In the Shadow of the Gods

by Rachel Dunne

  “Which means they don’t know where he is,” Tare said, thinking aloud with Sharra like they so often did, “or that he’s even still alive.”

  “Or that we have him back,” Sharra finished. Her eyes moved back to Rora, then away. “Tare, you mentioned a contract that came in tonight?”

  She didn’t see the dismissal until Tare was leading her to the door. They were always like that, thinking and moving faster’n Rora could keep up with. “Go find Goat,” Tare said. “He’ll give you the details.” She paused a moment before closing the door on Rora. “You did good tonight, Sparrow. And don’t worry. The Blackhands will pay . . . now we’ve just got more options for how.” Then she did close the door, leaving Rora on the other side of it.

  The knife was still on guard, and he looked like he was about to say something. The look on Rora’s face must’ve stopped him, which was good because she was in no mood for talking. She understood it, that she was just a knife, not fit to talk politics and war with the head, face, and hand, even if it was her brother who would be at the heart of all their talks. She understood it, but it still made her gnash her teeth. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Tare had explained the first time she shoved Rora unceremoniously out of the room. A minute later, when she’d swung the door back open and sent Rora tumbling forward, her ear pressed to the ground instead of the door like it had been, Tare’d grinned like a wolf. “It’s just that we don’t trust you.”

  She wanted to go back and find Aro, but she knew he’d be sleeping for a good long while, and not being able to yell at him some more would just make her angrier, until she was likely to punch him in the face while he slept. A contract would help get her mind off the night, if nothing else.

  The knifeden was a string of quiet rooms, all propped-up boards and blankets hung up for doorways, and the common chamber with chairs and pillows and tables. It was full at this time of night, the nocturnal knives talking or drinking or dicing, but they were never a loud bunch. She spotted Goat easy enough—you couldn’t miss that big a man in that small a room. He’d had Tare arrange it, the big divan that barely managed to hold him, getting all the fingers to work together to nip it from one of the classier parts of North Quarter. Rora’d stood with the rest of the pack, trying to smother laughter as they watched the dozen fingers trying to navigate the canals with the big divan propped on their shoulders. These days, Goat didn’t leave the divan unless Tare made him.

  Rora plopped down into the little open space between Goat’s girth and the edge of the divan, and said, “Tare sent me to talk to you about a contract.”

  Goat gave her an appraising look. “This supposed to be a reward or a distraction?”

  “Distraction, but not from what you think. Falcon’s fine. Dogshead just wants me out of the way.”

  Goat nodded sagely, folded his hands over his considerable belly. Tare said he’d been skinny as a stick once, and the best knife she had; but years of being the hilt and just overseeing his knives had made him . . . not lazy, but he did too much eating and relaxing for how little moving he did. He was still a damn good hilt, though, there was no arguing that. “You’re going topside, then. East Quarter, Fishertown. You’re looking for a big boardinghouse with a blue door. Alley side, second floor, should be the second window, but if it’s not a sleeping old man, best move onto the third room.”

  “Who’s the mark?” Rora asked.

  Goat fixed her with the same hard look he always did. “An old man. Old men already have death breathing on their necks, so I wouldn’t spend much more time thinking about it. Go fill your contract, knife.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The trees pressed close, silent and grim. Dobren had whined when Scal had said no fires, but Attemo had silenced his second. Scal had worked for Attemo before. The caravan master trusted him as much as was possible, though it was not much still.

  They were no more than a day from Bastreri, the trading center of northern Fiatera. Not so close that they were safe yet. Not so close that any guards would come to their aid. Close enough to the snowy North that Scal knew the wagoneers would be feeling the cold. Such a thing did not touch him. He was thrice born of ice and snow, and these Fiateran autumns were little more than a brush of wind. They would be cold, though, the eight wagoneers and mercenaries. Cold men shot poorly, swung swords slowly. But they were alert. Cold men listened to the night crackle around them. Cold men would hear the step of a foot, the brush of a shoulder, the creak of leather.

  Reports of bandits had chased them all the way from Corinn. There was a desperation that came with the cold winds, in the men who had to fight for a chance of food. A hope of shelter against the coming snows. There was a desperation, too, in men like Attemo. With winter closing in, this was the last trip his caravan would make for the year. The last chance at a purse full of coin before wintering in Bastreri. A small caravan, so they could move quickly. Few guards, so he would not have to take too much from his profit. It was a gamble, to travel so unprotected in these bandit-haunted lands. Scal had never understood gambling. Attemo said that a touch of fear was what made life worth living. Long ago, Parro Kerrus had told him, A man who risks his life without need is a waste of Patharro’s gift of breath.

  The roving bandits were bravest near Bastreri. An old mercenary had warned them a few towns back, his face scarred by old fights. All the caravans would be flocking to Bastreri for the last of the trading season. Pickings would be rich, for a few men brave enough.

  So Scal stood among the trees, a distance from Verris and his mercenaries with their swords. Attemo and Dobren and the other wagoneers sitting cold atop their wagons and clutching at bows with half-frozen fingers. Scal stood alone, and waited to die. It would not be such a bad thing. He had been waiting for it, since the snows had spit him out into a fourth life.

  A twig snapped—danger. Easy as breathing, Scal found the red anger, the fight-song rising in his heart, pulling at him. A step forward, to the left three paces. His sword bit smoothly into a creeping bandit. A gurgle, no more. Leaves rustled behind him, a quiet wind of movement. Scal turned, sword low, cutting up and through. Warmth spattered across his face and the body fell heavily to the ground. A scream, from the wagons, as strings snapped and metal clattered, the distant sounds growing in frenzy. An arrow sank into a tree at Scal’s right. He moved forward to the camp, head low. It was dark, but the moon was high behind the trees. Enough to pick out friend from foe. His sword flashed before him, a star rising and falling in the night, bringing death where it landed. The mercenaries screamed as they fought, battle cries from men who knew the business of killing. Two of the mercenaries moving together like a storm, their staves whirling. Their sticks sent weapons flying away, knocked men from their feet, but metal-tipped sticks did not kill. It was Scal who sent the fallen men to their gods. And the red was over all, driving him forward. Hungry. Needing. The song of blood loud in his ears, and his heart.

  There were, suddenly, no more foes. It ended. The same sudden way it always did. It left Scal standing with sword raised and red before his eyes, ready to face the next blow. There would not be one. He was never ready for the end of the fighting. The red glow faded too slowly. Left him feeling dizzy and lost. He could feel the others, staring. For a moment, his sword almost moved again. There were still bodies standing. Still blood flowing.

  “Well done, boys,” Attemo called from the top of his wagon, and there was cheering. “Let’s get the place cleaned up and a fire started.”

  “No fire,” Scal croaked through the red. It was dark, but Scal could see the doubt in Attemo’s eyes. Almost, he threw his sword into the wagoneer’s chest. It would take strength, but he could have done it. He stopped himself. Closed his eyes, hoping for the red to fade. Through his teeth, he said, “There may be more.” It had not been enough. It never was.

  Silence, for a time. Feet shuffling. Leaves rustling. The moon, climbing through the sky. Attemo cleared his throat. “It’s cold enough, we’ll chance it. Ring u
p the wagons, we can keep the fire hidden. Verris, you and your men take shifts watching. We’ll need wood. Let’s get moving.”

  There was flurry. A foolish flurry, and the anger was deep in Scal’s chest. Stalking away, sticks cracking carelessly beneath his feet. The first man he found had been crippled by a whirling stave. Finished by Scal, with the sword through his neck. It was easier, then, to remove the head. Gripping the hair, boot against shoulder, two sharp slices. He took the man’s own sword and stalked into the trees, thirty paces from the wagons, and planted the sword into the ground. With some work, the head fit over the hilt. It stared as he worked. Accusation in its eyes. Mouth open in shock. It should not have been so surprised.

  There were only six others. Enough, though, to make a ring around the camp. It might be enough to give pause, to any who would think of an attack. Attemo had hired him to keep the caravan safe. To keep them all alive. It was harder to do, when Attemo would not listen. This, at least, was something that could be done. In the night, fear was a powerful thing.

  With the red fading from his eyes and heart as he planted the last sword, he sank to his knees. Blood dripped slow, small spatters against the ground. A faint glow from the hidden moon, turning the blood to a mirror. He did not like what he saw there. “Forgive me,” he said softly, to the head and to the Parents. He reached up to touch his chest. His painted flamedisk hung there. He had spent all his money on it, after his first caravan, to mark himself a new man.

  He had known a priest, once. A man who loved to see the irony in life.

  “Parents guard you,” Scal said softly, to the head before him and the others among the trees, “and keep your souls. I am sorry. There are things a man must do, sometimes.”

  Scal rose. Sheathed his sword over his shoulder. Worked his way back to the wagons. They did not look at him, Attemo and the wagoneers, Verris and his mercenaries. They would have seen the bodies without their heads. They would know. They would think it a Northern custom, an evil thing of the far snows. They would call him a demon. A beast. A monster in men’s skin. Never would they think he had done it to protect them.

  A man, the priest had told him, so long ago, is never only one thing or another. A man’s heart is much more complicated than that.

  It was silent in the ring of wagons, around a fire that would be seen easily, as Scal retrieved his old wooden bowl from his single pack. He filled the bowl with the stew they were cooking. It was his right. Food and passage and coin for the protection of his sword. He took his meal and walked back out of the wagons. Softly, they began to speak again.

  He ate alone. Alone he sat through the night, with his sword across his knees. Eyes closed but not sleeping. Listening to the night around him. To the sound of celebration, among the wagons. The first battle on this journey, and they had all lived through it. Verris came upon him, once. Patrolling, but he smelled of wine. He turned, wordless, avoiding Scal’s eyes. Through the rest of the night, the mercenaries would stop and turn before they reached him. An incomplete circle, to avoid him.

  Softly, staring out into the snow with his hands folded and his eyes sad, Parro Kerrus had told him, Even the best of men, sometimes, must do bad things.

  It had been seven years since his first caravan. Freshly reborn from the ice and snow, a boy as big as a man. Looking wild as a bear. Heartless as a winter. They had hired him, hoping the sight of a Northman would keep bandits away. Mostly, it did. Always, though, there came a point. An attack, and Scal would do what he had been paid to do. Always, after, they would fear him. Hate him. Give him a pouch of coins and tell him to leave. Drive him away with their own weapons. It was never the same after the killing.

  Alone he listened to the night. Mice in the brush. An owl, flying low. Somewhere in the trees, two mercenaries and the soft sounds of lovemaking. A log being thrown into the fire, sparks crackling in the cold. The night, spinning on around him. Steps. Light on the ground, creeping. Four, five. A pause. Soft voices, cursing, warding, as fear proved stronger than a desire for vengeance against the slain whose heads ringed the camp. Steps again, back the way they had come.

  The only pride a man should take, the priest had said, is in knowing that he’s done a job, and done it well.

  The night was long, but all things end. As the sun touched the leaves, Scal rose. Sheathed his sword over his shoulder. Worked his way back to the wagons.

  Attemo did not drive him off, or ask him to leave. Simply, they all ignored him. None would meet his eyes, as he took some of the cold porridge. Attemo would not look at him as Scal took his place on the bench of Attemo’s wagon. One of the other mercenaries knew some Northern songs and would always try to get Scal to sing, but this day she stayed at the back of the caravan. They were close to Bastreri. They would be free of him, soon enough. If a man could pretend, long enough, that a thing did not exist, he might one day be proved true.

  Sometimes, too, Scal remembered the words of another man. Men are the cruelest of all the beasts, that man had said, he with a bear’s head atop his own.

  A fourth life, the snows had given him. He wished, sometimes, that they had kept him instead.

  Birds sang, and the wind blew. Among the rolling wagons, it was silence. The priest had told him, once, It’s hard, lad, to change a man’s opinion of you. Earned or no, some men will always only see you a certain way.

  Scal pulled his sword from over his shoulder. Saw Attemo flinch. Laid the sword over his legs and pulled out his whetstone. The blade was longer than Scal’s arm, so that the tip of it rested on Attemo’s thigh. The caravan master stared ahead, eyes fixed. Tight lines in his throat, sweat on his brow. Scal whistled, loudly, as he sharpened the edge of his blade.

  The other man, the one whose cloak Scal wore, had said, It is a hard world, ijka. There is no place in it for soft men.

  They reached the gates of Bastreri before sundown. Stopped, to wait in the long line of wagons hoping for passage into the town. Without a word, Attemo set a pouch of coin on the seat between himself and Scal. Silently Scal took it. Jumped from the wagon to the ground and walked, without looking back, into the city.

  There were things he had learned, things that would always be true. Always, men would fear him. And always, men would hire him because of their fear. There would be jobs waiting in Bastreri. There was always work for a man who knew how to kill and did not fear his own death.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was nothing like walking to cleanse the soul and the mind. It had always been one of the deepest truths of Keiro’s life. His earliest memory was of walking, holding on to his father’s pant leg with chubby fingers and coughing at the dust his feet kicked up. He’d walked with wide eyes, then, taking in everything, each sight something wondrous and new to hold in his heart. In the days after his first ascent of Raturo, when he’d gone back out into the world as a preacher, he’d been in the habit of walking with his eyecloth bound tight, honoring the Twins’ dream.

  It had been years now since he’d last worn the eyecloth. It served better wrapped about his brow, to keep back the hair that had grown long and the constant threat of sweat. And, too, it kept his eye free to absorb the new sights that came with each day. Seven years since he lost his eye, and he had never walked the same path twice. Seven years of his exile, and his heart had never been more full of joy.

  He liked to think he now walked the same ground the Twins had once strode, for the lands south of Fiatera had been theirs, in the time when they’d freely walked the earth. They had seen no steps upon this corner of the earth, and so they had claimed it, with their feet and their hearts and their love. Keiro did not claim the land with his feet, for it had been claimed by others after the Twins had left it, and, too, he wanted no lands for himself. But he worshiped the land and the gods who had walked it, worshiped with his feet and heart and love, each step a whisper of prayer. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, though his journey had no true ending. The pilgrimage was the walking itself, for his feet had taken him farther than th
e Twins’ ever had, but the walking was truly all Keiro could ask for.

  The first year he had gone west, and in the years that followed he’d gone as far west as west went. Truly, Keiro hadn’t known the world was so big. He’d known of Bragia and Montevelle, the countries hidden behind the Tashat Mountains, and the hilly lands below them populated by the Shrevan nomads. The Bragians had been kind and welcoming, the Montevellese hostile. The nomads had been something else entirely; distant at first, nothing more than a retreating cloud of dust given life by their horses’ hooves. The first to approach him had been a youth, full of bravado and bluster, pushing his horse in tight-stepping circles around Keiro until the mouth-sore beast had thrown the boy to the ground, and he and Keiro had both laughed about that. The Shurou tribe had welcomed Keiro in for a time, had eventually accepted him as a part of their sprawling, extended family. They’d given him the greatest gift among their culture: a horse of his own, a bright-eyed filly who loved a journey as much as Keiro. He’d cherished that horse, until he’d come to the wide river-that-ran-from-the-sun, which the nomads said stretched all the way to the sun’s distant home, and he’d had to see if that was true. He’d never found the river’s birthplace, but at the crossing he had found, far northwest of the Shrevan lands, the dark-skinned women who manned the crossing had given him passage in exchange for the horse—though the transaction was done in simplistic hand gestures and much jabbing of chests, for they used words Keiro had never heard before. The crossing was too rich a temptation for him to refuse, much as he loved the horse. Finally he saw the far bank of the river he’d followed for so long, and kept going west from there. The dark-skinned people had stared and laughed at him, until a young woman, grinning, had woven braids and beads into his hair and beard. They stared less, then, and the girl walked with him for a time. “Algi,” she told him, holding one hand over her eyes, the other over her heart. He mimed the motions and named himself, but she always called him “Erokiyn.” He would learn later that it meant “old man,” and he would laugh at it. With the sun turning his skin to leather and bleaching his hair to near white, he could hardly say he didn’t look the name. In time, once they’d learned some of the other’s words, she’d listened to his talk of the Twins and their Parents, but had shaken her head and told him of her sun god. He sounded much like Patharro.