City of Night

by Michelle West

  Kallandras studied him for a moment. “You did not arrive here with Sigurne’s party.”

  “No. I arrived with Hectore of Araven, and if I have not offended him by evening’s end, it is likely I will leave that way as well. Why?”

  “I was asked, by an acquaintance, to deliver something to you, should you be in attendance this eve.”

  Had Kallandras not been a Senniel bard, Rath’s confusion would have shaded instantly into suspicion. As it was, he still had to work to mute it. “An acquaintance we have in common?”

  “I assumed as much; I failed to inquire further.” His tone made clear that the failure was both desired and desirable, and Rath accepted this—with difficulty—and discarded his questions.

  Kallandras then removed a small box from the folds of his jacket. It was the size, and shape, to hold a ring or small cuff links, and it was old and tarnished. Engraved into the surface of that slightly grayed silver, was a single initial, with its curls and heights so extremely overdecorated it was hard to read. He handed this to Rath.

  Rath’s hand closed around it. “Was there no message?”

  “Given the nature of the delivery, I did not think to ask,” Kallandras replied. He turned, and then turned back, as if drawn. “But given the acquaintance, Ararath, I will say this: I do not know where she leads you, or where she intends to lead you. But she offers nothing freely; the cost of her advice is high. What advice she has given me, I have followed; it has not yet killed me. But I’ve no doubt at all that it will.

  “If she is not yet known to you, and she becomes so, bear only this in mind: she is without pity or mercy, and she will ask more of you than anyone you have met before or might meet in future. If, in the asking, she knows she will destroy you, your life, or those for whom you care, she will ask it, regardless.”

  He had seemed, to Rath, older and urbane. The careful manners, the carefully careless speech, the choice of the right word and the right gesture—all of these implied experience. But absent these, he was younger than he had first appeared.

  Younger and infinitely more angry.

  “Who is she?” Rath asked softly.

  “Her name is Evayne.” Kallandras turned away, and then paused, but did not turn back. “It may be, Ararath, that you will have no cause to meet her. What she sent may be enough.” He left, then.

  Sigurne watched his back. “That was both unexpected and interesting.”

  Rath, looking at the box he now held in his hands, merely nodded. He hesitated a moment before opening it.

  Nested in a bed of blue velvet was a gold ring, a man’s ring. He spared it a glance, no more, and looked up to see Kallandras vanishing in the crowd, as if the crowd were a forest, and he, a small, wild animal who wanted and needed no observers.

  “Ararath?”

  “It is the signet of Handernesse.” His voice was cool; he could keep ice from it, with effort, and he made the effort.

  “I . . . see.”

  “Forgive me, Sigurne, but I do not think you do.” It was too much of an effort. He was shaking, slightly, with anger. The anger surprised him, but not enough that he could loose its grip. “If I am not mistaken, this ring is the signet of Handernesse; it is not a copy.”

  “But—”

  “It went missing some years ago, much to the distress of my father. Another was made, and he wears it.”

  “You are certain?”

  He swallowed the yes that had been forming, and said, instead, “Let me go to where the light is brighter.”

  She nodded. Most of the other mages of his acquaintance—not that they were many—would have merely gestured light into existence without a second thought. Sigurne? She used power for a purpose, and where there was an alternative, she used that, instead.

  Light existed, encased in fine glass that had been blown into shapes appropriate for a garden’s path. They darkened the path a moment by huddling closer to that light.

  Bright, pale white made the tarnished box look infinitely more dingy. But the gold itself, noble metal, was unchanged. The crest of Handernesse was large; it was a ring that was meant to be noticed. There were rubies at the heights of each stylized section of the “H.” Unlike the elegant and nearly unrecognizable scrawl upon the lid of the box, this letter was done in bold, simple lines.

  He lifted the ring out of its blue bed, and held it up to the light. It was heavy, the way gold was heavy; heavy the way history was heavy. Between finger and thumb, it caught light. One of the rubies was cracked. “It is,” he said quietly, “the Handernesse signet. You can see the cracked ruby, even in this light.”

  “When was it cracked?”

  “In story? Hundreds of years ago, in one distinguishing battle or another. I asked, and I believe I received an answer, but I was a child. It was not the battle itself that was significant. It was the flaw,” he added softly. “The flaw that was a matter of quiet pride.”

  Sigurne frowned. “Ararath.”

  He looked away from the ring.

  Matteos Corvel glanced at Sigurne. Something about her expression changed the whole cast of his. “Sigurne?”

  She lifted both of her hands, and spoke a single word, twisting her palms toward her body as she did. Her sleeves fell, drawn by gravity toward the carefully manicured grass that surrounded the standing lamp.

  “Lift the box, please.”

  Rath did as she asked so quickly she might have been bard-born.

  “Matteos?”

  The mage was concentrating as well. “Yes, I see it. Whoever worked the spell upon that case was an adept. It hides—it mutes—everything. Even the magic upon the case itself is all but folded into the protection. With privacy stones and magestones in such common use, this would pass entirely undetected.”

  Sigurne nodded. All frailty and age had fallen away from her face, and only the lines remained, but they now appeared chiseled by a hand other than time’s.

  “The ring, Matteos?”

  He frowned. “The ring seems, to my eye, to be a ring, no more. It is not ostentatious, but it would be noticed, if worn. What do you see, Sigurne?”

  “Death,” she replied. She gestured and the ring flew from Rath’s hand and stopped two inches short of hers, suspended in midair.

  Matteos frowned, his brow rippling as he examined the ring again. And again. After a third time, he grunted in frustration, which was almost as much expression as Rath had ever seen him show. “I do not see what you see.”

  “No. Damn him, where is Meralonne?”

  “He is here.”

  She turned as Meralonne APhaniel approached them on the path. His cheek bore a slight scratch, and blood had beaded along its length; it was not deep. He bowed, slightly, after he had reached her side. “It is possible,” he said, in a flat, neutral tone, “that a writ of exemption may—just may—be required.”

  “May?” Matteos spit the word out, as if it were something wholly unpleasant that he had just been fed.

  Meralonne shrugged. “I feel that it is not in Cordufar’s interest to make public any mild inconvenience I may have caused.”

  Sigurne gazed at him, but the outraged lecture that Rath expected failed to emerge. “The ring,” she said quietly.

  A platinum brow rose. He did not, however, argue. Nor did he lift hand or speak word; he merely looked. But his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked her softly, his eyes still upon the ring that hovered above her hands in the air.

  “I did not; it was given to Ararath.”

  “By?”

  “Kallandras of Senniel College.”

  “Impossible.”

  “It is not hearsay, Meralonne,” she replied, her voice as flat and even as his. “I myself witnessed it.”

  “You will excuse me while I attempt to locate the master bard.”

  “No, I will not.”

  “Sigurne—”

  She lifted a hand, and Meralonne’s eyes flashed, reflecting a brief burst of
light that had not actually occurred. His hair rose slightly in the breeze. It was long; longer than Rath had realized.

  The guildmaster, however, was unmoved and unimpressed. “I will deal with an angry Patris,” she told him. “I will not deal with an angry Senniel College.”

  “I merely wish to ask him where he obtained this ring.”

  “No doubt. You will not, however, do so.”

  Rath now intervened. He had never seen Sigurne and Meralonne argue, and he had no intention of allowing them to do so here. “He was told by an acquaintance, possibly a mutual acquaintance, that I might be in attendance at the ball this evening. She asked him to deliver it to me, should we meet.”

  Meralonne looked at Rath. In the light, the gray of his eyes was the color of steel. “You expected this?”

  “No.”

  “And it is of significance to you?”

  “Yes. Given my life and the choices I’ve made to be where I am, it should have no significance at all—but yes. What did you see, when you looked at the ring?”

  “Death,” he replied. And then, as if questions were now to be traded, he added, “Was this acquaintance a woman named Evayne?”

  “It was the name Kallandras was given. It is not, however, a name with which I’m familiar. And I admit that I would like a few words with her, myself.”

  “That is not always the wisest of courses,” the mage replied. He was still for a long moment—utterly still—before he exhaled.

  “What is the intent of the enchantment upon the ring?” Rath asked, for he was certain now that it was enchanted.

  Meralonne glanced at Sigurne. She nodded.

  “If it is a gift, it is a treacherous one.” The mage lifted a hand, and the ring came to rest above it. “There is a magic upon it that I have not seen in a very, very long time. It is not a magic that is practiced in the Empire, and not a magic that can be easily contained.”

  “Is it forbidden?”

  “It would be. If it had been studied and wielded in a way that the Order could see and understand, it would be. But the Order of Knowledge specializes in those magics that mortals wield; the other magics are less understood because they cannot be policed. This is Winter magic.”

  “But Sigurne noticed something.”

  “Sigurne has had an usual education, and she is adept. Matteos probably saw nothing.”

  Matteos frowned.

  So did Meralonne, although he frowned at the ring; he hadn’t bothered to give Matteos so much as a glance. “It is a death magic,” he said at last. “A Winter magic. But it is subtle, Ararath. Of old, such gifts could be given to mortals—in crowns, rings, necklaces, but in other things as well: swords and armor.”

  “To kill them?”

  “To kill them, yes, but at a moment of the giver’s choosing, if they so chose. They were worn as a symbol of fealty.”

  “Of . . . fealty.”

  “Yes. If you had no intention of ever displeasing your lord, what harm in the wearing of such a trifle?” His smile was cool and unpleasant. “It depends on the lord, however, not being capricious. Given the nature of people, it is not an item I would ever choose to wear.

  “But this is different.”

  “How?” Rath knew, or thought he knew.

  Meralonne again looked at Sigurne, whose lips were a thin, white line. “APhaniel, where was this magic worked?” she asked, as if the effect of the enchantment itself were not of concern.

  “I cannot say.”

  “Cannot, or will not?”

  He did not answer. Instead, frowning, he looked at Rath. “The ring has no master,” he said quietly. “It is death, and it is the type of death that only Winter can give so quickly. But it is not bound to any lord that I can see.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I am not mistaken—and I am aware that it is not my own life in the balance, so I can afford to be mistaken—the ring allows its bearer to call his own death.”

  “There are many, many ways to cause one’s own death. All of them would seem to be more convenient. Certainly less costly.”

  “And certainly more pleasant,” Meralonne continued softly. “It is not a minor magic.” He gestured, and the ring glided through the air to Rath.

  “A question,” Rath said, as he took it.

  “Ask.”

  “What you detect, could it also be detected by the kin?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  Rath frowned.

  “They will see what I see,” Sigurne told him. She glanced at Meralonne, who nodded.

  “And why do you see it differently?”

  “I would guess,” Sigurne replied, when it became clear Meralonne would not, “that he knows who made this ring. Or rather,” she added, as Rath opened his mouth to speak, “who bound it. What will you do, Ararath?”

  He smiled. Taking the ring, he slid it over his left ring finger.

  Chapter Eleven

  4th of Scaral, 410 AA Twenty-fifth holding, Averalaan

  THREE TO FOUR. Not dark, not yet, but cold enough that breath was almost a thin mist in the air. Her breath. Carver’s. Arann’s.

  Theirs: Carmenta’s. Three of his people. She didn’t know their names, but called them One-eye, Asshole, and Dog. They were armed. But so were Duster and Carver.

  Duster glanced at Carver, a quick movement of eyes. He lifted a hand, signed: wait. Fair enough. Three to four were not good odds. She glanced at geography. They could retreat into the short alley between two buildings; the buildings were tall, and had no obvious yards. No real way to back out or run, but no chance that someone could crawl up behind you either.

  Or they could retreat—run—to the crossroads, where Quarry met up with Scaffold. There, the roads were wide, and if there wasn’t a lot of traffic, there was an open tavern or two. It wouldn’t be the first time the den had ducked into one to avoid trouble.

  It would, on the other hand, be the first time that they had no money to spend to allay the annoyance of the tavern’s owner.

  And it might not come to that; three to four weren’t good odds—for them—but they weren’t a guaranteed takedown for Carmenta either. They might get away with exchanging threats, and backing slowly down opposite ends of the narrow street.

  Carver clearly had that in mind.

  “We’ve been seeing too much of you,” Carmenta said. His dagger caught magelight from its perch high above the night streets. Carmenta turned it. Duster almost snorted.

  Carver shrugged. His dagger didn’t move much. “Small holding,” he replied. “Busy streets.”

  “Too damn busy.” Carmenta shrugged as well, but it was a jerky motion. It was also some sort of signal; the three closed in, Asshole coming to stand by Carmenta. Duster called him Asshole because he wore an eye patch. One-eye didn’t bother. Dog began to talk, and it became clear why she thought of him as one: he yapped. She ignored him. For the most part, so did the rest of Carmenta’s den.

  “You’re not working our streets.” Carmenta had to kick the yapper before he could deliver the statement. Like any good den leader, he didn’t much care for interruptions.

  “Look like we’re working?”

  Carmenta spit to the side. But he shrugged again. Odds in his favor, Duster thought, but he was still weighing them. She was looking at the road behind the rest of his den. And at his den, because she didn’t do the talking when they ended up in the same square yards of street.

  She never relaxed. She could tell, by the set of Carver’s shoulders and jaw, when he did, and he was almost always right. But she was used to watching Carver; she was used to watching Carmenta’s den. She was used to scanning the street, in small, brief glimpses, for more of his den because Carmenta knew how to stall. Give him that much; so did they.

  She was not used to watching Arann.

  Carmenta said, “I haven’t seen the cripple in a month. Maybe you’re finally smartening up—”

  And then there was no more question about a double retreat with som
e name-calling and some lame threats. Because Arann—Arann who was slow and who hated to fight and who it was safe to ignore, went berserk.

  Carver stood there. They all just stood there. For seconds. Even Duster was frozen, her arms locked in place, her mouth slightly open. Arann barreled into Carmenta. He was shouting, but it was a wordless scream of rage; there were no syllables. There was no threat.

  There was blood; some of it was his, some of it, Carmenta’s. Arann had drawn a dagger. Neither cut was deep. Didn’t have to be.

  Carver swore, and then Duster wasn’t watching much of anything, anymore. They could retreat into the alley, but if they did, they’d have to leave Arann behind. He wouldn’t move when they moved; he wasn’t even aware of them, anymore.

  Wasn’t aware, Duster realized, as her gaze skirted him, of the spreading patch of red across his left forearm. She slid in to one side, kicked Asshole’s knee, brought her fist up and into the underside of his chin.

  “Arann!” Carver shouted.

  She didn’t bother. She’d seen violence like this before, and she understood it on a visceral level.

  “Arann, Mother’s blood!”

  “He can’t hear you!” She shouted, kicking again, holding the knife’s edge, the knife’s point, back. Not even sure why she was bothering. Dog was uncertain; Carmenta was fighting. But Arann had the reach and the bulk; he just didn’t have the cunning.

  And right now, he didn’t need it. Duster had always said he’d be damn good muscle if he wanted to be. He took another cut, to his right arm, and he roared. The two looked connected; they weren’t. She knew they weren’t.

  Carver tried to grab Arann.

  Carver went flying.

  No one tried to take advantage of it either.

  “Arann!”

  Carmenta went flying in the opposite direction. Arann grabbed Dog, and pitched him across the road. He reached for One-eye, but One-eye jumped back. Arann started to walk across the road.

  “Damn it, Duster—help me!”

  “He’ll take your head off—leave him alone!”

  He looked at her, and then—stupid, stupid, fool—he ran after Arann.