A hollowness that crushed me.
And I suddenly understood the look on the woman’s face when I had handed her the dead girl. I suddenly understood that pain.
The thought brought my head up, stilled the sobs.
I’d killed Garrell. A sharp thrust to his chest, near the heart.
My eyes narrowed. The stone of hatred beneath my breastbone pulsed, its hardness seeping outward, stilling the tremors of weakness, stilling the liquid sensation in my lungs from the tears, filling the hollowness.
But it didn’t touch the frigid burn of the hand pressing against my chest.
I stood, uncoiled from the tight crouch. My dagger was already drawn, already held loosely in one hand.
I had a new mark.
I slid forward, moving swiftly, but no longer at a dead run. Every muscle was tense, every sense alert. I bled from shadow to shadow, everything I’d learned of stealth and silence on the Dredge, everything I’d learned from Dove and his street gang of thugs, everything I’d learned from Erick coming forth.
Ten minutes later I slipped into a crouch opposite the white-dusty man’s door. It was cracked open, oil light seeping out.
The ice-rimmed hand still burned on my chest, still tingled in my arms. But it had faded, the edge of intensity dulled.
I glanced down the Dredge in both directions, saw no one.
I moved across the street, slow and quiet, and settled next to the white-dusty man’s door. Reaching out, I pushed it open farther. It creaked as it slowed to a halt.
A wash of heat pushed outward, with a scent of yeast, of dough, and of blood.
Something clawed at my throat, acidic and vicious, but I pushed it down, crushed it with the stone in my chest.
Through the door, I could see the opening of an oven, the flames licking upward inside. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, over a long table, a few chairs. On the table I could see lumps of rising dough, a pitcher of milk, a bag of flour. Another bag of flour lay split on the floor, a white fan against the fieldstone. Tracks marred the whiteness. Farther into the room, beyond the table, the long paddle I’d seen the black-haired woman holding when I’d been here last lay on the stone as well, the loaf of freshly baked bread it had once held lying on its side nearby.
And at the edge of the door, just within sight, I could see a hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled. A woman’s hand.
I swallowed, felt tears burning the edges of my eyes. I moved through the door in one quick step, crouched low. I ignored the two bodies—forced myself to ignore them—scanned the room, found it empty. I slid to the only doorway, moved into the darknesses beyond, checked the inner rooms.
Bloodmark wasn’t here.
I returned to the outer room and knelt down beside the white-dusty man. I brushed at the hair on his forehead, hair lightly dusted with gray, with flour. I let my fingers trail down his cheek, stopped at his jaw. I looked into his eyes, saw them soften there on the Dredge, saw them soften here in the alcove of his door, heard him say, You’ve grown.
I cupped his face with my hands, leaned forward over him, till my forehead touched his.
Then I sat back.
Bloodmark had stabbed him in the chest, had stabbed the black-haired woman as well. But on the white-dusty man’s chest he had carved a parody of the Skewed Throne—three long, deep slashes.
I stared at the bloody gashes, felt myself harden further.
I stood, moved into the back rooms, returned with two blankets. I covered the black-haired woman first, then the white-dusty man.
Then I slid back out into the night, closing the door behind me. Standing in the alcove of the white-dusty man’s doorway, I looked up into the sky, gazed at the stars and moon a long moment, saw them as I’d seen them the night of the White Fire—clear and vibrant and pure. And I felt the Fire inside me, burning with its cold flame beneath the frigid imprint of the hand on my chest. I felt it seeping through me, not fiery and seething, but slow and gentle.
It filled me with a preternatural calm, as it had that night so many years before.
I glanced back down to the darkness of the Dredge. I straightened, narrowed my eyes at the depths.
And then I slid beneath the river. Deep. Deeper. Until I could feel the pull of the ice-rimmed hand, until I could scent it—like hoarfrost, burning in my nostrils, metallic against my tongue.
I drew away from the white-dusty man’s door, slid into an alley—
And submerged myself in the depths.
I followed the scent, the river smooth around me. I flowed from alley to alley, from courtyard to courtyard, through twisted iron gates, past crumbling statues. I moved through abandoned buildings, their insides gutted, their walls collapsed. I saw the gray shadows of people huddled in corners, so many more people now than before the Fire. As I crossed one narrow, I heard a low growl, glanced down its short length and saw a dog, its teeth bared, lips peeled back, saliva dripping from its mouth. Its eyes were feral beneath the river, black and haunted. Drool coated its muzzle, and blood bled from its eyes. Its hindquarters had collapsed, gone numb with disease, and it lay in its own shit and piss, unable to move.
I paused, stared into the low, ominous rumble of its growl.
Then I moved on.
The scent grew, and with it the frost of the hand against my chest. And as I closed in, moving slowly, cautiously, I realized where I’d find Bloodmark. The realization came with a hard twist in my stomach. But at the same time I think I’d known. Part of me had hoped, had thought there would be a refuge, a safe place, a home—
But he’d taken everything else.
A tension fell away from me, a tightness in my shoulders. I moved forward purposefully now, without seeing the depths of the Dredge.
Until I came to my niche.
I paused outside the entrance, knelt down a few paces away to stare into the narrow darkness.
The scent of hoarfrost was strong, overpowering. It rolled from the entrance to the niche like the heat had rolled from the white-dusty man’s door, but cold instead. The ice-rimmed hand against my chest burned so harshly it felt as if my skin would freeze, would peel away in chunks.
The sensations were so intense, I never felt Bloodmark approach.
I sensed the kick a moment before it struck, tensed for the blow as I’d done a thousand times on the Dredge, ready to absorb it and flee to a safer darkness.
But this time I wouldn’t run.
Bloodmark’s foot dug in just beneath my ribs, forced itself up into my stomach with enough strength that it lifted me, flung me to the side, twisted me onto my back. The air was thrust from my lungs, but before I could suck in another breath, Bloodmark stomped onto my chest, his heel landing squarely on the ice-rimmed hand.
I doubled over, curled up tight over the sudden, vicious pain, rolled onto my side, coughed against the burning in my lungs.
I lost my hold on the river.
The instant the darkness of true night closed around me, I felt the backlash of nausea begin in the pit of my stomach, felt the tremors of weakness begin to course down the muscles of my arms.
My eyes flew wide in fear.
“Bitch,” Bloodmark said.
I struggled to rise, heard Bloodmark’s footsteps as he moved around behind me. The tremors shuddered through my shoulders now, through my legs.
I focused on Bloodmark, on the sounds of his movements, on the pain in my gut, in my chest. I focused on breathing, each intake painful.
“You ruined everything!” Bloodmark spat, punctuating it with another kick, this time to my lower back.
Fresh pain sheeted up my side and I jerked out of the protective curl, rolled onto my back again, then over onto the other side with a barked cry, my arms tucked close to my chest.
But the pain pushed the tremors back.
Bloodmark moved in close, squa
tted down beside me.
“Did you find them?” he asked quietly, then laughed. “I left them for you. And for Erick.” His voice turned bitter. “He was my ticket into the Guard.”
“They would never have taken you,” I gasped, the words broken, breathless.
“Why not?”
I shifted, enough so I could look up into Bloodmark’s eyes, so dark and vicious, enough to free the arm tucked closest to the ground.
“Because,” I muttered, so softly Bloodmark leaned down closer to hear, leaned close enough I could see the black smear of the birthmark next to his eye. I smiled—a slow, satisfied smile. “Because you’re gutterscum. Just like me.”
I shoved my dagger up along his neck, drawing a thin line beneath his chin before the blade punched up under his jawbone. Blood splashed my hand, hot and slick, and then Bloodmark jerked back, a strange, gurgling croak coming from his open mouth. The dagger slid free, followed by another wash of blood, and Bloodmark’s hand clamped to his throat, to his jaw. He staggered backward, struck the mud-brick of the collapsing wall beside my niche, and skidded down it until he sat against the heels of his feet.
My hand, the one that held the dagger, slumped to the ground. Tremors were rippling through me now and I could no longer hold it up. I let my head rest against the dirt-smeared cobblestones of the narrow, let the tension in my shoulders release, but I didn’t take my eyes off Bloodmark.
He stared at me with horrified, hate-filled eyes. His jaw worked as he tried to speak, but nothing came out except a sickening wheeze of air and a speckle of blood. Blood coated the hand clutched to his throat as well.
I thought of the first man I’d killed, of his hand clutching the cut across his own throat. I thought of the White Fire.
Bloodmark’s eyes widened and his body began to slip. The hand at his throat fell away. As it did he lost his balance.
He slumped to one side, falling across the opening to my niche, his body landing with a low, rustling thud.
His blood-soaked hand flopped out toward me, as if he were reaching for me.
I stared into his dead eyes and then the tremors took me.
The world faded, and I closed my eyes. I felt the spasms shudder through my body, felt the pain from Bloodmark’s kicks pierce through my chest, but it was all distant, removed. I drew myself away, too exhausted for anything to matter, too beaten down to care. I thought of nothing, simply stared into the darkness behind my eyes and waited.
It took longer than I expected. I’d stayed beneath the river far longer than I ever had before, had pushed myself harder than I ever had before.
When the worst of the spasms finally passed, I rolled onto my stomach and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, thinking of Mari, of Erick. You heard Bloodmark. She killed him. That makes her a mark. Nausea rippled through me and I vomited onto the cobbles. Hanging my head, I waited for this to pass as well, then climbed weakly to my feet.
It was still night, still dark. But dawn had begun to touch the eastern sky.
I stood over Bloodmark, wavering slightly, still weak.
He’d stolen everything from me.
Erick.
The white-dusty man.
My niche.
He’d taken it all.
And I’d killed him for it. Murdered him.
I turned and stared up into the night sky, thought of the Mistress, of the Skewed Throne . . . of Erick.
A searing pain slid through me, as thin as a dagger’s slice, but deeper. Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I pressed my lips together hard, felt them tremble.
I could never go back to Erick now, could never look him in the eye, could never face his disappointment. Not after Bloodmark. I hadn’t killed him to save myself, or Erick, or anyone else. I’d killed him because I’d wanted to. Because he’d deserved it, whether the Mistress knew that or not.
Erick would never understand that. Not if he thought Mari was a mark. Not if he couldn’t see that she wasn’t, even after she’d killed Rec.
There was nothing left for me here. Nothing at all.
So I turned and left the Dredge, moved toward the only other place I knew.
To the bridge leading across the River.
To Amenkor.
The real Amenkor.
Part II: Amenkor
Chapter 7
Amenkor.
The real Amenkor.
I stumbled to my knees in the half-light of dawn and vomited into the corner at the base of a stone-brick wall. My stomach cramped and I heaved again, muscles tightening in pain, but nothing came. There was nothing left in my stomach. Nothing but a horrible sickness.
When the spasms ended, I spat and crawled along the length of the alley to a barrel set near its end. I hunched back against the barrel, arms tight across my chest, as shudders ran through me. Reaction to the use of the river had never been this bad. But then, I’d never used it so heavily before, never kept myself submerged for so long. I’d never needed to use it so heavily.
I shuddered again, this time because of the image of Bloodmark choking on his own blood, and the sight of the Skewed Throne carved into the white-dusty man’s chest.
I pulled myself hard against the barrel, eyes squeezed tight. I had no defense against the pain. The river, the run to Amenkor along the Dredge, the tension of waiting for the right moment to slip past the guards and cross the bridge and the real River, they’d all taken their toll. There was only weariness, an exhaustion that had settled into my muscles, into my bones. A weariness that dragged at me like a relentless tide.
I leaned my head against the stone-brick wall deep inside Amenkor and let the tide claim me.
* * *
A whip cracked, the snap startling me awake with a lurch.
“Hee-ah!” someone cried, and the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobbles receded.
I blinked into raw sunlight, eyes blurred, then shifted.
A boy stood before me.
I froze, muscles tensing.
The boy—no more than six years old, dressed in hand-stitched, fitted breeches, a vest, a white shirt; clothing far too fine for the slums or the Dredge—watched me with intent brown eyes. His hands were clutched behind his back, and he rocked back and forth, onto his heels and then his toes. A strange flattened hat covered shiny blond hair.
“Who are you?” he asked in a clear, precise voice. There was no malice, no fear in his round face. Nothing but curiosity.
I drew breath, my chest, my lungs, burning with the effort. But before I could answer—not even knowing what I would say—a woman stepped into view.
“Perci, what in the White Heavens are you—Oh!” The woman gasped, stepped back unconsciously, one hand reaching for Perci, the other reaching for the clasp on the dress near her throat. Her shocked face quickly hardened into something I knew, something I recognized:
Disdain tainted with fear. Mostly disdain.
My eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. My hand slid to the dagger tucked at my side. She wore a blue-dyed dress, fitted at the waist, with sleeves reaching to her wrists. Sandals with many straps covered washed feet. Simple clothes, not as fancy as Perci’s. But there were no stains, no ragged edges, no wear marks. The clothes looked fresh, like puddles of water immediately after a storm, before scum slicked the surface.
My gaze returned to her eyes.
Some of the disdain slipped away, the fear edging forward.
“Come, Perci.” The hand on Perci’s shoulder tightened and she began to draw him toward the mouth of the alley, toward the bright sunlight.
Perci resisted, his face squeezing into a frown of defiance, but when the woman’s hand tightened further, he let himself be dragged away. I slid into a crouch behind the barrel as they moved, relaxing only when they’d vanished into the flow of people at the edge of the alley.
The people.
>
My hand tightened on the dagger and I drew farther back behind the barrel. A fresh wave of nausea swept through me, more fear and dread than sickness from the use of the river.
On the street, men and women moved among carts pulled by horses. Most carried satchels and small bundles tied with twine. A few carried baskets, bread sticking out of raised lids. All wore unstained clothing in strange, bright colors—blues, dark reds, a width of bright yellow. The men wore breeches, boots, white shirts, vests, wide belts with pouches openly displayed. The women wore dresses with long sleeves and sandals, long hair tied back with thin leather straps, some with hats or folded scarves over their hair. They moved without rushing, with heads high, eyes forward. Tall.
They moved without fear.
A pair of black horses clattered into view, tied to . . . a cart. Except it wasn’t a cart. It was a little enclosed room, a small door in its side. Through the window cut into the door, I could see a man with a thin, angular face.
When he turned toward me, I ducked behind the barrel.
The sight of the horse-drawn room, of the clothes, of the colors, felt like a kick to the gut. What had I done? This was not the Dredge. This was Amenkor. The real Amenkor. I didn’t belong here, didn’t know the streets, the alleys, or narrows. I didn’t know the people, their patterns and reactions. They didn’t dress the same, didn’t even seem to move the same, the ebb and flow of the street subtly different, more sedate, less frantic.
A strong urge to retreat seized me, clamped onto my throat and held on tight. Run, flee, cower in the nether regions of the Dredge.
But as soon as the urge took hold, it was crushed by despair.
I couldn’t go back to the slums. Not now. Not ever. Erick would be looking for me. The first place he’d look would be my niche.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 13
