Forty-two Blades stood guard in the palace at any given time. Most held the entrances to the Pharus’ private wing, the wing belonging to his concubines, and the row of rooms reserved for Lady Callista Vinaus and the other Elders of the Blades. By tradition, the highest-ranking Blades were kept close at hand to provide council to the Pharus in time of war.
The rest of the entrances, exits, and chambers were guarded by Indomitables. It was seen as an honor for the military caste to be chosen to guard the Palace of the Golden Eternity.
To Issa, the “honor” felt more like a burden, but she wouldn’t echo Kellas’ sentiments aloud. Hell, she’d request the duty if it meant Kellas suffered. The Dhukari had earned her enmity. Though, she had to admit humiliating him on the training yard made her feel a lot less hostile toward him. Perhaps, one day, he’d pull the spear out of his arse long enough to remember that they were all chosen by the Long Keeper. That made them equals.
Issa stifled a yawn and shuffled her weight to her other foot. The warmth in the palace added to her fatigue to make her feel drowsy.
That was one of the first things she’d noticed when taking up her guard position. The night air had a hint of chill, not quite an icy bite but cool enough that most people would wear a shawl or cloak. But the air within the palace bordered on hot and stuffy.
Etai’s remark on the temperature earned a lengthy explanation from Kellas on the Serenii-built machines that harnessed the heat from geysers deep within the mountain’s core. Issa had wanted to know more, but the Dhukari’s tone was so infuriating she’d been happy when he finally shut his mouth.
Right now, Issa wanted to shut her eyes and let sleep claim her. The warmth and her exhaustion from the day dragged her toward slumber with an unrelenting determination. Issa shifted from foot to foot, blinked her eyes hard, and even slapped herself to stay awake. Despite her best efforts, she found her head lolling on her chest, her eyelids drooping shut.
A hand on her arm snapped her awake. She turned to find Etai staring at her, concern written in her expression.
“Go, do a sweep of the corridors,” the Mahjuri girl told her. “Kellas and I will hold the door.”
“Yes, desert your post, lowborn,” Kellas sneered.
Issa resisted the urge to punch him. “Not deserting, doing a patrol.”
Tannard hadn’t explicitly stated that she couldn’t leave, especially if she intended to search the corridors for anything amiss. Yet she had little doubt the Invictus would punish her if he found out.
If he found out. She could trust Etai, just as she could trust Kellas to get her in trouble at any opportunity.
So what’s worse? Falling asleep at my post or patrolling the corridors for a few minutes?
Finally, she decided to go with Etai’s suggestion.
“Thank you.” She nodded to Etai. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Her boots clacked on the gold-tiled floor as she strode down the corridor. The weight of her armor and the sword resting on her shoulder tugged at her sore, tired muscles, but she forced herself into a steady march to push back her fatigue.
She scanned the corridors as she went, her eyes roaming over the colorful paintings of Shalandran history splashed across the walls, the ornate details etched into the columns and pillars, and the images frescoed onto the domed ceilings. She had never seen so much wealth in one place—it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy it for a few minutes while she patrolled.
A part of her wished she could head outside to the Terrestra, the gardens that spanned the eastern side of the palace’s tier. The Terrestra was one of the marvels of Shalandra, reserved exclusively for those Dhukari and Alqati fortunate enough to receive a private invitation from the Pharus, the Keeper’s Council, or the highest-ranking Blades.
One day, she told herself. One day I’ll be able to visit them anytime I want.
She turned down one of the side corridors, which connected the kitchens to the main entrance of the Council Chambers. A cluster of servants pushing wheeled trollies laden high with pastries, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and other delicacies hurried past. Like all servants, they moved with eyes downcast, shoulders stooped. Issa took little notice of them as she patrolled, but just as she was about to turn the corner, something glinted in the moonlight. For a moment, she thought she’d been imagining it. Yet, as she turned back to scrutinized the figures, she realized how un-servant-like they appeared.
Too broad in the shoulders, and those boots. The Pharus’ servants wore high-strapped sandals so as not to scuff the soft golden tiles. Only Blades and Indomitables were permitted to wear boots in the palace.
That’s not right.
“Hold!” Issa called after them. “Stop where you are.”
The servants seemed not to hear her, which only confirmed her suspicions. No one could miss her voice echoing through the high-ceilinged corridors.
“Stop!” she shouted. Every trace of fatigue faded as adrenaline coursed through her body.
The rearmost figure glanced back over his shoulder, and Issa’s heart stopped as she caught sight of the tattoo inked into his bare forearm—the same strange crescent moon and star figure she’d spotted on the Cultivator’s Tier near the Keeper’s Crypts.
Without hesitation, Issa raised her sword and charged. “Assassins!” she shouted. “Assassins in the palace!”
With a growled curse, the man threw back his cloak, revealing metal-studded leather armor, and drew a long sword from within the cart—the source of the metallic glint. He tore his sword free and turned to face her charge. His companions, more than a dozen, drew their own weapons.
Issa raced forward, heedless of the fact that the assassins outnumbered her. She’d been charged to guard the Pharus and the Keeper’s Council—not even a horde of demons would stop her from fulfilling that oath.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Evren’s mind raced. He couldn’t go back; it would cost him too much time backtracking to Trader’s Way. The only way he’d get to Killian’s and return to Suroth’s mansion was forward.
His lessons with the Hunter flashed through his thoughts. In addition to the art of combat, the assassin had taught him the tricks of disguise. The Hunter’s skills enabled him to walk straight into his enemies’ strongholds or distract them as he studied their defenses. He’d always preferred to rely on cunning and false-facing rather than brute force.
Evren had relished those lessons far more than the bare-handed and armed combat sessions. During his years on the streets, he’d picked up a few tricks that helped him stay unnoticed among dense crowds. Yet his training with the Hunter had taught him a whole new parcel of skills.
“The key to a successful disguise is belief,” the Hunter had emphasized. “Believe that you are who you say you are and your target will as well.”
The Hunter’s facades typically included a false face—once, he’d required alchemical masks, until he’d discovered his strange shape-shifting abilities. Evren had neither Bucelarii skills nor the alchemical flesh required. He could, however, do a few things to change his appearance.
Crouching, Evren scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it onto his face. He just needed enough to slightly alter the shape of his cheekbones, nose, and chin. A bit of dirt rubbed around his mouth saw to that—similar to the way the women of Voramis contoured their faces using a plethora of cosmetics.
Next, he removed his red and gold headband on the off-chance someone had spotted it as he fled. Bare-headed, he went from a highly-placed servant to one of the Kabili slaves. He changed his posture as well, letting his shoulders droop and adopting the weary walk of a laborer. Face downcast, clothes askew, he moved in a tired shuffle toward the thugs.
His gut clenched, but he forced himself to keep moving at a steady pace, never lifting his head to glance at them. None of the four thugs had seen him back in the alley, so their orders were likely to be on the lookout for someone matching his description. Doubtless they’d be looking for a furtive-looking mark rath
er than just one more bare-headed Kabili youth. As long as he didn’t show fear at their presence or appear like the spy they sought, he wouldn’t arouse their attention.
His heart leapt as the sound of booted feet echoed from behind him. A glance down Death Row revealed a patrol of black-armored Indomitables marching at a quick-step up from the East Gate. The thugs reluctantly cleared out of the guards’ path and took up position on the far side of the road.
Evren seized the opportunity and quickened his step. Not enough to appear hurried, but just enough that he slipped past the thugs under cover of the Indomitable patrol. The moment he passed through the gate to the Cultivator’s Tier, he ducked out of sight of the watching thugs and set off at a run up Death Row.
The guards at the gate to the Artisan’s Tier fixed him with stern glares, but they were distracted by the arrival of a Dhukari’s litter descending to the Cultivator’s Tier. Evren used that moment of inattention to slip past.
He raced toward the Artificer’s Courseway and turned west, heading toward the side street where he’d find Killian’s smithy in the shadows of the cliff that bordered the Artisan’s Tier’s northern edge. When he reached Smith’s Alley, he paused long enough to glance up and down the street to be certain no one followed him, then ducked into the cacophony of hammers ringing off metal.
Three boys, two around his own age and one a couple of years younger than Hailen, worked the bellows and anvils in the smithy, but Evren saw no sign of the blacksmith.
“Where’s Killian?” Evren demanded of the nearest Mumbler.
The boy shrugged. “Dunno,” was his only reply before he turned back to pumping air over the glowing coals.
Evren ground his teeth. “Listen, I have something important that Killian needs to know now.”
The boy looked up at him, his expression blank. After a long moment, he called out, “Serias, you know where Killian’s at?”
“No,” called the youngest boy. He wore a red Earaqi headband and looked as if he hadn’t seen a decent meal in his life. “Heard him say he was headed out but didn’t say where or when he’d be back.”
“There’s your answer,” the first boy said. “I can pass the message on, if you want. Or you can wait.”
Evren fixed the boy with a hard stare. He had the same hard-eyed, wary appearance of every Mumbler, but looks meant little on the streets. Some of the kindest, friendliest faces he’d seen hid all manner of vices and villainy. He had no idea if Snarth was working with the Syndicate alone, or if he had others within Killian’s Mumblers also double-dealing. He wouldn’t risk it.
“I’ll wait.” He settled onto a nearby stool.
The minutes seemed to drag on as Evren sat, impatient for Killian’s return. His stomach twisted in knots when he shot a glance at the sky. His detour to follow Snarth had cost him close to two hours, and it had taken him nearly twice as long to evade Annat’s thugs and return to the smithy. It could be close to the second or third hour after noon by now. He’d have to leave soon if he wanted to return to Suroth’s mansion in time to warn Lady Briana’s bodyguards of Samall’s treachery.
Finally, after half an hour, Evren could wait no more. “I’ve got to go, but the moment Killian returns, tell him I’ve urgent news.” Right now, Hailen was his priority. He’d still have time to get back to Suroth’s mansion and speak with the bodyguards before nightfall. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The boy nodded. “Will do.”
Evren hurried from the smithy and rushed east, back toward Death Row. It took him the better part of a half-hour to reach the broad avenue that led up to the higher tiers, and every moment spent dodging a wagon or slipping around a gaggle of basket-carrying shoppers only added to his worry.
Anxiety thrummed within him as he spotted a dense cluster of people crowding the road ahead of him. His instincts, honed over years on the streets, warned that this wasn’t a typical crowd gawking at some spectacle or listening to a religious tirade. Instead, this was a dangerous beast: an angry throng.
Crowds could be volatile and unpredictable, changing from mild-mannered and placid one moment to seething, hate-filled, even violent the next. The most passive gathering could become aggressive and hostile with a single word or action. It took just one inciting incident to turn a group of law-abiding citizens into a bloodthirsty mob.
Evren recognized the temperament of the crowd at once. They were angry, shouting, pressing toward whatever held their attention or attracted their ire. Any second, things could turn far uglier and break out into savagery. With a crowd of this size, easily five or six hundred men and women wearing the red and black headbands of the city’s lowest castes, it could become a riot in the space of minutes.
He had to get through the crowd now before it turned violent. If it ignited into a brawl, he’d never get past in time to reach the Keeper’s Tier before dark.
Gritting his teeth, he slithered through the crowd as fast as he could without jostling or elbowing too many people out of his way. Even one wrong shove could be the spark that lit the fuse of the throng’s fury. Most of the people he passed were too focused on shouting at the line of black-armored soldiers guarding Death Row that they barely paid attention to him, though a few hurled angry curses at his retreating back. Evren ignored them and kept pushing, struggling, slipping through any gaps he could find.
Come on, come on! Fingers of panic crept into his brain. He could feel each second passing by too quickly. He’d never make it to the mansion in time, not at this pace. Yet he couldn’t move any faster through the densely packed throng. It felt like swimming upstream against a current determined to sweep him away, suck him under.
An iron fist gripped his heart and squeezed the air from his lungs. The emotions seething within the mob thickened the air until Evren was gasping, clawing for each breath. It took all his willpower to keep moving, keep searching for the holes in the crowd. He had to get through!
As he approached the front of the crowd, he found his progress slower, the people packed tighter together. The sound of their rhythmic chanting grew deafening.
“Child of Secrets, Child of Gold,
Child of Spirits, bring the judgement foretold!”
Evren’s brow furrowed. They’re shouting those words written on the walls. He had no idea what the words meant or why the crowd would chant them, but he could worry about that later. Right now, he had to focus on getting out of this throng in one piece.
It seemed an eternity before he burst free of the crowd. Sucking in a great breath, he stumbled toward the Indomitables. The line of men stood steady, their man-high, seven-sided shields planted firmly on the stone street. Their faces were grim, yet a hint of nervousness flashed in their eyes as they studied the angry throng.
“I need to get through!” Evren shouted at the nearest soldier, though the angry chants drowned out his words.
“Back in line, Kabili!” roared an Indomitable. “I won’t tell you twice!”
Evren’s brow furrowed, but before he had time to react, someone shoved him from behind. Thrown off balance, he lurched forward, right at the line of Indomitables. He didn’t have time to see the vicious strike, much less dodge it. Pain exploded in the side of his skull. One moment he was on his feet, the next he lay on the ground, his head ringing and the world spinning dizzily around him.
Gasping, Evren blinked away the stars whirling in his vision and pushed himself up onto one knee. He hit me!
Anger pushed away some of the vertigo as he pressed a hand to the wound on his forehead. Blood trickled from a cut right beneath his scalp. Yet, a part of him realized that something was off. His mind struggled to understand what it was. The skin was severed but his skull hadn’t been crushed. He prodded the bare flesh of his forehead.
Bare flesh! Suddenly, he realized why the Indomitable had called him slave and struck him. He’d taken off his red-and-gold headband to evade the thugs’ notice and forgotten to replace it. Only the Kabili slaves went around Shalandra bare-head
ed.
His fingers were clumsy, his movements jerky as he pulled out the headband and knotted it around his forehead.
All around him, the shouts of the crowd turned ugly, threatening. Fruits, vegetables, even a few metal and clay trinkets rained down around Evren, some landing dangerously close to him and the Indomitables. Even in his disoriented state, Evren recognized that it would only take one hit on a guard’s shield or helmet to turn things ugly.
Headband in place, he staggered upright and stumbled left, away from the Indomitable that had struck him. A few paces down the line, he tried again.
“Please!” he shouted, and motioned to his headband. “My master will be expecting me.”
The Indomitables before him exchanged glances. “Hurry!” called one and beckoned for Evren to pass.
Gasping, Evren stumbled through the gap and away from the raging crowd. Relief flooded him, followed a moment later by a surge of acid to the back of his throat. He recognized the symptoms of a minor concussion—he’d taken more than his fair share of blows to the head during his days bare-handed fighting in the Master’s Temple. Yet he swallowed the rising vomit and forced himself to stagger onward up the hill.
A dull throbbing engulfed the entire right side of his face. He winced and wiped blood away from his forehead, but the touch set the world spinning once more. A wave of dizziness seized him and he was forced to find a seat at the edge of Death Row for fear of collapsing. He breathed heavily, sweat streaming down his face, and clenched his jaw against the nausea.
Hailen’s face spun through the dizzying images before his eyes. Smiling, bright, friendly, those strange violet eyes of his sparkling with mischief. Evren couldn’t let anything happen to Hailen. The Hunter and Kiara would never forgive him; Evren would never forgive himself.
Trial of Stone Page 33
