Luma remembered the words her father spoke, his finger grazing the stone beard of his graven ancestor. "Aitin served as Indros's bodyguard," he'd said. "A dozen times enemies came to kill the paladin—savages, pirates, goblins and giants. The worst were the Korvosans, who had declared us outlaws for daring to start our own city, free of their authority and that of the empire."
Sensations from that day welled up within her: The sharp, cool wind. The warmth of the pastry Randred bought for her and pressed into her hands. The way its greasy flakes clung to her palm. Its smells of honey and cumin. She heard her father's voice: "And each time, at his side was Aitin Aioldo Derexhi. Silent, watchful, and quick to strike when needed. Twelve times the would-be killers of Alcaydian Indros fell and lay dead at Aitin's feet. We must be ready to strike as he did, to protect our clients."
Luma recalled her father bending down to her level, his voice dropping, to tell her the last part. "It ends in sadness. When his warring was done, Indros turned our forebear away. It was a time for making buildings and passing laws, activities for which Aitin lacked patience. His grim visage disturbed the talkers and the planners. So he went into business—our business—doing for money what he once did for friendship.
"No one else knows this but us. When Indros died, it was by treachery. The ones who slew him wanted him out of the way, so they could take power. Aitin learned of this. He tracked them. He did not tire or relent, until he had avenged Alcaydian Indros. That is the part that this column, built with the aid of Indros' killers, does not dare show. This is who our ancestor was."
Melune spoke, breaking Luma from reminiscence. "It arrives," she said.
Into the plaza rolled a high black carriage, draped with the red and silver family colors. In a frame above the coachman's seat hung the Derexhi crest: the falcon rampant, a silver sword clutched in its talon. The coach came to a halt before a platform covered with crimson cloth. Footmen dismounted, opening a door at the rear of the coach.
A second carriage, which Luma had ridden in many times, followed it into the plaza. Yandine stepped from it. Then, in birth order, the siblings: Arrus, Iskola, Eibadon, Ulisa, and Ontor. Under black cloaks and hats, they wore their simplest finery, save for Eibadon, who was clad in his ceremonial robe. The siblings arranged themselves into double ranks and advanced on the back of the coach. With footmen standing by to assist, they removed Randred's coffin and bore it in precise quarter-time to the platform.
Eibadon stepped onto the stage, taking a place beside the casket. A few yards away, the gate to the catacombs below gaped open.
The crowd thronged in to hear, the rich and the mighty elbowing one another for desirable spots. Luma took a head count. At Yandine's side stood the family's latest political patron, Urtilia Scarnetti. Her rival, Verrine Caiteil, spokeswoman of the Ushers' Council, attracted attention with a glittering black fascinator. Remeria Callinova, who as head of the less powerful Varisian Council supposedly represented native interests in the city, surrounded herself with urbanized Varisians in Chelish-style tunics. Even the criminal lords had come to pay homage to their opposite number: the wrinkled burglar queen Lady Vammiera Symirkova and bazaar extortionist Sabriyya Kalmeram dripped with gems and shot each other acidic glances.
Notable in his absence was the lord-mayor. Lord Justice Bayl Argentine, however, wove to a spot near the two powerful criminals. His impassive mien made it unclear whether he intended to eavesdrop on them, or exchange ironic pleasantries when the ceremony broke up.
Yandine and the rest of her children finished their greetings to those near them in the crowd. With Arrus supporting Yandine from the right and Ontor from the left, they led her up the platform steps. All the family, except for Luma, now clustered on the platform.
Melune took her bow from her pack, placed an arrow, and took aim. "I can take them all now, if you like."
"No," said Luma.
"You're certain?"
"My father must be buried in dignity."
Eibadon commenced his homily. Though out of earshot, Luma could guess its contents: a parable about Abadar, the city god, and how his realms cannot thrive without men to keep the peace. Maxims would pile upon platitudes and jostle with proverbs.
Arrus took over for the eulogy. As he orated, he indeed posed himself in imitation of the founders on the Cenotaph frieze. The wobble in Luma's throat turned to gall as the mourners fell under his spell. When he bowed his head and waved Eibadon back to lead the final prayer, she saw several of the mourners catch themselves on the verge of clapping. Urtilia Scarnetti beamed at him.
When it came time to move the coffin into the catacombs, Luma stopped watching. Instead she studied Melune's demeanor. The woman's knuckles whitened as she gripped the low rooftop wall.
Luma heard an exhalation in the citysong as the catacomb gates swung shut. Yandine and the siblings would observe the interment privately, accompanied only by the Master of Graves and his attendant. A collective sound of hushed conversation billowed from the plaza as the crowd broke into small groups. Urtilia Scarnetti clasped the hands of fellow councilors. Remeria Callinova sought a word with Verrine Caiteil, who evaded her. The Lord Justice Bayl Argentine did, in fact, seek out the criminal lords, one after the other. Lady Symirkova and Princess Kalmeran laughed with him, but not with one another.
Luma turned to Melune, who was trembling. "I know who you are," Luma said.
"No, you don't."
A Derexhi sentinel, a blunt-cheeked bravo named Johail Mahkeiln, gazed up from the plaza, checking each of the overlooking roofs in turn. Luma and Melune ducked down together.
"You're my mother," Luma said.
"Why do you say that?"
"You still loved him." Luma tilted her head toward Mourner's Plaza.
Melune neither moved nor spoke.
"I suspected it from the beginning, but wouldn't let myself credit it," said Luma. "You were dead. I've always been told you were dead. There's no group behind you, is there?"
"Quite the opposite," Melune said.
"No unseen benefactors. No cryptic agenda. Just you. You've been keeping an eye on me, haven't you? All through the years, the feeling someone has been surveilling me from afar. It's been you all along."
Melune's features blurred. As she did, the crystal at the center of her leather diadem pulsed with fleeting light. The brown-haired human disappeared, giving way to the elevated cheekbones, arched eyebrows and pointed ears typical of elvenkind. Straight, silvery hair shimmered around her face. Like any elf, her irises made up the whole of each eye; these were silvery, too. Her frame became slenderer still, and her fingers elongated. Cracked, irregular fingernails melted into perfectly manicured ones.
Luma waited for her to speak, but she didn't. "Does that mean I'm right?" Luma asked.
"I'm breaking an oath just by being here with you."
"Is that the real you?"
Melune nodded.
"Why?" Luma said.
"I'm sorry."
"Why were you gone my whole life? Spying on me from a distance when you could have ...Why was I told you were dead? I wasn't even told your real name."
"I'm so sorry."
Luma moved toward her; the woman scrabbled back.
Luma stopped. "Don't tell me you're sorry. Tell me who you are."
Melune crept to the rope ladder they'd used to reach the roof. "I'm sorry," she said, "because I can answer none of your questions. I beg you not to ask."
They climbed down together and walked in silence. Luma thought of questions all the way from Bridgeward to the Varisian camp, and kept them all inside.
∗ ∗ ∗
Led by Noole, in the depths of the night, the six traveled the city, from the Marches up through Lowcleft. They arrived at their destination as the sun rose. The gnome swept out his arm in a gesture of unveiling. The group stood before a crumbling old barracks. Noole ducked through an open window. "This is perfect," he said.
"Perfect?" Priza scoffed. The abandoned garrison lay
in the shadow of the Arvensoar. Soldiers drilled in the square at the foot of the great watchtower. "We're a stone's throw from the city guard."
Noole leaned out the window he'd just clambered through. "And are they looking at us?"
"Not at the moment," Priza said.
The soldiers straightened their spines and saluted in response to a pair of approaching officers.
"And they won't," said Noole. "City guards don't look for fugitives here. Here they drill and loaf and arrive late for shift. This is where you'll find them at their laxest."
"Because no one would be fool enough to set up a bolthole within spitting distance of their fortress," Priza said.
"So you too admire my genius," said Noole, disappearing into the structure's large single room. When the others had followed him in, Noole put up a wooden panel; once in place, it mimicked a boarded-up window.
The place smelled like spilled wine and ordure.
"I like it here!" said Hendregan.
Luma started; it was the first intelligible sentence the fire magician had said all day. "Someone else was here before us," she said.
"A troupe of traveling players," Noole answered. "They've found the local demand for High Chelish Devil Opera surprisingly scant. I traded them for your place down in the Marches."
"Their neighbors won't like them."
"They're actors," said Noole. "No neighbor does."
Thaubnis peered out through a hole left by a missing brick. "I don't like this, either. Something's afoot out there."
"A commemoration of some sort," said Noole.
"The anniversary of the Arvensoar's founding," Luma said.
Priza jabbed the gnome's shoulder. "And you tell us this won't attract attention?"
Noole's mustache waggled. "Any place you have to hide is bad. When we find better, we'll scuttle. This is closer to the action, at least, than the woods outside the city."
"That's what worries us," said Thaubnis.
"Noole will keep looking," said Luma. "In the meantime, this beats the camp."
"You did not care for life among the dispossessed?" Priza asked.
"I didn't care to endanger them, if Hellknights came calling."
Priza pulled his cloak around his shoulders and settled down to catch lost sleep. "So heartening, Derexhi, that you suddenly ooze concern for us."
"They don't talk to the law," said Luma. "Right now, that makes them my best friends. What say you, Melune?"
Melune jolted from contemplation. "What?"
"Is this hideout acceptable, for now?"
Finding a clear spot, Melune unpacked her bedroll. "You're in charge."
Noole stood over her. "I must say. Though the import of your physical transformation eludes me, this form is considerably more fetching than your last."
Luma opened her own pack. "Leave her alone, Noole."
She tried for sleep but couldn't stop the questions rolling through her head. Across the room, Melune assumed a meditative posture atop her bedroll. Luma studied her, looking for a physical resemblance. Aside from her generally elven features, they seemed most unalike.
Now that Melune had admitted—tacitly, at any rate—who she was, she seemed more a stranger than ever.
It occurred to Luma that this thought would have sent her old self into teary self-pity. Her present self, the one who had seen her father placed in the catacombs, put there by his murderers, searched for feeling and came up short.
The blood that mattered was between her and her siblings. They'd killed Randred, and tried to kill her, in furtherance of a plan. She still had the one angle of attack: the Khonderian mystery. This woman might be of use, but was not worth burbling over. Questions about her offered only distraction. When Melune wanted to tell her, she would. If she chose not to, she would not. In neither case would this magically transform her into a true mother. That barn had already burned.
At this, Luma dropped into a sleep of dreams. In her dream, she heard the citysong and wandered unfamiliar streets. She was supposed to meet her family in a place she had never heard of. Whenever she took a new turn, she expected to be there, but instead found herself farther away.
Faces came at her, as unrecognizable as the lanes and avenues her sleeping mind laid out before her. Soon that was all she saw: a field of black, and faces, starting small and coming her way. A leering old man. A handsome youth. A blue-eyed bride, her face pink against a gauzy veil. A bald warrior, his lip covered by a wintry beard. A birdlike hag, a face-painted orc in a feathered hat, a laughing moppet, a swarthy dwarf. The faces grew in number, speeding up, so that she could no longer distinguish one from the next. She glimpsed them in fragments: foreigners, grandees, rustics, laborers, traders, robbers, drunks, magicians, singers, bead-counters, artisans, and whores. The faces flew into her, entered her, lodged in the depths of her memory. With them came a thought, a message from the city: the meaning of this gift would soon become apparent.
Chapter Twenty
Several Taverns
Luma was first to awake. When the others were up, she stuffed her hair under a kerchief. Priza donned a menial's humdrum clothing: beige smock, brown leggings, and a flop-brimmed cap. Thaubnis left herself as she was. The three of them climbed out of the window, on the blind side of Arvensoar Square. As Noole had promised, the few guardsmen milling outside the fortress entrance paid them no heed.
A few streets west, they spotted a work crew whitewashing the side of a bordello. Priza veered toward them, spoke to them for a few minutes, and moved on. The three companions navigated a jagged route through Lowcleft and then Dockway, talking to carpenters, water carriers and dung gatherers. Directed to a Dockway dive, they found a rosy-faced man named Sezlan. Nothing about his appearance marked him as Shoanti. His accent had entirely freed itself of the slurring sibilants she heard in Priza's voice, and from his clanmates at the Varisian encampment.
Sezlan drummed his fingers on the tavern table. "They're trustworthy?" he asked Priza.
"It's for the people," the barbarian answered.
Sezlan addressed Luma. "I'm a scribe at the Pediment. They can't know I'm oldblood."
"They won't find out from us," Luma said.
He leaned in. "They have proof you killed Khonderian."
"Who does?"
"The lord justice. There's a proper warrant out for you now. Whoever brings you in will have you down and square. It'll be straight to the gibbet."
"What proof?"
"A trickbag, which matches the one everybody says you have. I copied down the list but don't remember all of them. Spider bits, a prism ..."
Luma spoke through gritted teeth. "If everybody says I have it, anybody can duplicate it and plant it."
Sezlan squirmed. "I'm only repeating how the document read."
"And who testified that these were the contents of my spell pouch?"
"The lord-mayor for one, having examined it when he took you. With your brother Arrus as corroborating witness."
"Easy now," said Thaubnis, removing the brandy glass, which Luma was on the verge of breaking, from her grip.
"No one's blaming them for what I supposedly did," Luma said. "What story did Arrus use, to make them think I acted alone?"
"There's an affidavit for that," Sezlan said. "It turns out you were in league with rebellious golems. You killed Khonderian because he was on their trail."
The phrase ‘rebellious golems' was a misnomer in at least two ways, but there was no point arguing with the clerk. "And that's why I supposedly died in the golem pit?"
"The golem masters betrayed you, seemed to kill you off."
"Has an explanation been offered for my miraculous return?"
"The affidavit has Arrus saying they have no idea."
"That much is true, then. What about Hellknights? Are they really after me?"
Sezlan scratched at his ear. "It's not in the documents, but I overheard that it's so."
"The lord-mayor hired them?"
"They're after the rewa
rd."
"Reward?"
The clerk covered his mouth. "Your family posted it. Twenty thousand."
Luma plucked the brandy glass from Thaubnis' fingers and drank its contents in a single gulp. She banged it down on the table and stood. "Anything else, Sezlan?"
"There was ...Arrus made one other point, but maybe ..."
"Spit it out."
"He said the shock of your revelation as a traitor and a murderer was the final straw that killed your poor sick father."
Luma turned and left; Priza and Thaubnis caught up to her a block away from the tavern.
"If you get what you want," said Priza, "and regain your name, you will see to it that Sezlan is protected."
"I promised him, didn't I? What do you take me for?"
"A Derexhi," Priza said.
She wheeled on him. Thaubnis got between her and the barbarian before sickle or sword could be drawn. Dockway laborers caught scent of a likely dust-up and gathered to watch the action.
"We're here to gather scuttlebutt, not become it," growled the dwarf.
Luma walked away.
Priza and Thaubnis followed her at a remove for several minutes, then closed the distance between them.
"Luma Derexhi ..." Priza said.
"Let's not talk for a while."
"I spoke dishonorably," Priza persisted, waving her into a quiet laneway. He opened his tunic, laying bare a tightly defined musculature. "My words were unworthy, and did not respect your suffering. In redress, you may strike me once, with weapon blunt or bladed. Through this act, apology will be both extended and accepted."
Luma fumed. "Close your shirt back up."
He opened it further. "You must do it, or we are both dishonored."
"This is ridiculous."
"Show him respect," said Thaubnis, "and quickly, before our audience finds us."
"I choose the weapon?" Luma asked.
Priza braced himself. "That is our law."
"I choose the force with which I wield it?"
"Such is the custom."
She clenched her fist, swung back her arm, and smashed him square in the breastbone. He rocked back on his heels, then recovered his footing. A red circle blushed between his pectorals. "No more need be said?"
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