Ashes of the Sun

by Django Wexler

  “Thank you,” Maya said stiffly. She hesitated for a moment and then forced herself to add, “And thank you for what you told the Council.”

  “I only told them the truth.”

  “I know,” Maya said. “But you didn’t have to.”

  Tanax was silent, and Maya had no idea what to say.

  “I would have killed you,” he began, haltingly. “On the arena floor. You came at me, and I knew your panoply was broken, and I would have killed you if I could. My master had told me… that I had to win. That you were a traitor.” He swallowed. “It was a lie. Everything he told me was a lie. He was…”

  Maya felt a pang of sympathy. “You weren’t the only one he lied to.”

  “I wish I’d had the chance to talk to him before he left. I just want to ask him…” Tanax shook his head. “Many things, I suppose. But I’m not sure what I expect him to say.”

  “You were doing your duty as a centarch,” Maya said. “I don’t hold it against you.”

  “I was doing as I was ordered,” Tanax said. “That is not the same as my duty.” He paused again, then spoke all in a rush. “I want to come with you.”

  “To come with me?” Maya repeated, shocked. “Why?”

  “My master was determined to destroy Jaedia, I know that much,” Tanax said. “Willing or not, I helped him. I would like to… try to make amends for that. For him.”

  “You’re not responsible for Nicomidi,” Maya said. “No one is suggesting you are.”

  “I know,” Tanax said. “But this is the right thing to do.”

  Maya glared, and Tanax looked away awkwardly.

  “I would also like to know why my master did what he did,” Tanax said. “Even if I cannot undo it. It’s… hard, not understanding. Figuring out what he was trying to accomplish by framing Jaedia seems like a good first step.”

  “I’m not concerned with figuring out Nicomidi,” Maya said. “I just want to help Jaedia.”

  “I know. I won’t get in the way, I swear by the Chosen.”

  She gritted her teeth. “This is my mission. My command. You accept that, or stay behind. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Tanax said, nodding eagerly. “I will accept your orders.”

  Maya chewed her lip. She didn’t doubt Tanax when he said he tried to do what he thought was right; whatever treason Nicomidi had been involved in, she didn’t think he’d known about it. Part of her wanted to shove him away, this young man who’d arrested her, nearly killed her.

  But having another centarch along would be an asset; there was no doubt about that. Especially if there was more to Nicomidi’s pursuit of Jaedia, and they ran into the disgraced Kyriliarch himself. Maya didn’t know if she and Tanax together were capable of taking Nicomidi on, but she wasn’t foolish enough to imagine she could do it alone.

  “Tent,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got your own tent?” She took a deep breath. “Beq and I are sharing, but ours is only big enough for two.”

  “I have my own.” Tanax ventured a smile. “Thank you, Maya. You won’t regret this.”

  “I’m regretting it already,” Maya said as the big door opened and Beq came in. “Now, let’s get moving.”

  Chapter 21

  The basement door was exactly where it had been. Gyre pushed it upward with care and pulled himself up into Lynnia’s workshop.

  The alchemist was hunched over her workbench, perched on the edge of her chair, just where he’d seen her so many times before. Gyre prudently waited until she’d set her mortar and pestle aside before he cleared his throat.

  Lynnia spun in her chair, speed belying her age, snatching a clay alchemical off the desk and raising it over her head. She blinked, eyes adjusting.

  “Who’s there?” she said. “Make a move and I’ll blow us both to the Chosen’s side.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a need to go that far,” Gyre said. “If you don’t want people coming in through the back door, you should put a lock on it.”

  Lynnia’s mouth fell open. Setting the alchemical down, she picked up a glowstone and shook it to life.

  “Gyre?” she said. “Chosen defend. I thought you were dead.”

  “You and almost everyone else in the city,” Gyre said, standing up. “I’d like to keep it that way, if I can.”

  Lynnia got to her feet, raising the glowstone as she shuffled toward him. “I told you never to come back here.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You still working with that Kitsraea?”

  Gyre nodded, and Lynnia gave a snort.

  “Vile little thing, even if she is nice to look at,” the alchemist said. “You’d be better off rid of her, and—” She paused, sucked in her breath. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Ah.” Gyre scratched at the ridge of scars around his left eye socket, the neat new incisions overlaying the childhood wound. It still felt so strange. “I found a replacement.”

  “Is it—” Lynnia leaned closer. “That’s not just some marble. Does it work? Gyre, where did you—”

  “Please,” Gyre said, retreating a little. “There are a lot of questions I can’t answer.”

  “Of course,” Lynnia said. “You and that mad little girl fuck off for parts unknown after turning the city upside down, and then you turn up with a new silver eye in your head. Why would we have any questions?” She turned away, bad leg dragging. “Why did you come here, if you knew I wouldn’t have you?”

  “I need to talk to Sarah. I know she’s staying with you.”

  “Sarah?” Lynnia spun around, suddenly full of fury. “You don’t think you’ve done enough for Sarah already?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Well.” Lynnia huffed. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Whether she’ll see you, I don’t know.” Lynnia paused at the foot of the stair. “You might as well come up to the parlor. Make it easier to pitch you out the door.”

  Gyre smiled to himself and followed her up the tight, winding steps. Entering Lynnia’s parlor felt like stepping into the distant past, for all that it had barely been a few months since Kit’s note had upended his life. The stolid respectability of it—lace cushions, neat dark curtains, polished wooden furniture—felt like a foreign country.

  He settled himself in one of the overstuffed armchairs and waited. Eventually there were footsteps on the main stairs. Sarah moved slowly, as though uncertain of her balance, and Lynnia hovered close behind her.

  “I’ll make you some tea, dear,” Lynnia said when they reached the bottom. “Try not to strain yourself.”

  “Thank you, Lynnia,” Sarah said.

  She made her way to the other armchair and threw herself into it with a sigh. Gyre couldn’t help but wince at the sight of her. Her left arm was gone, barely even a stump remaining at the shoulder, and the wound still thickly swathed in gauze. The left side of her face and what he could see of her neck were covered with angry red welts where sparks from the blaster bolt had landed, already hardening into shiny, coin-shaped scars. She’d lost considerable weight, and her skin hung loose on her bones.

  For all that, though, she smiled when she saw him, eyes alight. “Gyre! It’s so good to see you. We all thought—”

  “That I was dead? Lynnia was saying.” Gyre smiled back. “It’s good to see you too. When I left, you were still with the healers in the Spike. You’re looking—”

  “Like shit?” Sarah laughed. “You don’t have to pretend; I can use a mirror. It’s better than it was a week ago.” She looked down at herself. “Apparently the armor I was wearing saved my life, even if the surgeon did have to spend hours picking bits of broken metal out of my tit. Trade-offs, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gyre said.

  “Why? You didn’t shoot me.” She caught Gyre’s look and leaned forward. “Listen. What happened to us isn’t your fault. It was the risk we all ran, and we knew it. I know that you think you could have helped if you’d been there, but t
hose were centarchs that ambushed us. Probably you’d just be dead too.”

  I could have warned you. Gyre swallowed and forced himself to nod. Sarah watched him curiously, then abruptly sat up straight.

  “Chosen defend, Gyre, your eye! What happened?”

  “Ah.” Gyre brushed his hand over the scars, feeling the hard lump of metal in the abused socket. “It’s a long story—”

  But Sarah was already out of her chair, coming closer and waving her hand from side to side.

  “It focuses!” she said, and laughed with delight. “You can see, can’t you? I’ve never heard of arcana like this. Where did you—”

  Gyre held up a hand. “I can’t tell you much. Anything, really.”

  “Just a hint?”

  “Sorry.”

  She looked at him quizzically for a moment, then shrugged. The movement seemed to pain her, and she wobbled as she made her way back to her chair.

  “Well,” she said, “if you came hoping to get the crew back together, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m about all that’s left.”

  “What about Ibb?”

  “Gone straight and playing the good husband and father, from what I hear. I don’t blame him. He has more to lose than the rest of us.”

  “Has the Republic come after you?”

  She shook her head. “After Raskos fled the city, a bunch of Order people turned up and started going through his records. Whatever they found must have been pretty bad, because they declared a general amnesty. That’s why I’m here instead of rotting in some cell in the Spike.” She scratched idly at the gauze on her stump. “There’s a Legionary commander in charge now, until the Senate appoints a new dux. Some of Yora’s people have been petitioning for more rights for the manufactory workers, and it sounds like something might come of it.”

  “That’s a start, anyway. Yora would have been glad to hear it.”

  “Probably.” Sarah regarded him curiously. “So why are you here, Gyre? You know it isn’t safe, amnesty or not.”

  “I need your help.”

  “My help? What are you doing that a one-armed arcanist would be so useful?”

  “One-armed or not, there’s no one better that I trust. I have a job to do, and I need some equipment.”

  She made a pained sound. “I could give you a few names—”

  “I think it’s got to be a custom build,” he said. “A tricky one.”

  “I’m listening,” Sarah said.

  “Explosives,” Gyre said. “Big ones. Lynnia can provide that part, but the timing is very sensitive.”

  “Her fuses are the best, you know that. Accurate to maybe a quarter of a second. You’re not going to do any better.”

  “I need something more… flexible. A bomb I can set off remotely. Three of them, actually.”

  “Ah.” Sarah raised her eyebrows. “Which means the triggers have to be arcana.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “Probably,” she admitted. “There are plenty of arcana devices that send a signal from one place to another. It’s just a matter of modifying some so they’ll set off the bomb.”

  “Then you can do it.”

  “Maybe.” She looked at her right hand, then at her stump. “I can try. But getting the devices is going to be expensive.”

  “I figured.” Gyre lifted his satchel onto his lap and opened it. Stacks of neatly wrapped thaler notes were piled inside. Sarah’s eyebrows went up even farther. “Will ten thousand be enough to buy what you need?”

  “It should be,” Sarah said.

  “Good. The rest is for you.” Gyre closed the satchel and set it at her feet. “Fifty thousand thalers.”

  There was a long pause.

  “If I asked where you got that kind of money—” Sarah began.

  “I would say that I can’t tell you,” Gyre said, smiling slightly.

  “Though I can’t help but think of Kit’s mysterious client, who also seemed to have cash to burn.” Sarah nudged the satchel with her foot. “I told you I don’t blame you, Gyre. You don’t have to buy my forgiveness.”

  “What about Yora’s?” Gyre said quietly.

  “Yora would… understand.” Sarah looked uncomfortable. “Probably.”

  “I don’t suppose it matters.” Gyre let out a breath. “Take it. Help the tunnelborn; don’t let the shelters close. Keep plenty for yourself, too.”

  “I should probably argue.” Sarah lifted the satchel and peered inside. “But I won’t.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “A couple of days,” Sarah said. “I’ll start as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Gyre said. He got to his feet. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “Good luck, Halfmask.” She grinned. “I suppose we can’t call you that anymore, can we? Maybe it’s time you had a proper cognomen.”

  “I fought like the plague to keep anyone from sticking one on me,” Gyre said. “They were always Gyre Lackeye or Gyre Scarface or something awful like that.”

  “Gyre Silvereye, then? I like the sound of it.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Gyre gave her a shallow bow and slipped into the kitchen. Lynnia was waiting by the stove, two mugs of tea in front of her.

  “Fifty thousand thalers,” the alchemist said, her voice flat. “That won’t buy the girl a new arm, you know. Or bring Yora back.”

  “I know. But it’s the best I can do.”

  “That’s enough for her to get away from”—she waved vaguely—“this sort of thing. Stay on the right side of the authorities.”

  “I hope so.”

  “So after this, you stay away, understand me? From both of us.”

  “I understand,” Gyre said. “After this, you’ll never see me again.”

  The inn Gyre and Kit were staying at was aboveground, but only just, part of the narrow strip of buildings right up against the edge of the crater, clustered where the main avenues dove into the earth. It was named, for reasons lost to history, the Mushroom’s Daughter, and it was tucked away at the back of a twisting alley lined with cheap stables, cheaper cookshops, and a few ramshackle dwellings.

  Not the best part of town, certainly, and not a place where city authorities bothered with streetlamps. The sun had slipped behind the western mountains by the time Gyre returned, and the shadows had reached out across the street to swathe the cobbles in darkness. Up above, the tips of the Shattered Peaks still gleamed yellow-gold in the last of the sun.

  Gyre Silvereye. It definitely had a good sound to it. Better than Gyre Lackeye, anyway.

  He wondered what Sarah would say if he told her that being able to see was the least of what the new eye could do. He no longer needed nighteye, for example—in spite of the darkness of the alley, if he closed his real eye he could see as though it were broad daylight. But the true power of the thing went beyond that, or so Naumoriel had promised.

  Gyre focused his mind, as the old ghoul had instructed, concentrating his attention on the second implant, which sat under another fresh incision by the base of his skull, below his left ear. He could only just feel it with his finger, and once the cut faded there’d be no outward sign of it. When he gave it his full attention, however, it grew warm, and after a second something shifted with a click he could feel through his skull. His eye gave a whirr, and the world changed.

  Everything seemed… slow, suddenly. Almost weightless. And objects weren’t simply themselves anymore, but were surrounded by a dense cloud of translucent duplicates stretching in the direction they were moving. These were possibilities, Naumoriel had told him, the shadow a moving object cast into the future. Where it would be one second, two seconds, three seconds from now. What would happen if it turned, collided, bounced.

  At first it had given him no more than a splitting headache. But he’d practiced, as the old ghoul had instructed, and slowly he’d been able to make sense of the crowded shadow-world. Now he bent, picked up a stone, and flicked it into the air, watching its
shadows race ahead of it to trace out a perfect parabola. He hurled a second pebble sideways, its path ricocheting off the front of a shuttered stable before precisely intersecting the first rock as it came down. He watched it happen, shadows growing more solid until the two stones came together with a click and fell back to the cobbles.

  If all else fails, at least I can make my living in a circus. Just not for very long. On his right hip, he wore the energy bottle, and he could feel it growing warm, too, as its power crackled through his body to fuel his new abilities. On his other hip, in its leather sheath, Naumoriel’s final gift seemed to hum with anticipation.

  Gyre let his concentration lapse, and the world of shadow and possibility faded away. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his head throbbed, but not as badly as it had after his earliest practices. He paused for a moment, breathing deep, until the pain subsided a little, then turned the last corner and headed for the Mushroom’s Daughter.

  The inn was marked by a sign showing a busty young woman wearing a red-and-white mushroom cap and very little else. Light streamed out from its windows, and smoke gushed from several chimneys. As he got closer, he heard voices emerging as well, belting out an old scavenger’s song in not-very-good unison:

  First time down she didn’t know what she’d find

  Second time down she thought she’d lose her mind

  Third time down she took me by the hand

  Fourth time down she told me I was grand

  Show me the way, tunnel girl, show me the way

  Down to your secret tunnel

  It continued, in much the same vein and at about the same level of subtlety. Gyre did his best to wipe the grimace from his face before he pushed through the curtained doorway.

  The common room, facing the street, was packed with people, the warmth of so many bodies making Gyre instantly break out in sweat. It smelled of the press of humanity, and also of piss and spilled beer. The tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, and the crowd ringed a clear space wide enough for a dozen people to dance while the rest of the room kept up the tune.

  A couple of dancers stumbled off, arm in arm, both covered in sweat. Behind Gyre, a young woman dragged a hesitating young man onto the floor, with roars of laughter and approval from the crowd. Someone emptied a drink over the boy’s head, which stunned him long enough that the girl pulled him away from the safety of the press and started turning him around and around. The next verse was already well along, detailing the adventures of a scavenger boy and the improbable long, hard objects he insisted on bringing on his expeditions.