Ashes of the Sun

by Django Wexler

On the other hand, she wasn’t dead. Not being dead always opens up possibilities.

  She took a moment to berate herself for letting her excitement get the better of her, but only a moment. Maya tried standing up a little straighter, putting some slack into the rope at her wrists, and was craning her head back to see if this could give her any advantage when a door in the side of the cistern opened.

  She knew the man who came in by sight, though they’d never met. Tall, pale-skinned, with a bald dome of a skull. He wore a leather coat with a high fur lining, too hot by far for this time of year, and there was no mistaking that bulbous nose and those bushy eyebrows.

  “Hollis Plaguetouch,” she said, settling back down.

  “They still call”—he paused for a fraction of a second, then tilted his head and continued in a slightly different intonation—“call me that, do they?”

  “I am seizing you on the authority of the Twilight Order,” Maya said. “You stand accused of practicing dhaka. You will have an opportunity to present evidence in your defense.”

  Hollis laughed, loud and sudden. Maya set her jaw, waiting stoically until he’d finished.

  “You are a bold-bold little thing, aren’t you?” His voice was a rich baritone, but he had a strange nervous tic—not an ordinary stutter, but an odd pause that made him sound like a machine with a broken cog. Hollis stepped closer, bushy eyebrows rising as he studied her. “Shall I untie you and submit, then?”

  “That would be a good start,” Maya said. “Though I can’t promise leniency.”

  “What a pity-pity.” Hollis raised an eyebrow. “Let me offer a counterproposal. You tell me how the Order found me and how many of you they have looking.”

  “And what?” Maya said. “You’ll let me live?”

  “No, I’m afraid not-not. But I can promise you won’t be conscious as I tear your body into pieces for spare parts.”

  “Tempting.” A drop of sweat rolled down Maya’s forehead.

  “You will refuse, of course-course. Such a brave girl.” He rested two fingers on her cheek, and Maya fought the urge to lean away. “Fortunately, your cooperation is not necessary. I can change-change you until you want to tell me. Memory and desire are only matters of the flesh-flesh, after all.”

  “That’s a bluff.” Maya swallowed hard. “You may be dhakim, but you’re not a ghoul.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what-what I am.” Hollis’ fingers moved in a line down her chin, forcing her head up and tracing the hollow of her throat down to her collarbone. There was no crude lust in his touch, only a cold evaluation, a butcher turning a cut of meat and deciding how to carve the first steak. “You’ll find out soon-soon enough.”

  Maya’s heart was slamming against her ribs, so hard she thought it might tear free. He can’t do it. He can’t. She could face the prospect of pain, even death, as inevitable risks of service to the Order. But what Hollis described—being turned into something else, something that was her but not—

  Would I remember? Would I still be inside somewhere, the real me, screaming?

  Peasants invoked the Chosen as though they were gods, begging them for favor and protection. The Twilight Order knew better. The Chosen, powerful as they had been, were gone, and there were no gods to answer. But at that moment Maya understood the impulse. Help me. Someone. Jaedia, Marn, anyone, just don’t let him do this.

  Gyre…

  The dhakim stopped, his finger in the center of her chest, resting against the Thing.

  “Interesting.” A cold smile spread across his face. “Very inter-interesting.”

  There was a long silence. Maya tried to think of something to say, some last defiance to spit in his face, but her throat seemed to have swollen shut.

  “I think…” His hand fell to his side, and he stepped back. “I think it is not-not worth risking a disruption. Not now, when we have come so far.” The dhakim shrugged. “I will see you again, never-never fear. And perhaps we will have a more… thorough conversation.” He tilted his head, as though listening to something Maya couldn’t hear. “It appears that our time here is nearly up in any event. Until next time, sha’deia.”

  Next time? Maya stared, uncomprehending, as Hollis spread his arms and smiled beatifically.

  There was a crunch, like breaking bone. Hollis stood stock-still, but something moved behind his head, hidden in his high collar at first, then scaling the top of the dhakim’s bald skull. It was black, spiderlike, with four spindly legs, muscles exposed like a plaguespawn but bones that looked like dark iron. A long bundle of thin tendrils, their barbed tips dripping blood, rapidly retracted into its underside.

  It gathered itself and leapt, reaching the wall of the chamber and hanging from it like an insect. After a moment’s pause, it scuttled upward into an open pipe, feet tink-tinking against the metal as it skittered away. At the same time, Hollis collapsed face-first to the wet stones. There was a large, ugly hole in the back of his neck, flesh peeled away as though something had torn its way out.

  What the fuck is going on? None of it made any sense. Why would a plaguespawn hurt its master? Why would it flee? And what Hollis had said—

  There was a new sound from outside the room, a whistling howl like a rising gale. Jaedia!

  The door slammed open, and one of the thugs she’d seen outside stumbled through. It was the bald one, a short sword in one hand, bleeding heavily from a gash across his thigh. He backed up, lashing out with the weapon. It was intercepted by a line of swirling clouds, condensed into the blade of a haken. When they met, wind screamed a rising note, and the steel sword was sheared into two neat pieces. A moment later, a dozen blades of hardened air swept across the thug, and he exploded in a shower of bones and gore, blood splashing the wall of the cistern.

  Jaedia Suddenstorm stepped into the chamber. She was tall and thin, lithe and flexible as a snake, with sparkling blue eyes and short, spiked hair the color of young leaves. The howl of the wind gradually died away as she lowered her haken, taking in the sight of Hollis’ motionless body.

  “Maya,” she said, in her lilting southern accent. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Maya managed. Though I’m not sure why.

  “Good.” Jaedia turned on her heel, eyes blazing. “Because I am going to skin you alive.”

  After a few moments, Jaedia calmed herself and helped Maya down from the wall, though her expression still promised dire retribution.

  “Honestly,” she said. “How could you be so stupid? I explicitly told you—”

  “There was a girl,” Maya said, rubbing her wrists. “Two men brought her in here, bound and gagged. Did you see her?”

  “Aye,” Jaedia said. “She’s scared to death, but she’ll be fine.” She held out Maya’s haken, and Maya took it gratefully. “What happened to you?”

  “I got caught up fighting those plaguespawn, and one of those men got to me from behind,” Maya said, feeling blood heat her cheeks.

  “A centarch of the Order, knocked down by a twopenny thug?” Jaedia glared. “You have to do better, Maya. When you get your cognomen, I’m not going to be here to pull you out of the fire.”

  “I know.” Maya took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—”

  “I understand.” Unexpectedly, Jaedia stepped forward and wrapped Maya in a hug, something she hadn’t done for years, not since Maya was old enough to be a proper agathios instead of merely a child in her care. Her voice was soft, and for a moment Maya thought there were tears in her eyes. “You have the heart of a proper centarch. I just need to knock a little more sense into your head.”

  Maya said nothing and hugged her back. It felt like a long time before Jaedia finally pulled away, scratching her spiky green hair.

  “What happened to Hollis?” she said, looking down at the dhakim. “You didn’t look like you were in a position to take him on.”

  “I’m not sure,” Maya said. She shuddered at the memory of his exploratory touch, cold and clin
ical. “He… talked like he recognized me.”

  “When he saw your face?”

  Maya shook her head and told the story from the beginning. Jaedia’s frown deepened as she went on, then turned puzzled as Maya explained about the plaguespawn that had—attacked the dhakim? Escaped from him?

  “I don’t know,” Jaedia said when Maya asked. “Never heard of anything like it, in all honesty. You’re sure it stopped when it found…”

  She trailed off, gesturing at Maya’s chest. Maya nodded.

  “That’s doubly strange, then.” Jaedia’s lip twisted. “I need to speak to Baselanthus. The old bastard owes me some answers.” She looked again at the corpse, then up at Maya. “And don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, either. Now, come on. Marn is waiting.”

  Chapter 2

  Deepfire was a city of many fogs, and after three years Gyre was familiar with the peculiarities of each. There was the black fog that issued from the Pit and meant it was time to take in your washing unless you wanted it stained gray. The rare green fog, which crept out of the crevices like a living thing and could kill a child in minutes. The falling fog, which descended in great gray waterfalls from where the cold mountain winds met the rising hot air from the cracked and broken earth, and the rising fog, billowing in tall columns from the sewers and storm drains.

  This last was the most common, and it dominated the streets tonight, as it always did after a rain. It hung in tattered curtains, leaving beaded drops of water on the windows, softening the edges of the streetlights and turning their steady glow into a shifting, uncertain thing. To the east, the fog turned pink and then a sullen crimson, reflecting the glow from the Pit.

  For the third time, Gyre’s hand came up to scratch at his scar, and for the third time he stopped, frustrated, on encountering the etched metal surface of his mask. Why did I ever start wearing the plagued thing? He knew the answer, of course—there were only so many ways for a one-eyed man to hide his identity—but he’d never meant to build a legend. In the taverns of Deepfire, people whispered about Halfmask.

  Idiocy. Even if Yora thought it was useful. He tapped his foot impatiently, until the leathery slap-slap-slap of reptilian footsteps echoed up from the empty street. Finally.

  A moment later two shrouded lanterns came around the corner. They hung at the front and rear of a heavily built coach pulled by a pair of ragged-looking thickheads. A driver with a long, spiked prod sat on the box, poking lackadaisically at the lizard-like beasts, while a half dozen men and women in leather vests with knives and cudgels walked alongside, peering through the fog.

  Six was more guards than they’d counted on. At least we know the cargo must be worthwhile. Old Rottentooth clearly isn’t taking any chances after last time. Gyre waited a few more seconds, until the thickheads were just below him, fingering the stunner. The alchemical bomb didn’t look like much, just a clay oval the size of his fist. Gyre tossed it over the edge of the roof and jammed his hands over his eye.

  The faint sound of breaking pottery was followed immediately by a monstrous crack, as though the carriage had been struck by lightning. The stunner’s flash briefly lit up the street brighter than midday, and Gyre saw the bones of his hands outlined through glowing orange flesh. A moment later, the light faded, and pained screams rose in its wake.

  Gyre blinked a few errant spots from his eye and looked down. At least two of the guards were down, one unconscious on the cobbles and another one writhing and clutching her face. More important, the two thickheads were motionless, bellies pressed against the street and forepaws over their eyes. Ponies or loadbirds might have bolted, but a thickhead’s panic response was to hunker down and let predators break their teeth on its pebbly skin. It would be a few minutes before anyone could persuade the beasts to move. Perfect.

  A rope waited, coiled and ready, on the edge of the roof. Gyre scooped it up, tossed the coil over the edge, then stepped off himself. The cord hissed through his hand as he gripped tighter to slow his fall, and he felt the building warmth of friction even through the iron-studded leather glove. Before it grew uncomfortably hot, his feet touched the cobbles, and he dropped the rope and drew his knives.

  Six guards outside, plus the driver. The driver was the one who’d been knocked out, his skin scorched from the small blast. The closest guard, writhing on the ground, wasn’t a problem. That leaves five. The next nearest, a young man with gray-green hair, had backed against the carriage, waving his cudgel wildly and clutching at one ear. He blinked and tried to say something as Gyre approached, but Gyre’s ears were still ringing from the blast. Not that it matters. The man only had time to gesture briefly with his cudgel before Gyre extended on his right foot into a textbook-perfect lunge and skewered him through the throat. Four.

  That left four, as the young man spun away and painted the side of the carriage with spurting blood. The last one on this side was an older woman with stubby red hair and an angry scar across half her face. She tossed her cudgel aside and drew a long knife as Gyre advanced. Gyre dropped into a fighting crouch, feinted at her right leg, and let her parry and riposte. He twisted under the return blow, his forearm slamming into hers and shoving it out of the way, while his off hand came up and punched his short blade once, twice, three times into her stomach under her ribs. Her knife slipped from her fingers, and when he stepped away she stumbled forward and collapsed onto the cobbles.

  Three. Gyre heard the scrape and grunt of fighting as he rounded the back of the carriage. On the other side, Yora and Harrow had emerged from their hiding place in the alley to engage the three stunned guards. Yora, long leather coat flapping, held two of them off with her flashing, spinning unmetal spear. Harrow had somehow ended up in a grapple with the third, her leg twisted around his as he pressed a forearm against her neck. They staggered together along the length of the carriage like a pair of drunken lovers.

  None of them were looking for Gyre, which made things easy. He stepped in behind the larger of Yora’s two opponents and drove his long blade upward at an angle into the man’s back. As he staggered forward, his companion turned, cudgel swiping desperately to keep this new enemy at bay. Gyre danced out of range, feinted to keep his attention, then turned away as Yora’s spearpoint erupted from the guard’s chest, unmetal edge slashing effortlessly through flesh, bone, and leather. Two and one.

  The guard in Harrow’s grip saw her companions go down, and her eyes went very wide. She said something—too low for Gyre to hear, but Harrow paused, relaxing a fraction. In an instant she was twisting, fingers coming up to tear at his face as she fought to draw the knife at her belt. Before she got there, though, Yora’s spear licked out, catching the woman in the eye and pinning her to the side of the wagon, unmetal passing easily through wood and bone.

  Done. Gyre straightened up from his fighting crouch. Harrow let go of the shuddering body and stepped away, breathing hard. Yora pulled her spear free, letting the dead guard fall to the cobbles, and bent to pick up Harrow’s two-handed axe from where it had fallen. It was a heavy steel weapon, but her arm didn’t tremble as she handed it back to him.

  “There’s a time and a place for mercy, Harrow,” Yora said. “But this isn’t it. Once you’ve decided to kill somebody, make sure you follow through.”

  Harrow gave a nod, brushing lank brown hair off his sweaty forehead. He was eighteen, big and broad-shouldered but still with a hint of teenage gawkiness. He was in love with Yora, like half the tunnelborn his age, and Gyre saw the pain in his face at even this mild rebuke. Idiot boy.

  “Good evening, my friends.” Ibb stepped around from the front of the carriage. He looked as flamboyant as usual; he wore a long leather tunnel coat, like Yora’s, but decorated with flashing bits of silver embroidery, and he added a broad-brimmed hat with one side rolled up in the Khirkhaz style. A long curved sword rode on one hip, and a blaster pistol in a worn holster sat on the other. “No difficulties so far, I take it?”

  “Glad you finally decided to join us.�
�� Yora whipped her spearpoint down, spraying the dripping blood across the cobbles. She was shorter and slighter than her legend indicated, but her frame was corded with muscle, and her orange eyes blazed with enough force to make up for any deficiencies in stature. The frown she directed at Ibb could have spoiled milk, but he absorbed it with the aplomb of long practice.

  “I was in the agreed-on position,” Ibb said mildly. “It’s not my fault Halfmask works so quickly.”

  “We’re not finished yet,” Gyre said. “Let’s make sure we get what we came for before we start congratulating ourselves.”

  “Fair enough.” Ibb hopped up onto the back of the coach and pulled the rear door open, leaning prudently out of the way as he did so. When nothing emerged, he swung back and peered inside. “The chest is here, at least. Thoroughly locked, though.”

  “We can take care of that later,” Yora said. “Harrow, get those thickheads moving.”

  The boy was already at work with the big lizards, clicking his tongue softly and offering a handful of squirming earthworms. The treat had the desired effect, and first one and then the other clambered back to their feet, snorting and shaking their heads at the residual effect of the stunner. Harrow let them lick the worms up with their long, spiked tongues, while Ibb pushed the unconscious driver off the box and picked up the reins.

  Blood was painted across the cobblestones, vivid crimson in the lamplight. Gyre fought the urge to look away from the corpses. They deserved what they got. The woman he’d stabbed in the stomach had managed to crawl several meters before her strength gave out, leaving a slick of gore behind her. They chose to work for the Order and the Republic. They’re a part of the system, just as much as the highest centarch. Once again, Gyre tried to scratch the scar where his eye was missing, and once again the half mask thwarted him. He swore.

  The shrill shriek of whistles cut through the night, echoing weirdly in the fog. Gyre turned, hands dropping to his knives.