Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories

by Martha Wells

  Nicholas smiled. “That’s why I took the dust.”

  Belina narrowed her eyes at him. “You already have a plan, don’t you.”

  Reynard sighed. “He always has a plan. That’s why we have him.”

  Belina considered a moment more, then nodded firmly. “Let’s get Idilane.”

  * * *

  When the opera was nearly over and the restaurant would shortly be flooded with weary patrons, they took up their posts in a private room. Belina was seated at the room’s dining table, with Reynard and Nicholas behind the curtains on the balcony, which looked out on the promenade that led around the side of the building back to the carriage circle in front. A steward was sent to summon Idilane from the box he was sharing with a Captain Benre and companions, who were presumably meant to be Idilane’s alibi.

  Belina waited, tapping her fingers impatiently against the table, more angry than nervous. Reynard approved. Her mother would undoubtedly not be happy about a public trial, but it would have to be done. Belina was both young and noble enough to be treated gently by the magistrates with regard to her testimony. If enough evidence was assembled from other sources, she might not have to appear in court.

  Nicholas twitched his curtain aside to whisper, “Remember to let him get close, but not too close.”

  “I know,” Belina said, annoyed. “You’ve told me three times already.”

  “She knows, Nic.” Reynard reached around and pulled Nicholas’ curtain back into place.

  A few moments later, the door opened and Idilane stepped in.

  Idilane was what Reynard would have considered a fairly unassuming specimen. He was of middling height with dark hair, and features that were unobjectionable. It was obvious he could look affable and probably used that quality with the unwary. He would have little difficulty blending into crowds, being unmemorable. He did not look pleased to see Belina. The message from her would have alerted him that she had failed to fall into the trap, and he must have been considering the situation the entire time.

  He opened his mouth to speak and Belina seized the moment. “Surprised to see me?” she said dryly.

  Idilane rallied, obviously assuming Belina had never encountered his familiar. “Yes, I wondered why you didn’t meet me as arranged--”

  “I did go to your meeting. But you weren’t there.”

  Idilane hesitated. “You’re lying.”

  “Because if I went, I’d be dead?” Belina’s gaze was direct. “Tell me, why do you do it? What benefit do you get? Do you do something disgusting with the dead bodies before your familiar eats them? We can discuss it, before the magistrates arrive.”

  Reynard controlled the urge to sigh, Nicholas rolled his eyes. Yes, Belina was off the script. They had felt there was no point in ascertaining Idilane’s motives, as the magistrates would take care of that, but Belina obviously felt differently. The girl did have a passion for asking questions, Reynard thought.

  Idilane’s face worked. Then he smiled in a predatory fashion and took a step closer, almost within arm’s reach of Belina. “You wouldn’t call a magistrate. You can’t risk them hearing about your exploits.”

  Belina was unmoved. “I don’t have any exploits. And the magistrates and the penny sheets will be too distracted by all your murders to listen to your lies.”

  Idilane leaned closer and lifted a hand. Reynard thought he meant to touch Belina’s face, but spell light flickered from his fingers. He said, “You’re very confident. But I don’t believe you’ve already summoned the magistrates.”

  Belina lifted her chin. “I’m not alone.”

  Idilane sneered. “Then what are your companions waiting for?”

  Belina whipped up her hand and slammed the glass ball into his forehead. “For me to do that!”

  Idlilane staggered back, then dropped like a stone, the spell crackling and dissipating around him.

  Reynard lunged out from behind the curtain, lifted Idilane by the lapel of his coat, and slammed a punch into his jaw. Idilane’s head snapped back and the sorcerer was unconscious. Reynard dropped him, and started to search his pockets. He found a folder containing the photographs almost immediately, and rapidly flipped through them to make sure they were what he thought they were. Then he hesitated. “Some of these are not Belina.”

  Nicholas and Belina both leaned over his shoulder to see. Belina gasped, “The other girls! The murdered girls!”

  Nicholas said in disgust, “He’s an idiot. Look again, he may have included an image of himself actually committing the murders.”

  “Not everyone is up to your standards,” Reynard told him. He handed the folder to Belina and she hastily looked through it, removing all the images of herself, as Reynard finished searching Idilane’s clothes. Belina handed the folder back and Reynard put it into Idilane’s coat. Reynard took the bag of dead fay dust and shook it out over the body as Belina folded the photographs of herself and retired to a corner to stuff them into some undergarment under her skirt.

  Reynard stood. “Ready.”

  Nicholas was already at the door. He nodded to Belina.

  She let out an ear-piercing scream. Nicholas flung the door open and shouted, “Who are you? Take your hands off that young lady!”

  Reynard turned back to the window, slung himself over the balcony, and dropped down to the grassy verge at the edge of the walk. There was no streetlight nearby and he was observed only by some street urchins and a few peddlers waiting for the opera to let out. They were accustomed to seeing people exit the restaurant’s private rooms precipitously and didn’t pay much attention.

  The story would be that Miss Shankir-Clare’s escort had left her in the restaurant while he went to find a porter to summon their coach. Idilane had appeared and accosted her, and dragged her into a private room. Reynard’s confederate, the restaurant’s host, had seen this and sent a waiter to summon a magistrate from the street in case there was trouble. Belina would claim Idilane had threatened her and bragged of past victims that his captive fay had dispatched. Since all that was true, Reynard didn’t have any doubt she would be able to carry it off.

  A couple of streets over, Reynard found a telegraph office still open and sent a message to be delivered to the Shankir-Clare house. Then he retreated to the vicinity of the coffee-seller across the street from the opera’s main entrance. Over the course of the next hour, as the audience left the opera, he saw more magistrates arrive, then a coach with more high-ranking magistrates and one of their sorcerers, then finally the Shankir-Clare coach with Lady Shankir-Clare, a maid, and Amadel. Amadel paused, spotted Reynard across the street, and they exchanged a nod before he went inside. Not long after that, Nicholas appeared.

  Reynard purchased another cup of coffee as Nicholas sauntered casually across the street, and handed it to him as he joined him on the promenade. They waited until the Shankir-Clares reappeared with Belina. As Amadel handed Lady Shankir-Clare into their coach, Reynard saw Belina studying the street. She spotted them, but was too canny to wave.

  The coach departed, and Reynard and Nicholas started down the promenade.

  “So do we still believe Belina was targeted by Idilane?” Reynard asked. “I doubt it myself.”

  “Yes, the queen might have to look away from a scandal involving a Shankir-Clare daughter, but a Shankir-Clare daughter who is missing would be cause for turning the city upside down.”

  “Idilane may not have realized that. The family is discreet, not known in the lower circles he travels in.” Reynard lifted his brows. “I think he was the target.”

  “It makes more sense. Perhaps the sorcerer who was forced to give him the fay familiar nudged him toward Belina, knowing that if she was a victim, Idilane would not escape.” Nicholas looked preoccupied. “The other young women probably told no one where they were going or why. It shouldn’t be too hard to discover at least some of their identities, if their families have reported them missing. I’ll do some preliminary work on it, and give it to you, to be p
assed on to the Shankir-Clare family.”

  It would give the magistrates another push in the right direction. And Reynard would enjoy a chance to see Belina again and bid her a more formal farewell. “This was a good day’s work.”

  “It was adequate,” Nicholas agreed. “Miss Shankir-Clare was helpful.”

  “She was.” Reynard had been thinking it over while he waited, and he said, “It would be good to have a woman available for this sort of job. Fools like Idilane don’t expect it. Someone who has a public reputation of some sort would be even better, less likely to be suspected.”

  “You’re considering asking Miss Shankir-Clare?” Nicholas sounded dubious. “She has the nerve for it but she’s still a little young--”

  “No, of course not.” Belina was too young. And more importantly if her mother found out, the reaction would not be salubrious. “We need someone who isn’t under the eye of a concerned family.” Thinking of Nicholas’ theatrical infatuation, Reynard added, just to tease, “An actress, for instance.”

  The look Nicholas gave him was unreadable. “That might be possible.”

  Holy Places

  The next four stories are set in Cineth, before the events of the novel The Wizard Hunters, the first book of the Fall of Ile-Rien trilogy. “Holy Places” is the story of how Giliead and Ilias first met.

  Even at only eight seasons old, Ilias knew Cineth’s god didn’t really eat children, no matter what his older brother had told him. Castor was only two seasons older and Ilias knew he lied a lot, sometimes to try to frighten Ilias and more often to make himself sound knowledgeable. So when Castor pointed out the new Chosen Vessel at the market, Ilias wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

  He was sitting on his heels, watching ants build a nest in the dirt, bored by the adult haggling all around him. The afternoon sun was warm and bright and the market tents were all pitched under the big trees of the plaza. Men and women haggled over bags of grain, amphorae of wine and olive oil, fleeces, goatskins. The further end of the market was where the potters and metal-workers and other crafters spread their blankets to sell pottery and dyed cloth, knives and trinkets of carved wood and copper and polished stone jewelry. Ilias could smell the grilled meat someone was selling, and knew there would also be cheese and fruit and flatbread with honey. He also knew if he went for a closer look at any of it, his father would give him a clout to the head. Normally this wouldn’t have stopped him; if Ilias minded clouts to the head he would have never done anything worth doing. But a tension in the air all through the day had told him that his father’s quiet temper had already been pushed to the limit; pushing it further was not a good idea.

  He had noticed the family long before Castor pointed them out because they were standing near the edge of the plaza, talking to some of the merchants who bought crops. The woman was young, her tawny hair braided with beads, and she wore a rich blue silk stole over her gown. The man with her wasn’t wearing a sword, but then nobody but travelers carried serious weapons to market. He was tall, olive-skinned, with red-brown hair, like the Syprians who had always lived on the coast, and was dressed in worn leather boots stamped with gold and a sun-faded green shirt over pants trimmed with leather. Though his hair was more than touched with gray, he still wore it in a long queue past his shoulders, and it tangled in his copper earrings. Ilias thought he must be a warrior, to attract such a young wife. Even though she wasn’t as pretty as Ilias’ mother, she looked wealthy, and could easily have bought younger husbands.

  The only boy in the group was a little younger than Ilias; shouting with excitement, he ran past the man and was scooped up and captured, laughing delightedly. An older girl ran up to show the woman a beaded bracelet she must have just bought. The woman took the girl’s hand to examine it, and the man leaned over to give it serious attention, the struggling boy still tucked easily under one arm.

  Watching them, Ilias was torn between cynicism and a twist of bitter envy that soured his stomach, though he wasn’t sure where it had come from. The adults actually seemed to be enjoying the company of the children, something he viewed with equal parts fascination and skepticism.

  Castor’s sandaled feet suddenly appeared and his brother said, “There he is. That’s the new Chosen Vessel.”

  Ilias pushed to his feet, shaking dusty hair out of his eyes, frowning. He and Castor both came from inland Syprian lines, with light-colored hair and short stocky frames. Except Ilias had always been judged prettier by everyone in the family. His hair made long curls even when it was dirty, and Castor just looked like he was wearing a dusty mop. “Him?” he said with cautious approval, eyeing the man across the plaza.

  The old Chosen Vessel, Livia, had been killed last year. Ilias had only known her well enough to recognize her in the market, but she had been Chosen Vessel his whole life, and he had hidden under his and Castor’s bed and cried the night the word had come of her death. He had heard the poets’ stories and knew the Chosen Vessel was given to the city by the local god. Its gift to the Vessel was the ability to see curses and track them back to the wizards who came to kill and snatch people away. Even Livia’s presence in the town had been enough to keep away the dark creatures, the curselings the wizards created to come out in the night and destroy whole villages. Her death had made going out at dusk to help get the sheep and goats into the pens a test of Ilias’ courage; every moment he had expected something horrible to jump out of the brush, either to eat him or carry his family off to be a wizard’s slaves. That was a fate he didn’t even wish on Castor or his oldest sister Niale.

  It hadn’t been until days later that someone had finally explained that Menander, the Chosen Vessel from the Uplands, would protect Cineth until the new Vessel was ready to take up Livia’s duties, and that it was the god’s presence that kept the curselings away. Ilias had been relieved and desperate to hide it from Castor. Pretending he knew what he was talking about, he said now, “He looks like a good one.”

  “Not the man, shithead. That’s Ranior, he was lawgiver years ago. The boy’s the new Vessel.” Castor looked down at him with utter contempt. “The god doesn’t choose Vessels that are already grown.”

  Ilias rolled his eyes in exasperation, pretending he knew that. He had known it, actually, but in his limited experience Chosen Vessels were like lawgivers and warleaders; older people, with gray hair and lines on their faces. It was hard to remember that the new Chosen Vessel would start out as a child. “I know that. I meant the boy.”

  “Did not.” Castor aimed a shove at him, which Ilias easily ducked. Castor’s natural instinct to bully his younger siblings had been thwarted; though Ilias was smaller, he was already stronger, as Castor had been sickly for the first years of his life. Ilias was also an expert in dirty fighting; his cousin Amari, who had three elder sisters who had apparently been trying to murder her since birth, had taught him everything she knew. Ilias’ older sisters were all too old to bully their youngest brother, but it helped keep Castor humble.

  Watching Castor glare at him, Ilias could tell “the god eats children” lie was about to make another appearance, as a last-ditch attempt to make Ilias feel young and stupid.

  But as Castor opened his mouth, Ilias’ father shouted for them. Both boys flinched. Ilias eyed Castor, delivered the parting shot, “You’re standing in ants,” and ran to catch up with their father.

  * * *

  The days after that were filled with work and Ilias spent most of his time in the herd pens. His mother had sent away the older boys from the neighboring farms who usually helped because she said they were gossiping too much, so there had been that much more work for Ilias, Castor, Amari, and their older sisters and cousins.

  The day before had been wonderful; it had been the first time Ilias had been allowed to help with the sheep-shearing, and his father had spent most of his time patiently teaching Ilias and little supervising Castor.

  Despite that, dinner was disappointing, not that Ilias saw or ate much of it. A y
ear or so ago their cousins had had a crop fail and lost their farm, and had come to live at Finan House. The old stone house was like most country places, and arranged in a square around the atrium, the rooms facing in to the shaded portico. It still looked big to Ilias, but it was only one story tall, and not made to accommodate so many people. Ilias hadn’t seen the inside of the dining room since the others had arrived. There were no boys in their cousin’s family either, and the influx of extra girls put Ilias and Castor even lower in the family hierarchy.

  Now Ilias sat out on the sparse grass in the atrium with Castor, Amari, and his only younger sibling, his sister Taelis, who had just started to walk. “This has nothing in it,” Castor complained, poking at his bowl.

  Ilias grimaced in agreement. The grain porridge, without meat, lentils, berries, or honey, or anything else that might have made it palatable, sat in his stomach like a stone. Niale had taken over the management of the house a season or so ago and she never got the amounts of anything right. “Didn’t they bake bread today?”

  “Yes. I saw Niale making it this morning.” Amari was watching the door under the portico that opened into the family dining room, her brow furrowed. “But there won’t be enough for us.”

  Castor frowned at her. “Why not?”

  “Niale measured the grain wrong, dummy,” Ilias told him, helping Taelis cram porridge into her mouth. She leaned against him, chewing happily, and dripped pasty lumps onto his pants.

  There had been arguing all through dinner, the voices too muted for Ilias to quite make out, so he had been just as glad not to be crammed in the too warm dining room, even if there was better food in there. The spring breeze and lengthening twilight made the atrium cool and pleasant, though no one bothered to fill the stone-bordered fountain from the big cistern anymore. The flowerbeds were all overgrown too, except for the patch where the squash and beans were planted. Some of the other girls were eating at the low table on the opposite end of the portico; Amari should have been with them but she didn’t get on with her siblings or Ilias’ older sisters. “There’s no money,” she said, sighing and poking at her own meal. She wasn’t much older than Ilias but her family’s troubles had made her grow up faster. “Your mother didn’t get as much for the fleece as she thought she would. And Niale’s going to need some of it to buy her husband.”