My uneasiness grew. We were moving outside of the slums. The alleys and narrows—the buildings themselves—no longer felt familiar.
Erick only stopped once, half-turned as I slid into hiding behind the remains of a shattered barrel. Breath held tight, I waited—for him to turn back, to pick me out of the shadows and frown down at me in deep disappointment.
My stomach twisted in anticipation. . . .
But after a moment he continued.
A few streets later, he turned. When I edged up to the end of the narrow, glanced around the corner, I could see the arch of the bridge, could see moonlight reflected on the River, could hear the slap of water against the stone channel.
And on the far bank, Amenkor . . . the real Amenkor.
I stared at the buildings, noted with a strange disappointment that they seemed no different than the buildings surrounding me now. But different than those in the slums. These buildings were not half collapsed, stone sagging in on itself under decades of disuse. These buildings had edges and corners.
“Who goes there!”
I tensed, shrank back farther into the shadows, but the rough voice had called out to Erick.
“It’s me, you bloody bastard,” Erick growled, humor in his voice.
Two guards stood watch at the end of the bridge, pikes held ready. One of them shifted, pulled the pike back into a guard position with a grunt. “It’s Erick,” he said to the second guard, “the Seeker.”
The second guard relaxed, fell back slightly as Erick approached. He appeared younger than the first. Both wore gold-stitched thrones on their shirts and were more heavily armored than any guardsmen I’d seen in the slums.
“Gave me quite a start sneaking out of the shadows like that,” the first guardsman grumbled as Erick halted beside him. “You shouldn’t scare us regulars.”
Erick frowned. “I didn’t realize there’d be guardsmen here.”
The man grunted. “Captain Baill’s orders, straight from the Mistress. ‘All entrances to the city proper are to be guarded at all times.’ The captain’s set patrols throughout the city as well, and increased the night watch near the palace.”
“What for?” Erick asked. “What are we guarding against?”
The guardsman shrugged. “Don’t know. I don’t think Baill knows either, but if the orders came from the Mistress. . . .”
Erick shifted uncomfortably, cast a glance across the river, toward the palace.
“If you ask me,” the second guardsman said, “the Mistress has lost it.”
“We didn’t ask you, did we?” the first guardsman barked. “Now stand up! Hold that pike like you mean to use it, not like some slack-jawed lackwit!”
The second guardsman glared, but straightened, back as rigid as stone, and turned his attention toward the street. The first guardsman grunted, shot a glance toward Erick.
There was fear in his eyes. Hidden behind a thick layer of loyalty, but fear nonetheless.
It sent a shiver through my skin. The Mistress ruled the city. . . . No. The Mistress was the city. If something happened to her, it would affect everyone.
Even us gutterscum in the slums.
“Are you headed back to the palace to report?” the first guardsman asked.
Erick nodded, his attention still on the other guardsman, his face creased in thought. “Yes. But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Good hunting?”
All emotion left Erick’s face. He turned and caught the first guardsman’s eye.
The guardsman stepped back sharply, gaze falling to the stone cobbles of the road. “Forget I asked,” he mumbled, voice thin, thready.
Erick didn’t answer, simply stepped around him and crossed the bridge.
The guard waited a moment, then turned to the other guardsman and scowled.
Back pressed against the stone of the narrow, I hesitated. I could follow Erick farther if I wanted. The two guardsmen would be easy to distract, and they were watching the street, not the water. . . .
But I was already too far beyond the slums. If I entered the real Amenkor, I’d be stepping onto totally unfamiliar ground.
I wasn’t ready to do that.
I hesitated a moment more, then slid back down the narrow, back into the darkness, wrapping it around me like a cloak.
I still didn’t have any answers, but I’d seen and heard enough. For now.
I was moving through the depths of the Dredge, moving toward the white-dusty man’s door, when I ran across the body. The man had been thrown into a corner of the narrow, where it turned and cut left. His head rested on one shoulder, rolled slightly forward. His hands lay in his lap, his legs stretched out before him, one knee bent outward. He was barefoot, breeches coated with mud, and his muscled chest was bare and streaked with blood. He’d been stabbed four times. Twice in the chest, once in the side, low, and once in the gut.
I halted as soon as I saw him, scanned the narrow in both directions. It was littered with refuse, with broken stone. A rat skittered along the base of the wall, then vanished through a crevice in the mud-brick. But otherwise I was alone.
Stepping close, I knelt, reached forward to push the man’s face into view. But I already knew what I’d find, had known the moment I’d seen the body.
It was the mercenary, Bloodmark’s and my current mark. Blue eyes, brown hair, sun-weathered skin shaved smooth except for a narrow band of beard on each side of his face, stretching from his ears to the base of his jaw. He reeked of ale, his dried sweat sick with its stench. A trail of vomit touched the corner of his mouth. A pool of vomit had congealed near his side.
Carved into his forehead was the Skewed Throne. Brutal and deep.
Bloodmark.
I lowered the mercenary’s head slowly and sat back on my heels. The hot anger had flushed my skin again, but now it felt worn and used. I thought about telling Erick. But Bloodmark always killed the marks now, our marks. At least, if he got to them first. And Erick did nothing, said nothing.
Not after Tomas.
The thought sent a pulse of bitterness through the flush of anger, hotter and heavier, aimed at Erick.
I stood, staring down at the mercenary. He was only a shadow in the moonlight now. The sun had set.
I turned away, heading again toward the Dredge. I was hungry.
I crouched down at the entrance to the alley across from the white-dusty man’s door and immediately noticed the tuft of cloth peeking out from the stone where the white-dusty man hid the bundles of food. A prickling sensation, like gooseflesh, swept through me and I smiled, my stomach growling. I’d left the linen beneath the stone a few days before, but there’d been no response. I’d thought that perhaps the desperation that haunted everyone’s eyes on the Dredge now had finally forced the white-dusty man away, that he’d left, that he’d forgotten me. The thought had hurt. But the white-dusty man hadn’t gone, hadn’t forgotten.
I almost stepped out onto the Dredge, heading for the bundle without thought, my stomach clenching with hunger. But at the last moment, weight already shifted forward, I remembered Bloodmark, felt his breath against my neck from weeks before.
What are we watching?
I shuddered, pulled back and scanned the nearest alleys, the darknesses.
Nothing.
I hesitated at the world of gray and red and wind, then pushed deeper.
I saw nothing, felt nothing, smelled nothing, until I’d pushed myself as deep as I’d ever gone before. There, the ice-rimmed hand began to press against my chest, so faintly it barely touched my skin, as if the hand were hovering a hairbreadth above my breastbone.
I sensed that I could go deeper, but the grayness had solidified so I could see into the shadows, could see oil light flickering a lighter gray in the cracks around the white-dusty man’s door and window—oil light I had not seen from the alley. And the ice of the hand seemed distant, removed.
I drew back until only moonlight lit the Dredge, the tuft of cloth.
The hand
against my chest faded.
I hesitated a moment more, then scurried across the Dredge, keeping low, keeping to the shadows. I crouched in the thin recess of the white-dusty man’s door, removed the loose stone, then dragged out and opened the bundle.
Inside, there was a small loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese the size of my fist.
I smiled, realized I’d been more worried than I’d thought. And hungrier.
I sniffed back the worry, and grabbed the loaf of bread. I was just about to bite into it when the door opened.
Oil light flooded out onto the Dredge. With it came a wash of dense heat—
And the heady, overpowering scent of flour, of yeast and dough.
The scent struck me like a fist and suddenly I was nine again. Nine and cowering in the shadows of an alley, watching a man and woman approach each other, both lost, their eyes vague, in their own gray worlds. The woman had straight black hair, brown eyes like the mud of the buildings after a rain, and a bundle tied too loosely and held too far from her body. The man wore a rough homespun shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, old breeches, no shoes. His clothes were coated with white dust . . . with flour. His hands and face were immaculately clean.
They collided, and in the brief moment they were distracted, I stole two of the rolls that fell from the woman’s bundle.
I thought I’d escaped as I retreated to a narrow across the Dredge. I thought I hadn’t been seen. But when I turned to watch . . .
The man was leaning over the woman in concern. After a moment of wariness, she allowed him to help her to her feet. When she reached for her bundle, the man knelt and began gathering the fallen rolls. The woman joined him.
Then the man frowned, brow creasing. He scanned the ground, searching, as the woman slid the last roll into the bundle and cinched it closed.
He turned toward my darkness and stared straight at me.
I don’t know what he saw. A girl pressed flat against the wall, mud-streaked, clutching two rolls to her chest. That at least. But he must have seen something more, something else, for the frown softened, relaxed. He settled back onto the balls of his feet, hands dangling between his knees.
What is it? the woman asked.
The man held my gaze a moment more, until the woman began to look in my direction with her own frown.
Nothing, he said, and stood.
And before the woman with the straight black hair and the soft brown eyes turned completely toward me, he touched her arm, distracted her.
I fled. I ran deep, farther than I’d originally intended. Because of the man with the white-dusty clothing. Because of the way his eyes had softened. Because he’d relaxed onto the balls of his feet and dangled his hands, instead of leaping forward to snag my arm, to halt me.
I ate the bread. I cried when I did, and couldn’t understand why, but I ate the bread.
I’d followed him the next day, and the next. And eventually he’d begun to leave the bread beneath the stone outside his door when I returned the linen the bread had been wrapped in.
A shadow stepped into the light spilling from the white-dusty man’s door. I glanced up. Up into the white-dusty man’s eyes—older now, shaded with pain, with weariness. Gray streaked his hair, and wrinkles etched the corners of his eyes and mouth, etched his brow.
But I saw none of that.
Instead, I saw his eyes as they’d been on the Dredge that day, saw them soften as he stared at a girl pressed flat against the mud-brick wall of an alley.
Tears bit at the corners of my eyes. Tears of shame, of need, of hunger. But not hunger for bread or cheese. For something more.
In the depths of the white-dusty man’s house, I heard movement. Then the black-haired woman stepped into view.
She held a long wooden paddle before her, charred and streaked with soot. A heap of dough rested on the long end of the paddle, ready to be placed into an oven.
“What is it?” she asked.
I stilled, as I had on the Dredge so long ago. I stilled and caught the white-dusty man’s eyes.
He held my gaze a long moment, then smiled.
“Nothing,” he said.
Something—a pain, an ache—surged up from deep in my chest and forced itself out in a hitching sob. I tried to hold it in, but it was too much, too large. Tears coursed down my face, and I closed my eyes, the sobs coming hard and deep. Not loud sobs. Wet, throaty sobs that forced deep breaths through my nose, my mouth closed tight, trying to hold it all back, to keep it all in.
The white-dusty man simply waited, not moving.
The ache—the pain—released, like the tension in the bundle when the blade finally cuts through the cloth. It released and the sobs quieted. My breath came smoother, deeper.
Someone touched my face, a gentle touch, and I glanced up into the white-dusty man’s eyes again. And this time I saw the gray in his hair, the lines on his face, the age.
His fingers traced down from my forehead to my chin. He tilted my head upward, stared deep into my eyes.
I felt myself trembling, still weak and fluid from the tears. The skin on my face felt tight, my eyes sore.
“You’ve grown,” he said.
Fresh tears burned at the corners of my eyes. It was too much.
And so I pulled away, his fingers sliding down the length of my chin. I stood, back straight, no longer the nine-year-old girl cowering in an alley, no longer a child.
I glanced down at the bread, at the cheese still bundled in the cloth. Then I looked the white-dusty man—the baker—in the eye. I held up the bread a moment, and said in a tight, strained voice, “Thank you.”
The baker smiled and nodded, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes more pronounced. “You’re welcome.”
I hesitated, felt the wash of heat and the smell of baking bread against my face, then turned and walked away.
I headed back to my niche. I squeezed through the opening, felt the mud-brick scrape my back, my hips, as it always did now. I sat, drew my knees up tight to my chest, the baker’s bundle set aside, and dropped my head.
I did not cry. Instead, after a long moment of silence, I simply sighed, raised my head, and reached for the bread.
Erick found me in my niche a few days later.
“Varis?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to speak to him, didn’t want to see him.
But I still needed him.
“I have another mark for you and Bloodmark.”
My eyes narrowed. He knew about the mercenary.
I moved to the edge of the niche, crawled out into the sunlight, then stood.
Erick stood on the far side of the narrow, back against the wall, arms crossed on his chest. He watched me carefully.
“I’ve searched for you on the Dredge,” he said. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Bloodmark hasn’t seen you there either.”
At Bloodmark’s name, I tensed. “I haven’t been to the Dredge.” I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice.
Erick hesitated, asked carefully, “Why not?”
I caught Erick’s gaze. “Does it matter?”
Erick stiffened, and his eyes hardened. His hands dropped to his sides. “No. It doesn’t matter to me at all.”
I flinched inside.
“I have a new mark—two, actually,” Erick said shortly, angry now, too. “A man and a woman, Rec Terrell and Mari Locke. The man is thick-shouldered, husky, bald. He had a pierced ear, but the stud he wore was torn out on the left side. All that’s left is a mangled lobe. The woman, Mari, has short black hair, a rounded face, broad hips. There’s a scar on her forearm, almost healed, very faint. Someone sliced her up. The Mistress wants them both.”
Erick turned, began walking away.
“Wait.”
Erick paused but did not look back.
I bit my lower lip, thought of the white-dusty man, thought of telling Erick about him. But then I thought of Bloodmark, of the mercenary, of Erick saying nothing, doing nothing, and the anger returned.
<
br /> Instead, I asked, “Why?”
Erick turned, enough so I could see the confusion in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
I didn’t know. Why are you still using Bloodmark? Why did you walk away the night I killed Tomas? Why did you let Bloodmark win?
“Why do you do this? Why are you a Seeker?”
His forehead creased as he frowned. “It’s . . . what I know how to do, what I was trained to do. It’s what I’ve always done.”
He hesitated, as if uncertain he’d answered my question, or uncertain of his own answer. Then he turned and left.
I should have asked him something else.
I never would have spotted Mari if she hadn’t reached for the cabbage.
I was standing near the wagon, the ebb and flow of the Dredge washing unnoticed around me. I’d come out of habit, having nowhere else to go. I didn’t need food. I had enough in my niche for a few days. And I wasn’t looking for Rec or Mari. Let Bloodmark have them. Erick didn’t seem to mind.
And so, when a woman reached for the cabbage and I saw the faint scar tracing down the length of her forearm, it didn’t register. Not at first.
I glanced up at her. Rounded face. Short black hair. Brown eyes. A lighter brown than I’d seen on the Dredge before, streaked with yellow.
She met my gaze, smiled tightly, nodded, then turned. I nodded back, belatedly. I thought, vaguely, that she reminded me of someone. Of the woman the man had strangled, the one with the basket of potatoes?
I frowned.
Then it struck. Mari. My mark.
I jerked away from the wall, glanced sharply in the direction Mari had moved. The world slid to gray and wind and red, and I began searching the washes of red to find her.
The Skewed Throne Page 10
