by Davis Ashura
Rukh held back a grimace of anger, grinding his teeth in the process. “I’m still a Kumma,” he growled, “and we fight and defend what’s ours.”
“Do what you want. Just shut up about it. And know that attacking even one of us will result in your ass getting a beating,” the lieutenant barked back. “If we have to, we’ll haul you to Stronghold tied up across your ugly horse’s back like a sack of potatoes. I don’t care. Your choice.” With that, the lieutenant turned on his heel and walked away.
As the lieutenant departed, Rukh called out to him. “So is this how you treat all visitors to your city?” he asked. The lieutenant’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t turn around to respond to Rukh’s accusation. Other nearby scouts muttered in anger and threw scornful looks at Rukh.
“What are you doing?” Jessira hissed, grabbing hold of his arm. “This is not how you make a good first impression.”
Following on her heels was her cousin, Sign Deep. The two women shared a similar build, although Jessira was taller by several inches. Sign looked as offended as the rest of the Shadowcats.
With Jessira’s presence, an opportunity arose, and Rukh took it. What he was about to do wasn’t something the two of them had discussed, but it was necessary.
Rukh shrugged his arm free. “I’m only telling what’s the truth,” he said. “I remember how you used to think of me. I was the dreaded and evil Pureblood. You hated me on general principle.” He glared about at the others, daring them to tell him they didn’t think the same thing. “And I’m guessing the rest of your kind probably feel the same way.”
“Like your people were any different,” Jessira said. “Farn wanted to kill me out of hand when we first met, remember?”
Sign glared daggers at him. “Is this true?”
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Rukh answered. “I saved her life more times than I can count. And my reward for all this was exile from my home.” He glanced around at the Shadowcats. “I’m a Pureblood, but I’ll be damned to the unholy hells before I bend knee to any of you or bear guilt for something I’ve never done.”
“Don’t play the victim here,” Sign said, her voice filled with scorn. “You Purebloods are powerful in the world. Privileged. And your kind kills our kind.”
“But I’ve never killed an OutCaste, and I’ve never done anything to harm one your kind. In fact, two of my own, close to me as brothers, died defending Jessira’s brothers, and I almost died saving Jessira. As for privilege, it only exists in the cities, not here.”
Sign looked like she wanted to argue the point, but she never had a chance. Just then, Lieutenant Drape shouted back at them. “Everyone just shut your traps,” he said. “We’re moving on.”
Jessira gave Rukh a disappointed look as Sign drew her away.
Rukh watched them walk away, maintaining his angry appearance even as his heart sank. His way would be better. He just wished it didn’t make him feel so awful.
As deceitful as a vulture and as faithless as a harlot. A sure sword in willful hands ends all such charges.
~The Warrior and the Servant, (author unknown)
The Shektan House Council sat in stony silence as Bree and Jaresh relayed their findings about the Withering Knife murders. It had been two days since Van Jinnu’s murder, and everyone was on edge. All listened with polite interest, but they were all frustrated by the most recent murder. Dar’El, surprisingly enough, was the one most affected. He had taken Van’s murder the hardest, treating it like it was his fault.
Mira, who had already heard most of the contents of Bree and Jaresh’s report, studied the other councilors as they listened. Satha Shektan shared the sofa with her son and daughter, and while her expression appeared bland and relaxed, the tightness to her eyes and her fisted hands revealed her anger. Satha was furious. It was an unexpected finding. She was generally so serene, with a warmth and generosity of spirit as beautiful as her features. In fact, Mira was quietly jealous of Jaresh and Bree for having such a loving Amma.
Her own Amma, Sophy Terrell, was a very different person. She wasn’t gentle like Satha Shektan. She was stern. Amma’s sobriquet, the Hound, was well deserved. She was as unyielding as the walls of Ashoka, and devotion to duty was her highest calling. And she expected no less from those who answered to her. Too often, Mira ended up disappointing her mother. She simply didn’t measure up to Amma’s standards.
Mira snipped the incipient self-pity and forced herself to focus on what was being said even as she flicked a glance around the room.
Sitting in a matching high-backed chair on the other side of the coffee table from Amma was Garnet Bosde. He was an ancient warrior, well into his seventies, but his mind remained sharp. Or so everyone claimed, but lately, Mira had noticed he tended to repeat himself, in both his questions and his answers. It was a worrisome sign, and Mira knew the rest of the Council worried about Garnet, though, for now, no one wanted to confront him on the matter.
“Seventy-six,” mused Durmer Volk upon the completion of Bree and Jaresh’s account. He stroked his luxurious mustache, which matched the color of his shoe-polish black hair, neither of which were in agreement with his seamed face. “More than I had hoped and less than I feared,” he added. Mira knew that Durmer liked to inculcate a stern reputation, but she also knew it was all just a sham. Even as he scowled and complained about seemingly everything, he held a twinkle in his eyes, as if he were secretly mocking himself.
“Seventy-six members of three great Houses who might be our Withering Knife murderer,” Satha said, sounding disgusted.
“We have to reduce that number even further,” Garnet said tartly. “For instance, we know the killer is wealthy—the fragment of clothing from the murder of Aqua Oilhue belonged to a person of means,” he continued. “Has that helped your investigation?”
It was a question Jaresh had already answered, but no one took notice of Garnet’s repetition. Instead, Bree simply shook her head. “No. The suspects that we’ve identified are all wealthy. Any one of them could have afforded the clothing.”
“We were planning on checking into the severity of the limp,” Bree said. “The murderer has an injured leg, but it’s not so bad that he’s unable to fight. Also, we can eliminate anyone who has a limp involving his right leg. The murderer limps on the left.”
“Get back to us with the revised numbers,” Dar’El said.
Jaresh and Bree nodded, but looked diffident, as if they had more to add.
“What is it?” Dar’El asked.
“Drin Port,” Jaresh replied.
It was the name of a Duriah who had once worked in the Moon Quarter; a man whose name had been slipped into Dar’El’s pocket by a member of the Sil Lor Kum. Drin had gone missing in the spring and turned up dead a few days later, floating in Bar Try Bay. It was assumed that he had gotten drunk, slipped off a pier, and drowned.
“No one claimed his personal effects, but when I looked them over, there was nothing to them,” Bree explained. “But I haven’t been able to meet with the physician who pronounced Drin’s cause of death. He keeps rescheduling our appointment.”
Dar’El’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Gren Vos owes me a favor.” He gave Jaresh and Bree a pointed look. “Do you have anything else?” They shook their heads, and Dar’El turned to Mira. “What about Rector?”
“Other than learning about the unaccounted henna and poppy seeds, he’s not made any more progress. Plus, he says the older records are inaccessible. They were apparently ruined in a flood.” She hesitated a moment. “Plus, he says the accountants are starting to wonder why he’s being so nosy. It might cause him trouble.”
Garnet frowned. “Unless they have plumbing in those warehouses, I don’t see how those records were flood damaged. There hasn’t been a storm surge strong enough to crest our levees in decades.”
Mira hadn’t known that. When she turned to Garnet, he merely smiled at her before leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes. “
My time hasn’t yet passed,” he said, seeming to answer the unspoken worries about his state of mind that swirled about the room.
Mira shook off her thoughts about Garnet and considered what he had just said. Was it possible that Rector had lied to her when he spoke of those damaged records? It was unlikely. Despite loosening up somewhat, the man remained as stiff and upright as a vertical plank of wood. He wasn’t one to tell lies or even half-truths. Which raised the possibility that he was the one being deceived. She’d find out soon enough at their next meeting. All she had to do was ask him. Rector was transparent as a clear pane of glass.
“Have Rector find out more about the timing of this flood. I want to know what really happened,” Dar’El ordered.
“He won’t like it,” Mira replied, unsure why she cared for Rector’s concern. “He says the Sentyas in his warehouse have taken note of him.”
“Given he has oversight over their work, why would that be a surprise?” Amma asked. “More likely he’s trying to prey on your sympathies and find a way out of his predicament.”
Mira tried not to wince at Amma’s harsh tone. In times past, when Amma had chosen to rebuke her in public, Jaresh would have offered her support. But that bridge had been burned months ago. It had been a bridge that needed burning, but Mira often wished it could have been otherwise.
“What do you mean the Sentyas have taken note of him?” Durmer asked, apparently disagreeing with Amma’s assessment.
Mira wanted to thank him for his question and intervention, but she kept her face still. She didn’t need another lecture from Amma about how gratitude implied weakness. “They find it unusual for a Kumma to be so concerned about accounting and distribution,” she replied. “They think Rector is being overly inquisitive, and they wonder why.”
“His concerns are noted,” Dar’El said, his voice harsh. “I don’t care what he has to do, but he will learn about those records.”
Mira nodded. “I’ll let him know.”
“Finally, what about the unfortunate Van Jinnu?” Dar’El asked.
Mira looked to Jaresh and Bree, who shrugged their shoulders helplessly. It looked like none of them had learned much about the most recent murder victim.
Luckily, they were saved from their deserved embarrassment when Satha spoke up. “I can help with that one,” she said. “Van Jinnu was a widower and lived in Hold Cavern. He maintained himself on the wealth earned from the two Trials in which he served. Since his wife’s passing almost four years ago now, he spent many of his nights in the Blue Heron, a pub in the Moon Quarter.” She paused and took a drink of water. “All of this is common knowledge, but what isn’t is this: prior to their deaths, Felt Barnel and Drin Port often frequented the same establishment.”
Mira wasn’t the only who sucked in a shocked inhalation.
“Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a conspiracy,” Durmer said. “Something beyond the love of ale linked those three men.”
“Two of them were murdered, and the third died in what is starting to look like suspicious circumstances,” Amma added.
“We need to take another look at Drin’s personal effects,” Jaresh said.
“And speak to the physician who did his autopsy,” Bree added.
After the meeting’s conclusion, everyone but Satha filed out. She waited for the room to empty, and Dar’El took the moment to stand and stretch. He wasn’t young anymore, and his back had grown stiff.
“Sit down and let me help you,” Satha suggested
She guided him to a sofa and began rubbing his shoulders, kneading deeply. She worked her way down the center of his spine, reaching his lower back where his muscles had cramped from sitting for so long. The pain and stiffness slowly eased, and Dar’El sighed with contentment.
“I’m still at a loss on how to figure out who in the Society is Sil Lor Kum,” he said.
Satha continued working and didn’t reply at first. “I’ve given it some thought,” she eventually answered. “From now on, whenever you go to a Society meeting, make sure the pockets of your coat contains a small amount of henna powder mixed with iodase. On its own, the powder won’t stain anything, but when combined with iodase and the oils on a person’s skin, it should leave a mark.”
Dar’El quickly grasped the basics of her plan. “So when this MalDin tries to contact me, he’ll put the paper in my pocket, and the henna and iodase will stain his skin.” He grinned. “I’m lucky to have married someone so clever.”
Satha smiled in response. “Yes, you are,” she replied, kissing the top of his head. “Just make sure to meet with every man there and see whose fingers become stained.”
Her final piece of advice went without saying, and Dar’El couldn’t resist teasing her. “Yes, dear,” he replied in his most put upon voice.
“If you’re going to mock me, then maybe you should massage your own back,” Satha suggested tartly, but there was no trace of threat in her voice.
Dar’El chuckled at her mock-irritation and leaned back, enjoying the feel of her hands. He relaxed as she worked out the tension, and their conversation grew silent, broken a moment later when Dar’El spoke up. “I meant what I said earlier. I am lucky to have married you.”
He sensed Satha’s smile. “You’ve grown wise in your older years,” she replied. “But don’t forget, I was the one who chose you, not the other way around.”
“Of course my queen.”
“Is that more mockery?”
“Never.” Dar’El trapped her hands in both of his and kissed her fingertips.
Jaresh waited down the hall from Nanna’s study, wanting to speak to him in private. The Council meeting had just ended, and the others were slowly departing. Bree was the first to leave with Durmer and Garnet on her heels. The two old men whispered to one another, their heads held close, and one of them chuckled briefly before they passed out of view. Next came Sophy Terrell, distracted and frowning as she spoke to Mira, likely scolding her daughter for not being perfect. As a result, Sophy didn’t see Jaresh until she was almost on top of him. She caught herself in time and muttered a few words of apology before marching on. Mira gave him a half-hearted smile of embarrassment before trotting forward to keep pace with her amma.
Mira needed to assert herself. There had been a time when it seemed like she was starting to do just that. She seemed to have forged her own identity, one outside of Sophy’s stern guidance and disapproval. But shortly after the ending of her…relationship with Jaresh, the prior dynamic between Mira and her amma had reiterated itself.
Jaresh wished there was something he could do or say to help her, but it wasn’t his place. His wisest course of action was to stay out of it. This was a situation Mira had to resolve on her own. And just as important, Jaresh couldn’t allow himself to fixate on her.
His head drooped as he mentally sighed. Once again, just as he had done for every day of the past four months, he vowed to rid himself of all thoughts about Mira Terrell, to free himself of his longing for her. More and more, there were days when he actually kept his resolution, a prospect that left him simultaneously hopeful and despondent. The hope was obvious, but the sorrow was harder to explain. Once Jaresh’s aching need for Mira was gone, it would mean the death of his love for her as well. As he figured it, love lost should always be a cause for regret.
Steeped in melancholy, Jaresh didn’t notice at first when Amma stepped into the hallway as she exited Nanna’s study.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, peering at his face.
Jaresh affected a happiness he didn’t feel. “No,” he said, hoping Amma wouldn’t see through his dissembling.
She likely did but was kind enough not to press him on the matter. Instead, Amma took one of his hands and squeezed it softly. “Let me know if you wish to talk.”
“Of course,” Jaresh lied. He had no intention of ever telling her how he felt about Mira. He could all-too readily imagine the horror she would feel if she ever learned of his Tainted
emotions. They would disgust her. The revulsion in her eyes—it would break him. “I just need to see Nanna,” Jaresh said, changing the subject.
Amma nodded. “He’s inside,” she said, gesturing to the closed door leading to the study. “Don’t keep him waiting.” She left then, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Jaresh took a steadying breath. He needed what he was about to ask for. But to convince Nanna of the sincerity of his desire, he had to remain calm and reasoned. Otherwise, he would be denied out of hand. Jaresh did his best to master his emotions and took another steadying breath. He knocked on the door and entered the study.
Nanna sat at his desk, reading from a panoply of missives and notes.
Jaresh cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about the Trial to Stronghold.”
Nanna looked up from his papers. “What Trial?”
“The one I know you’re going to commission once the Chamber decides in Rukh’s favor.”
“Ah. I see,” Nanna said. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “And after the Chamber rescinds their earlier judgment, why do you assume I will send a Trial to Stronghold?”
“You’ll have to,” Jaresh replied. “Rukh needs to learn that it’s safe for him to come home, and the only force capable of carrying such a message would be a Trial.” He straightened his shoulders. “I want to be part of it.”
“Do you?” Nanna asked. “Is this about proving yourself?”
Jaresh took a moment to organize his thoughts. Nanna was testing him. He wanted to make sure that Jaresh was making a decision based on sound reason rather than a weak-kneed emotion, like trying to impress others. “It has nothing to do with proving myself,” Jaresh replied in what he hoped was a composed tone. “I am who I am. I can’t change it, nor do I need to. I want to go because I am a warrior, and a warrior defends those he loves.”
“Rukh needs no protection,” Nanna countered. “He’s likely safe in Stronghold by now.”
