Luma took a spot on the bench. "I need time to think. This all fits together, I just have to assemble the pieces ..."
"In that case, I'll take a few nods," said the gnome, doffing his cloak and rolling it up. He placed it under his head as a pillow and lay sideways on the bench, knees tucked up to his chest. "Last night presented me with few occasions for sleep."
Luma's thoughts were soon accompanied by the gnome's snoring. She counted a dozen of the fire fountain's cycles, then another, before a bandy-legged, barrel-chested figure stepped over the bench across from her. As the fountain reached its height, he threw off his ragged, undone tunic and exposed his tattooed chest to it. He moved close enough for its flames to lick at him. His flesh burned, sizzling and popping, but healed just as quickly.
Catching sight of Luma, and then Noole, he advanced, head bobbing like a pigeon's. A globe of flame sprang up around his right hand. Luma vaulted the bench, putting it between her and the fire magician, and readied her sickle. "Noole!" he called. "What has she done to you?"
Noole jolted awake. "No, no, she's with us."
The magician squinted doubtfully at Noole, then at Luma. With a whoosh, the aureole of flame around his hand disappeared. "She was snooping into your business, before."
Noole patted him on the back. "A misunderstanding, my friend. All has been resolved."
"What do you want with me?" The magician drifted back toward the flame.
"You were saying before, Hendregan, that you hear a voice that tells you to burn people. That when you do not satisfy it, it grows louder and louder, until you are fit to explode."
"I said that?"
"You did, my friend." Noole tried to move his way, but faltered in the rippling heat. "You also said that you do not like to burn just anyone. That they must deserve it."
Hendregan rubbed his ink-stained head. The tattoos appeared to undulate in response to the movement. "That is the sort of thing I would say ..."
"Well, my friend, we may have found people who do deserve your wrath. Very much."
"What did they do?"
Noole gestured to Luma. "Her half-brothers and half-sisters tried to murder her. She wishes to find out why, to see who else might have put them up to it. And then ..."
The tips of Hendregan's jester-like shoes bobbled as he walked over to her. "They did that to you?"
"And came near to succeeding," Luma said.
"Your family?" Hendregan asked.
"Yes."
Hendregan sat down next to her, knees pointed skyward. "My family is also strange. But they wouldn't do that."
Noole touched his shoulder. "Before we confront them, we must understand what they're up to. If we are to give you this chance, you must make us a promise. Yes, Hendregan?"
"What promise?"
"You mustn't sent anyone on fire until we ask it of you."
Hendregan rubbed his fingers together. "I'll try to keep that promise."
"Good," said Noole.
"I always try to keep that promise."
Luma stood, pulling Noole aside. "You're joking, yes?"
"He's a misfit, to be sure. But pointed at the right target ..."
The fountain flared; Hendregan cackled, then, in a muttered undertone, seemed to speak to it.
"Luma, my circle includes a number of dangerous men. Of these, Hendregan here is the most reliable."
Luma scratched at one of her facial scars, which had begun to itch. "How so?"
"Of all of their various goals and intentions, his is the simplest. In case you should forget it, it's written on his face."
"At No-Horn's, he callously killed a half-dozen men."
"Then let's make sure his next rage vents itself at the guilty."
"I can't believe I'm entertaining this."
"Look at it the other way. With your enemies, who would be so reckless as to place his trust in you, save for fringe-dwellers and madmen?"
Luma set her jaw and approached the magician. "Are you wizard or sorcerer?"
"Yes," Hendregan answered.
Luma cut short a sigh. "You must not only try not to burn people until we ask. You must succeed. Do you understand that?"
"I do. I should tell you this, though: some tell me I'm insane."
"I told you that," said Noole.
"Well then," said Hendregan. "Where are we going?"
Chapter Fifteen
Rag's End
Luma set off alone, heading down into Lowcleft. She ducked past jugglers, drummers, a storyteller declaiming an old yarn about the Red Mantis cult, and a blind illusionist's display of dancing lights. The sight of a Hellknight squad gave her pause; when she saw they were busy harassing a troupe of Varisian mummers, she breezed boldly past them. She found Garatz at the Old Sword and beckoned him to a quiet corner. He stood and instead ushered her out of the tavern. He turned a corner and leaned against a wall, winded.
"You can't poke your head in there no more," he said.
"Someone came around asking," said Luma.
"Ulisa. She was tight-lipped as ever, not quite coming out and saying it, but it was you she was after. And any of us who had helped you."
"I won't endanger you further." Luma walked away.
He hobbled after her. "I never said I was afraid," he growled. "I never got the full account from you before. You're in trouble with the squad, aren't you?"
"You could say that."
"Your sister's manner, I didn't like it. You see your father?"
"Thank you for telling me to go to him."
"I'd never open my mouth about this. Not until now. But there's always been a wrongness in them. Your sisters and brothers, I mean. I never could say why. Randred, as far as he was concerned, they could never put a foot wrong, but the rest of us could see different...A father's supposed to look on his children with pride, isn't he? You can't fault him for that."
"I don't."
"They haven't hurt him, have they?"
"I can't get him out of there all on my own."
"And you can't go to the city guard when they think you murdered Khonderian."
"I have to figure out all of that before I can move, and hope it's not too late. This is why I've come here. You still hear the scuttlebutt, yes?"
"Sure."
"Any Shoanti sightings? Preferably Priza, but I'll take whatever you've heard."
"Come back in a couple hours," Garatz told her. "No, wait. Here's too hot. Remember the olive press, across from Frehgan's smithy?"
"In Keystone," Luma nodded. "I'll be there."
Luma whiled the time scouting for a hideout. She walked west, into the Marches, home to simple traders and ordinary folk. At its rougher edges, near the city walls, she might find a shack to rent. City guards rarely ventured there: its people were neither rich enough to warrant their protection nor desperate enough to require arresting. In their place, acolytes of various temples did their best to fill the vacuum of authority. The fortunes of House Derexhi would mean nothing to them, nor would the desires of the lord-mayor or his men. If the safety of anonymity awaited her anywhere in Magnimar, it would be here.
She let the citysong guide her to a narrow lane, one she had never seen before. Its name bubbled up from the depths of memory: Bent Rib Alley. It ended in a cul-de-sac, where a pair of corpulent men sweated and cursed, hauling bundles of worn clothing from a teetering hovel. Luma approached them, and before she knew it had rented herself a hideout.
Checking the sun's position, she saw that she'd left herself little time to make the rendezvous with Garatz. The citysong helped her find the fastest route.
"Rag's End," said Garatz. "There's an old storehouse, looks to be abandoned. There's a tunnel dug underneath it. You remember Saian Logos?"
"Father sacked him for extorting extras from clients."
"He's now collecting debts in Rag's End. Says he went in there looking for a scarper and found he'd stepped into a nest of savages. He turned tail, throwing axes whistling past his ears." Garatz produced
a scrap of parchment marked with nigh-unintelligible scrawls. "This is the map he drew me."
Luma looked at it, matching the lines to her mental map of the city. "I see where this is," she said. She departed without further word. With Garatz, none was needed.
∗ ∗ ∗
The storehouse had suffered a collapse of its south-facing wall; its roof sloped down toward the gaping hole. Rats surged over a debris pile and into the structure. A rusted chain looped through the handles of its wooden bay doors. Its lock had been painted black to disguise its newness.
Luma waved Noole and Hendregan closer. She addressed the wizard, or sorcerer, or whatever he was. "I don't suppose you sideline in lockpicking?"
Hendregan wrapped his fingers around one of the handles. They glowed from within, igniting the wood. It charred, turning black and then white. Hendregan brushed the cinders away, lifted the chain, and made as if to toss it aside. Noole took it from him and lowered it soundlessly to the ground.
Luma pushed the door open and ventured in. Her footfall fell on a loose floorboard, levering it up. Gradually reducing the pressure, she brought it back down without a noise. Testing the floorboard next to it, she found it just as loose.
The storehouse consisted of a single room, interspersed by vertical support beams. At its center, about ten yards from the door, a circular railing made from old metal tubes lashed together thrust up from below. This could only be the entrance to the tunnel Saian Logos's story described.
Its inhabitants had clearly removed the nails from some or all of the floorboards, turning them into a simple yet effective alarm. Perhaps they left a path for themselves, leaving a few of the boards selectively in place. More likely they banged across it each time they entered the tunnel. If they came in this way at all: there could be another way in that Luma hadn't spotted.
"There's no way across without making noise," she said, her voice low. "Let's go." She ran, with Noole deftly following. Hendregan waited till the two of them had knocked boards out of place, then picked his way across the floor, stepping on the uneven ground they exposed.
Two shaggy heads popped up from the tunnel entrance. Arrows flew at the intruders. "Move aside!" Hendregan called. Luma veered to the left; Noole, to the right. A bead of flame grew in Hendregan's hand, then grew to a fist-sized globe. With an overhand hurl, he launched it into the air. It grew as it hurtled toward the railing. The archers ducked out of sight just before the ball enveloped it. The flames kept expanding until they filled half the room. Hot cinders blew everywhere as the fireball consumed the floorboards around the tunnel entrance, leaving a perfect circle of burned matter. Little remained of the railings; the leather straps had burned away, dropping most of the metal pieces into the hole. A few spars, red with absorbed heat, remained.
"We're here to talk, not to fight," Luma called.
A reply in shouted Shoanti instructed her on what she ought to do to herself.
Hendregan stepped nearer the hole. "Hole-dwellers!" he called. "How big is your hole?"
They did not answer.
"My next fireball I'll drop down into your hole. Unless it is very, very big, flame will fill it up, crisping you all. So come out and let's be friends."
Harsh whispers followed. Hendregan loudly began his next incantation.
The barbarian lord Priza rose from the tunnel entrance. "Derexhi!" he spat.
Luma stepped forward. "I've come to ask you questions. If your answers satisfy, we'll leave you in peace."
"Spoken like a true oppressor."
Luma tossed him the emblem, which she'd glued back together. "This is yours, I take it?"
Priza caught it reflexively. As he studied it, his demeanor changed, fury giving way to bafflement. "Mine? This is a fake."
"How so?"
He waved her closer; without hesitation, she stepped up. Priza weighed the emblem in his hand. "First, we don't make our emblems from plaster. Each man carves his own, from wood. Every slip of his knife he infuses with his righteous yen for freedom. This was made from a mold. A copy of a brave man's ardor. It is nothing."
"Why should I believe you?"
"I don't care if you do. True words may enter Chelish ears, but they soon fall out." He turned the emblem in his hands. "You will not believe what a savage tells you. So go to any of the so-called scholars who entomb our ways in their dead and empty books. Ask them about the seven tribal sigils painted here, and why two of them are wrong."
"While I have a fire magician with me, why don't you spare me the trip?"
Snorting, Priza pointed to the swirl representing the wind clan. "The ensign of the Tamir-Quah clan is reversed. No Shoanti would make this mistake." He tapped at the spire emblem. "Not for a dozen years have we of the Magnimar street clan honored the sign of the traitorous monolith-worshipers. The Shundar-Quah we expelled from our ranks, when they tried to sell us out to your fat pig of a lord-mayor."
"Where the lord-mayor is concerned, we share an opinion," said Luma. "You wildmen are as often at war with one another as with us. Can I be sure this didn't come from a rival gang?"
"I tell you, no Shoanti would make this. Where did you get it?"
"At a manor in Grand Arch."
He tossed the emblem back to her. "And what led you there?"
"Suspicious characters were seen there, several weeks ago."
"That is a Chelish answer: it replies to the question, without saying anything."
"Why do you care, Priza?"
"You tell us that we are the victims of another plot, then expect us to shuffle away and mind our place?"
"Victims?"
Priza spat. "Do you play at stupidity, or are you truly blind? Again and again your kind has blamed its crimes on us. Whoever made this left it there deliberately, to lead you to us. You Chelish will believe anything when our names are invoked."
"They didn't leave this for our benefit," Luma said. "They made more than this one emblem. We recovered it, broken and discarded."
"Then there is some greater crime than squatting they mean to pin on us. What is this case of yours, Derexhi?"
"What do I gain by telling you?"
"My axe," Priza said.
"Your axe?"
"You are not here with your vaunted brothers and sisters, are you, Derexhi? Instead you come to me with only a gnome and a lunatic to back you. Your people have cast you out, haven't they? As we cast out the mealy-mouths of the Spire Clan."
"You're guessing all that?"
"We are not so savage that news does not reach us."
"My affairs are none of your concern," said Luma.
"You came here seeking my help, did you not? Why, when I offer more than you ask, do you now refuse it?"
"I distrust your motives."
"It is one thing to be blamed for what we have done. When a warrior conducts an honest raid, reprisals are to be expected."
"Honest raid?" Luma scoffed.
"Honest raid indeed," said Priza, warming up to the subject. An attitude of bemused patience settled on his confederates, as if they were used to indulging his lectures. "This land belonged to us, and to our Varisian friends, before you Chelish came and took it. You slaughtered us, enslaved us—"
Luma set her feet apart. "Maybe the Korvosans did that, but not us."
"Korvosans, Magnimarians—it is all the same. Put your backs against the wall, and you reveal yourselves as the same Chelish devils who slit our throats and dashed our children against the rocks."
"I'm trying to be civil, but I'll not let you call me Korvosan."
Priza laughed, rubbing his shaved scalp and grabbing the base of his ponytail. "Magnimarians are so different, then? After the Korvosans came to murder us—not as honorable raiders, but as exterminators—your ancestors beckoned us. You would shelter us, you said. Protect us from those terrible Korvosans, who were oh so different from you." Priza looked back to his fellows, who laughed obligingly at his mocking impression of a mincing fat-purse. "You wanted our help against th
em, and were glad to get it. But when we got here, we saw what your generosity meant. We were to stoop and bow, as your dogsbodies, your lackeys, groveling for coppers. When we tried to join your guilds, we were refused. We tried to become you, and were jeered at, spat upon, cast aside. So yes, we resorted to the way of the plains. We took what you would not give. Fought when we were hungry. As justice allows."
"Barbarian justice, you mean."
"If you are civilized, I am proud to be a barbarian. But what I will not be is a scapegoat. When others commit crimes in our name, it is we who face the raids of Hellknights and city guards. Not to mention the accursed Derexhi. And it is our weakest—our women, our children, our old men—who will suffer the force of their blows. Do you deny that?"
"My family has never beaten the helpless."
"Your family," Priza laughed. "Perhaps not. But they aren't your family anymore, are they? About you there is the look of a wounded animal. The scars that adorn you—they were not won when the two of us fought."
"No, they weren't."
"So the Derexhi have made you their enemy. You hate them for it, yes? Do not deny it. You might as well ink it in your skin. All of us here are outcasts."
"That's my business, not yours."
"He who shares my hate is my brother."
"I don't believe that for a moment."
"Then believe this: we will find out who seeks to frame us, with or without you. What would you rather have, Derexhi: my aid, or my interference?"
"You negotiate skillfully, Priza. Are you sure you're not Spire Clan?"
He raised his voice to address Noole. "And what do you say, gnome?"
"She's in charge."
"That's right," said Luma. "Forgive my Magnimarian arrogance, Priza, but I imagine you're the type who helps by taking over."
The barbarian flicked his ponytail. "A war party must have a single leader," he said. "Let us see if you warrant the honor."
"Until you decide otherwise, you mean."
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