheated out of his wages. My husband is running him off. I expect he’ll return shortly.”

  “Is your husband likely to have trouble? What’s your House?”

  “Cari,” I say. A Conseli house.

  He looks skeptical. “The gavaro followed you all the way here?”

  “He was an obstinate man.”

  “And these two?”

  “Only came to help.”

  The captain narrows his eyes and looks between them. Silva glares back sullenly, and the girl looks down at the ground.

  “If they’ve run off and you don’t know where they’ve gone, there’s nothing I can do. But, my lady, a woman shouldn’t be going around alone at night. Your husband should be chastised for abandoning you.”

  I smile a little. “Sometimes, he may let his emotions get the better of him, but truly, he has my best interests at heart. And I’ve learnt a little of how to take care of myself, on our travels.”

  The captain’s eyebrows lift. “Well,” he says, and salutes me with his sword. “Good evening to you, then. And get out of the night as soon as you can. It’s safer inside.”

  He walks back to his horse and mounts. The other riders—five of them, in a pageant of house colors—have been staring at us, and now they wheel their horses, nudging them into a trot. None of them spare us a glance as they ride away.

  As soon as they’re gone, Silva tries to bolt. I grab his forearm with my right hand and pull him backward.

  He cries out in pain. “What do you have on your arm? It sounded like metal when you blocked that blow.”

  “It is,” I say. “Mikelo, they’re gone.”

  Silence. Then the crates slide over each other and rattle on the pavement as Mikelo straightens up.

  “Get the crates off Arsenault,” I say. “I’ll hold the boy and make sure he helps us acquire our horses.”

  “And why should I?” Silva asks. “Since you’re only going to kill me after I’m done?”

  The girl moves quickly in front of me so I have to look at her. “He’ll help you with the horses,” she says in a soft voice. “I’ll pay you for his freedom after, whatever you want, if you just let him go.”

  “Meli!” Silva says. “Let me make my own decisions. It’s my life.”

  “It’s not yours to throw away,” she says urgently, leaning close to him. “Do you think it will change anything if she kills you? It might take away your grief, but it will just make mine worse. I know you were just trying to right the wrongs done to us, but you’re not going to do that by throwing away your life. Do what she tells you, Silva. Please.”

  Mikelo moves crates while she speaks. I try to recover my divided attention and tighten my hand on Silva’s arm. He stares at me, eyes wide. I’m squeezing too hard. He’s going to have bruises.

  The shape of Arsenault begins to assume itself in the night. Mikelo puts a hand to Arsenault’s chest and hangs his head in relief. “He’s breathing,” he says.

  It’s like a miracle, every instant that Arsenault is not dead. Everyone can feel it, Silva most of all. “How is that so?” he asks me. “I drove the knife into his chest this deep!”

  He tries to hold up his hand and I jerk it down, unable to avoid the way Arsenault’s blood gleams black on his knuckles.

  “And I still might kill you for it,” I snap.

  “It’s the captain they’ve got, Meli,” Silva says, “the Aliente captain, the traitor. Now tell me I shouldn’t have tried to kill him.”

  Gods. Who is Arsenault, really?

  In the night, the flecks of stone that limn Meli’s eyes look like tears. “The war is over, Silva. Let the man be. You were only a shepherd boy; how could you have known what happened?”

  “Because I was there! Just like you were! Half of Karansis probably has a story to tell about this man.”

  I want to shake him until he gives up his story, but this is getting out of hand. I give him a shake anyway. His head snaps backward, and his other hand comes up to claw at mine. I throw him down on the ground.

  He gasps and squints up at me through watery eyes, cradling his arm against his chest.

  “Enough of this talk. We need to get Arsenault to a bed.”

  “I’ve a bed,” Meli says quietly, her eyes shining. “And a place for him to recover. Don’t hurt my brother, and I’ll get you some horses and lead you there. You won’t have to steal them.”

  “Why are you dealing with them!” Silva shouts. “I know how you’re going to get the horses, Meli!”

  “It’s for your life, you idiot!” Meli snaps, whirling on him. “I’ve lost everyone else; do you think I want to lose you, too?” Then she turns back to me. “Don’t you hurt him. I’ll give you everything you ask for, anything you want, but if you hurt him, I’ll find a way to tell everyone I know about your man there. You’ll either have to keep both of us alive or kill both of us.”

  She stands off in front of me with flat determination in her eyes.

  Dammit. The more the battle rage leaks out of me, the more I’ve lost my taste for killing. I’d run this boy through as soon as he’s done helping with Arsenault for what he’s done, but we need the bed and I don’t want to kill her, too. I can’t stomach killing her right now.

  “Fine,” I say like I’m spitting, and she nods and runs off down the alley.

  When she returns, she’s leading a rangy chestnut stallion by the reins. The horse towers over her but plods along easily enough—tired, perhaps, or not as high-strung as some of the other breeds I’ve seen on the streets. Straw clings to Meli’s cloak. A small smudge of black or purple lines her cheek—dirt or a bruise.

  Everyone can see how she got the horse.

  She looks me level in the eyes, though, and hands me the reins. “We have the horse for a few hours only. The owner will be back from devotions after midnight.”

  I nod. “Thank you.” Then I turn to Silva. “Help me get Arsenault into the saddle.”

  Sullenly, he walks over to Arsenault, who shivers beneath a pile of our cloaks. The ravens are back, lining the gutters above. I pick up a rock and throw it at them. They scatter, croaking, the movement of their big black wings like ripples in the night sky.

  The horse shies, hooves ringing on the pavement as he dances sideways. Meli puts a hand on his neck to calm him.

  We prop Arsenault up on crates, but we have to stand on crates ourselves to lift him onto the horse. I lash him to the saddle, and Mikelo mounts behind him to assure that the ropes hold, then covers him with cloaks. He looks like a bundle of blankets strapped on a horse, except that his boots dangle off the side.

  Meli leads us to a narrow building at the edge of town that is crumbling into its weed-choked garden. The entrance is unlit. There is a hole in the upper story, where the bricks have caved in. “Here,” she says, standing in front of the doorway. I can hardly see her.

  “Meli,” Silva says softly. “No.”

  “It’s the only place,” she replies, and pushes open the door. It screeches on old hinges. Her soft shoes make slipping noises on the floor as she walks inside, and then light flares, illu
minating a small room with black scorch marks on the brick walls.

  The house is a casualty of war too.

  Meli comes back out. “We need to go down into the cellar,” she whispers. “The rest of the floors are occupied. But don’t worry, I’ll tell them all some story. You won’t see anyone till morning, and I’ll tell them to stay out of the basement.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” Mikelo asks, leaning down from the horse.

  “They are the people run out of their homes by the war,” Silva says. His chin juts out when he speaks. “They have nothing to do now but pick pockets and bed men for their bread.”

  “Charri carves votas,” Meli says in an even, soft tone. “She knows some conjure magic. She doesn’t have to sleep with anyone to fill her stomach. You and I chose this path.” She turns to me. “I’ll tell all of them your man there has been injured in a duel and banned from Karansis, and they won’t ask questions. We’re all running from something.” She darts a sharp glance at Silva. “If you’ll get him down now, I’ll open the cellar doors. It’ll be a tight fit, but the stairs aren’t long.”

  Mikelo and I trade glances. Then he slides off the horse, careful not to jostle Arsenault, who shifts anyway and sucks in a pained breath.

  The cellar stairs are narrow. The cellar was obviously the larder for this townhouse, and the staircase is only wide enough to roll a barrel of wine down. Somehow, we get Arsenault down the steps, Silva holding his arms and me carrying his feet, but Arsenault’s sleeves still snag on the walls.

  The cellar smells musty and leaks in a corner, a steady drip-drip-drip that will drive me mad if we have to stay here long, but otherwise, it’s been transformed into a surprisingly snug living space. Narrow windows up near the ceiling, some of them still intact, reflect the light of Meli’s stubby candle. A fire, unlit, is laid in the corner in a makeshift hearth of broken bricks, probably scavenged from the wall upstairs, with a hole cut in the floor above to let the smoke out. Two cots stand in the corner where the ceiling doesn’t leak, against a wall of shelves holding a few crocks and bottles, a string of sausages, a braid of garlic. Mats woven of rushes cover the dirt floor to keep the bugs out. They crunch under our boots as we carry Arsenault into the room.