“Leave. Leave. Leave.”
The others join in one at a time, until the words blend into a buzz. There is no organized chant; their voices are scratchy and dry like old parchment, each one a rasp. There must be at least twenty-five faces among them, but Mercy can’t look away from the little girl’s.
“Enough.” Atlas’s voice cuts through the whispers. “Drop your weapons and leave. They are nothing to you.”
“We are nothing to them,” someone corrects.
“Go home.”
Elise tugs on Mercy’s sleeve. “Marieve. A body. That’s—Th-that’s a body.”
A body?
Mercy follows Elise’s gaze to the two old men down the street, who still struggle with the bundle they carry, oblivious to the tension behind them. Something white sticks out from under the dark sheet.
Oh.
The hand bobs with every step, pale fingers grasping at empty air. A sliver of a wrist is visible under the fold of dark fabric, a red rash flaming brightly on the bloodless, pallid skin.
Thunk.
Atlas grunts—more with surprise than pain—as a rock thuds against his armor and skitters harmlessly to the ground. He scowls and pushes Mercy and Elise behind him.
“Keep them out of our land.” An elf with a voice like sandpaper steps forward, his large eyes narrowed. He spits at Atlas’s feet, then reclaims the rock he’d thrown with practiced calm. “We don’t want them here.”
“What you want is no concern of mine, Ketojan, and I advise you to consider your next move carefully.” Atlas lifts the point of his sword to Ketojan’s throat. The elf smirks condescendingly, his brown eyes peering out from under a shock of choppy white hair.
The beggars shift their rocks and broken bricks between both hands, ready to throw. The hunger in their eyes is unlike any Mercy has seen before, scared and half-starved. It reminds her of a pack of feral wolves she had seen on the ride to Ellesmere.
“Get them out of here, and we’ll go,” Ketojan finally says. At this, the beggars simultaneously step back, and most drop their rocks. Their hostile expressions don’t change, but they appear to respect Ketojan.
“You are in no position to make threats here, friend,” Altas’s eyes flash with warning, his sword’s blade glinting in the sunlight. Even so, the corner of Ketojan’s lips quirks upward in a smirk.
The elf holds Atlas’s gaze for a long time, then turns and walks away. The beggars follow him, and when they are out of hearing range, Atlas releases a breath and sheathes his sword. Mercy does not do the same with her daggers.
“You must leave now, before he changes his mind.”
“Atlas, what is happening here? Why are you here? Come with us, won’t you? Please!” Elise is near hysterics, her eyes wide as saucers. “Does Father know?”
Atlas grips her shoulders tightly, his face flushed with anger and stress. “Don’t you think all the nobles know what’s happening? Do you think they care about the people here? They know, Elise, and they do nothing about it.” He lets go and runs a weary hand over his face, his anger sapped. Little bruises the shape of his fingertips form on Elise’s upper arms.
She shakes her head. “You are far too kind for a place like this, brother.”
He smiles and bows in respect to Mercy. “Should you have any need of me, send a message to Elise or one of the other guards. I doubt you’ll want to venture back anytime soon, even armed as you are.”
“. . . Right.” Mercy hesitates, seeing Elise’s gaze still glued to her daggers, then lifts the hem of her skirt and tucks the daggers into their sheaths. “You should consider carrying one if you’re going to be visiting your brother here. I could teach you how to use them.”
“Thank you, but, uh, that will not be necessary,” she says, her voice pinched.
“You must leave.” Atlas scans the buildings, eyes narrowing at the shadows in the mouths of the alleys. “They won’t leave you alone for long; Ketojan doesn’t have as much power among his people as he thinks he does. I cannot leave my post for long, but I will walk you to the gate to make sure you aren’t followed.” Before he finishes speaking, he opens his arms wide and ushers Mercy and Elise forward, herding them down the street like sheep who had strayed too far from the flock.
When they reach the gate, Elise embraces her brother once more. “Thank you, Atlas. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“Try not to do anything stupid, then.”
He laughs. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Atlas says, turning to Mercy, “even if it was not under the best circumstances.”
“You as well.”
“I wish you luck on your future negotiations. May the Creator shine his light on the blighted land of Cirisor once more.”
22
Neither Mercy nor Elise had spoken much on the walk back from Beggars’ End, which is why when Mercy knocks on the front door of Elise’s house two hours later, the girl’s warm smile surprises her more than her uncharacteristic silence had. She stands in the foyer beside Aelyn, her family’s slave, and invites Mercy inside.
Seren Pierce’s home is slightly smaller than Blackbriar, yet steeped in more finery than Mercy has ever seen—even more than Myrellis Castle. All the extravagance in the castle seemed to have been placed there as an afterthought, perhaps at the insistence of an advisor more concerned with the opinions of the courtiers and other visitors than the comfort of the king who lives there. Wandering the halls yesterday, Mercy had seen what the king’s advisors try to convince themselves is not true: the castle is a memorial for the phantoms of the women Ghyslain had loved and lost eighteen years ago, and keeping the castle furnishings the same as they had been is his way of continuing the charade of their current existence.
A madman’s logic.
Aelyn leads Mercy and Elise past vivid oil paintings, colorful tapestries, and several sculptures as they walk through a long hallway. Arched doorways draped in yards of chiffon offer glimpses into a sitting room, a study, a library, and—finally—the dining room. Inside, Seren Pierce and two other men are clustered around one end of the long rectangular table which dominates the room, bent over a map of the city. They speak in low voices. None of them notice when Mercy and Elise enter.
“That’s Landers Nadra,” Elise whispers, nodding to the middle-aged man standing beside her father. Unlike the Seren, Landers is portly and round, his fine velvets straining over his midsection. Landers frowns at something Seren Pierce says and points to a building on the map with a heavily-jeweled finger. “The bald one is Cassius Baccha. He—” She pauses, then glances at Mercy with an appraising eye. “Do you know much about nobility titles in Sandori?”
Mercy lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “A little.”
“They follow titles from the old tongue, which is why they sound strange when we use them today, but the hierarchy is easy to understand, even for commoners. It makes it easy to keep records, too. They’re alphabetical.” She nods to Cassius, who is bent over the map, his scalp shiny in the light streaming through the windows. “Baccha is the second-highest rank, which means he’s the one lesser lords have to schmooze to get what they want.”
“Must be nice for your father to have one of the most powerful men in Sandori as a friend.”
“Ha. They only agree when it is within their best interests to do so—otherwise they hardly speak to each other. Cassius resents the new nobility. You noticed my father’s title is Seren Pierce, and not Pierce Seren?” she says. “My family name is LeClair. Titles are taken as surnames after serving for thirty years to the crown—a test of loyalty, one might say. Some of the older, stuffier lords call us the new nobility, and treat us like children because of it.”
“I see. What are they discussing?”
“Plans to fortify the city walls. Cassius Baccha showed up here late last night in nothing but his robe, claiming the city’s going to be attacked. He saw it in a dream, he says, but he won’t—or can’t—explain why. They’
ve been discussing it for hours, and are not likely to stop anytime soon.”
“I’m glad you all enjoyed the gallery,” floats a woman’s voice down the hall. “My husband has an eye for art, doesn’t he?”
There’s a murmur of assent as a party of five enters the room, led by a voluptuous blonde draped in layers of peach-colored silk. Her eyes light up and she kisses Elise on the cheek, making her blush. “And my daughter has quite the hand for it, doesn’t she?”
“Mother! We have guests!”
“Hush, darling. Lady Nadra was just remarking how talented you are. Am I not allowed to be proud of my daughter?”
“Your calligraphy is exquisite,” Lady Nadra says. Unlike her husband, she is willowy and tall, with sparkling green eyes and an easy smile. She claps her hands delightedly, her gemstone rings glimmering in the candlelight. “If only my two had half your talent!”
“Thank you, Marlena,” Elise says. “Now may I, ah, present our special guest for the evening—”
“Lady Marieve,” Seren Pierce interrupts.
At the table, the three men have stopped their conversation and look straight at Mercy, the documents forgotten. Seren Pierce crosses his arms over his chest and continues, “Granddaughter of the queen of Feyndara, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s correct.”
“I heard you had arrived yesterday, but I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to formally welcome you. How do you find Beltharos?”
“It’s lovely, as is your home, sir.”
“And you’re here for Cirisor, surely,” he says, blinking away the compliment. “May I ask, do you truly believe the king will give it to you after all these years of fighting?”
“I do not think it will be that simple, but any step toward peace is better than our current position, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Wisely said, my lady,” Landers Nadra agrees.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” Marlena exclaims. “The twins—Leon and Maisie.” She gestures to the young man and woman at her side, blushing slightly. The twins are only a few years older than Mercy, and clearly take after their maternal family; Maisie has the same lithe build and chestnut hair as her mother, and Leon’s slightly slanted eyes are markedly different from his father’s hooded lids.
“Welcome to the capital, my lady,” Maisie says. “I hope you enjoy your time here.”
“Should you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask.” Leon’s lips spread into an easy smile. As he bows to Mercy, his gaze shifts to Elise, who looks away with a frown.
“And Lady Murray Baccha, as well,” Elise says, gesturing to an old woman with long, shockingly white hair. “Cassius’s wife and ambassador to the crown. She recently returned from a trip to Rivosa, as I recall.”
“Beautiful country. Quite a shame we don’t have more western influence here—I’d love another one of Princess Namira’s hazelnut tarts. Did you known they once served chocolate-covered rosebuds with edible gold pearls?” Murray’s smile widens, the wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. She moves to Cassius’s side as she speaks and lays a loving hand on his arm. She grins at Landers. “Your countrymen know how to put on a show, my friend.”
“You should have gone during Iarra—tables and tables of delicacies across the length of the ballroom, imported from all around the world for one massive feast.”
Murray claps a hand to her heart in delight.
“So, Elise tells me you’ve only been here a few days,” Elise’s mother says to Mercy, turning her attention from the others as they discuss various cakes, pies, and desserts with names so unusual Mercy isn’t sure half of them exist. “Was the trip long?”
“Not terribly, no.”
“Nerida—” Seren Pierce smiles at his wife, the cook—Liri—standing at his side. He extends a hand to the long table. “Dinner is ready. Shall we?”
“Of course, my dear. Everyone?”
As they take their seats around the table, Mercy watches as Seren Pierce hands the map and documents to Aelyn. “Take these upstairs,” he murmurs, and she nods and hurries away.
Seren Pierce sits at the head of the table, Nerida at his right and Elise at his left. Leon pulls out the seat beside her, but Elise shoos his hand off under the guise of brushing away dust. “Sit here, Marieve,” she says, smiling sweetly. She pats the cushion, and Mercy offers Leon an apologetic smile before accepting the chair. He dips his head in respect and takes the seat next to her.
As Liri carries in platter after platter of food and sets them ceremoniously on the table, Elise leans over and whispers, “My parents have arranged marriage between Leon and me. While I do not dislike the man, I have no interest in conversing with him for the duration of this meal, let alone being married to him for the rest of my life.”
“Elise,” her father warns in a low voice. Nerida pretends not to notice.
“Nevertheless,” Elise continues, unabated, “you have my gratitude.”
“Well, this looks just wonderful, my dear,” Marlena Nadra coos, eyeing a platter of rabbit slathered with butter and herbs. “Your cook is so talented, I’m afraid I’ve been ruined for most everything else. Tell me, where did you buy her?”
Nerida inflates. “In Cariza a few years ago. I managed to steal her away from my cousin’s estate after she passed, with only a minor charge at the city gates for owning a Rivosi slave over a Beltharan one.”
“Are the lords still telling themselves the tax will work? Who in their right minds would buy a slave from Beggars’ End when there’s such better stock across the border? Can you imagine bringing one into your home? You’d get fleas just looking at it.” Murray shudders, frowning at her husband. “Something needs to be done about that place.”
“They should be carted off to the mines in the west,” he grumbles. “There’s no better place for them. Why the guards allow them to plague this city is beyond me. I say let those who can work dig the mines, and when that Creator-damned underground air rots their lungs, there’ll be plenty more to replace ‘em. That’s one thing you can always count on.”
Murmurs of agreement dance around the table. Elise frowns at the bowl of soup in front of her, no doubt thinking of Atlas and what they’d seen earlier.
“If it’s such a problem, why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?” Mercy asks. “Factories and warehouses always need workers, and it wouldn’t be difficult to train them to work the ships for the trading companies.”
“Would you trust thousands of aurums’ worth of inventory to a bunch of beggars and thieves?” Landers scoffs. “We don’t offer them help because they don’t want it. The last person to try and change their fortune lost her life because of it.” It doesn’t escape Mercy that he explicitly avoids saying Liselle’s name.
“No one has tried since? Surely people can’t be happy with how things are.”
“No, but they’re too stubborn to accept aid, and they see any outsider as a threat.”
“Last year, they scared off a group of church priestesses who had come to offer food and medicine to the sick. The poor girls returned hours later wearing tatters, and supposedly their nightmares were so terrible their screams kept everyone in their quarters awake for a month,” Leon adds.
“I was friends with one of them,” Maisie whispers. “She transferred to Blackhills shortly after—said she couldn’t stand to live in the same city as that scum. She didn’t feel safe anymore.”
“Marieve’s right.”
All eyes turn Elise, who clenches her silver spoon in one hand, her knuckles white. Her lips press into a thin line and she narrows her eyes, staring at each person in turn. She glares at her father last.
“Marieve’s right,” she repeats in a low voice. “You should be doing something about that Creator-forsaken pit, Father. You should be trying to change it. Do you know Atlas is there? Do you care?”
Whatever emotion Seren Pierce feels at his daughter’s outburst remains hidden behind a mask of indifference, save for a muscle working in his jaw. �
��Now is not the time to discuss this, child.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Perhaps you should take a walk to calm yourself. Wouldn’t you agree, Nerida?”
Elise’s mother doesn’t respond, her face pale and embarrassed. After a moment, she makes a choked sound and nods.
“He’s trying to help them. He’s trying to gain your approval! If what he did with Julien gets out, the soldiers will just as likely kill him as the scum will. Or does that not bother you at all?”
“Elise—”
“That would get rid of the problem, wouldn’t it? You can go on pretending you’d only had the one child, the good child—"
“It’s looking less and less like that by the second.”
“Darling,” her mother attempts, but they ignore her.
“He’s trying to win your favor, Father! Can’t you see? He’s trying to make you proud!” Elise jumps up, sending her glass of wine flying. Her mother shrieks as the dark wine pools on the ivory silk tablecloth. “I should have told him a long time ago that’s not possible.”
“That’s quite enough!” The mask cracks; Seren Pierce’s face becomes splotchy and red, his voice trembling with anger. His eyes are cruel and sharp, and, for the first time, Elise shrinks away—but only for a second.
She straightens. “Atlas deserves better than you for a father.”
“Elise!” Nerida stands, her chair screeching across the floor. “You will not speak to your father that way—not in private, and certainly not in front of our guests!”
Elise glowers for a long, charged moment, her shoulders squared and arms folded in front of her. Finally, she snaps, “I need some fresh air.”
She turns to leave the room, and as she passes Mercy, she leans down to whisper, “Forgive me.”
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence—punctuated by the scraping of silverware and the occasional request to pass a platter—conversation returns to the table, although the topic of Beggars’ End is steadfastly avoided. Leon and Maisie are kind enough to engage Mercy in small talk, and she fields questions about Feyndara and its people with polite—if somewhat ambiguous—answers.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 22
