by Jon Sprunk
"It's time to go."
Madam Sanya gave them each a hearty embrace before they shuffled out the back door. Outside, the deep purple of night's final hour lightened into the faint glow of dawn. Umber streaks etched the sky, forecasting poor weather ahead.
Caim led Josey out the fence door and down the narrow alley behind the brothel. Their situation was bleak, to say the least. They couldn't trust anyone now, couldn't go anyplace he normally frequented. Not even his secret bolt holes in dives across the city were safe. He was known throughout the underworld, and his passage would go noticed. Disguises wouldn't hide them forever, not as long as they stayed in the city. The only thing left was to leave.
It wasn't an easy decision. Josey opposed it, of course. Caim put himself in her position and understood why. This was her home, all she had known since she was a little girl. But he had to rely on his instincts, and they screamed that as long as Josey remained in Othir, she was sitting in the jaws of a bear trap, just one ill-fated moment away from being snapped up. So he was taking her to the only place in the world he thought she'd be safe.
Josey started to shake off her drowsiness as they paused outside a chandlery on Fafstall Lane. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.
Caim peered down the street. Folks would be rising soon. He didn't want anyone remarking on two people seen hurrying through the predawn streets.
"No," he said. "But it's what your fathers would have wanted. Both of them."
"We'll return as soon as it's safe, right?"
"Sure." He let it go at that. Would it ever be safe in this city again? "Come on."
They stole across the street and down another alley. As they came around the next corner, they almost walked into a desperate melee. The ancient walls and cul-de-sacs of Low Town sometimes played tricks with noises. Caim didn't hear the fighting until they were upon it. In the middle of a crowded street, a score of militiamen, rural conscripts by their mismatched brown coats and crude wooden pikes, struggled to hold off a mob. Angry cries on both sides were punctuated by the clash of arms. Blue scarves dotted the crowd, but Caim didn't see anyone he knew. He drew Josey away.
Four blocks eastward, she grasped his wrist as the cemetery's dingy walls appeared from the night fog. The stonework was cracked and pitted like old cheese, caked with clumps of moss and climbing vines. Fallen chunks of masonry were scattered about. Wrought-iron spikes, now rusted and bent, lined the top. Once, there had been a contingent of watchmen assigned to protect the final resting spot of Othir's citizenry, but it had been deemed a waste of resources.
"What are we doing here?" she asked.
He nodded to the gate, slouched in its crumbling hinges. "This is our way out. Trust me?"
She pulled herself up straight and nodded. Caim opened the corroded lock with a quick twist of a knife point, and grimaced as he heard a snap. The hinges squeaked as he shoved it open. He ushered Josey inside, then shut the gate behind them. There was nothing for the lock; it was busted well and good. How long before someone noticed that? Maybe were the only ones out here tonight. Sure.
Josey shivered beside him. Caim put an arm around her shoulders, partly to comfort her and partly to keep her from stumbling. The atmosphere of the boneyard was pungent with a miasma of noxious vapors. Swirling fingers of fog wafted across the sparse, gray grass through storm grates in the River Wall.
They didn't dare risk a light, but Caim knew the way. He navigated a winding path through the rows of gravestones. Some were so old their dates couldn't be read. A dozen centuries of corpses lay in repose beneath their feet. A sobering thought and not something he pondered often, but these past few days had illustrated his mortality in ways he'd never thought about before. He doubted whether either of them would survive this fiasco. Where will I be put to rest when my time comes? Dumped in an alley for the street sweepers to take out with the morning trash? Or thrown in the Memnir with stones tied around my neck?
Caim stopped Josey at an old mausoleum near the east end of the cemetery. The words carved into the stone lintel above the heavy bronze door were faded and eroded by time, but still legible. Pieter Ereptos The Last Honest Man of Othir, From His Grateful Brothers.
Caim smiled at the private joke as he heaved on the door. Flecks of verdigris came away in his hand from the handle, but the door opened without a sound. Its hinges were kept well oiled by the deceased's large family of "brothers."
Caim drew Josey inside. Her hand was cool and slick in his grip. He squeezed to reassure her as the door shut behind them. The inside was as dark as the proverbial tomb, but Caim was able to make out a stone ledge with several objects. He found a wedge of flint and struck it against the iron plate resting beside it to produce a spark. After a couple attempts, the old storm lantern flickered to life.
Josey pressed against him as he turned. The interior of the crypt was cramped by a massive sarcophagus in the center of the floor. Great attention to detail had gone into the bier. Upon the lid was carved the likeness of a man in white marble. He was of middling years, dressed in plain but well-cut clothes.
Caim gestured with the lantern. `Josey, meet brother Pieter."
To her credit, she didn't shy away from the crypt. "I take it he wasn't really your brother."
"In a manner of speaking."
There had never been a man named Pieter Ereptos living in Othir, or anywhere else to Calm's knowledge. About fifty years ago, some elements of the city's underworld sought a reliable and secret means to enter the city. Gate sentries could be bribed, of course, but human agents were vulnerable to sudden attacks of conscience. So the various thieves, con artists, sellswords, and other scum pooled their resources to have a fictional "brother" interred in the cemetery. Workers were smuggled inside the crypt night after night for many long months to work on the clandestine project.
Caim reached out with his free hand to toy with the decorative shapes carved into the side of the sarcophagus. He found the one and pushed. Josey yelped as the lid of the stone coffin slid away. Caim caught her hand and drew her closer to the sepulcher. Instead of holding the moldy remains of a corpse, the interior was hollow. Steps disappeared down into the darkness of a long tunnel. A cloying smell rose from the aperture, not fetid and charnel, but the smell of clean, moist earth.
"Come," he said.
He held the lantern before them as they went down into the darkness.
Vassili swept the mass of architectural plans from his desk with a blasphemous oath. Outside the door, footsteps that had been approaching the door wisely turned away.
Robbed of the chance to vent his anger, he dropped into his thronelike chair behind the desk. Scents of sandalwood and ambergris wafting from the hearth did nothing to soothe his ire. He had been at the site of the new cathedral, basking in the realization of his genius wrought in marble, when the news of Benevolence's death reached him. His first thought had been to curse the heavens for their poor timing. Later, he shook with rage as he read the first reports out of DiVecci. The prelate had been murdered. The deed had Levictus's name written all over it.
Vassili mashed his hands together while he paced. Did the man think he was a fool? What with the rogue assassin on the loose killing electors, men he had counted upon in his bid for the prelacy, it was too soon to precipitate the final phase of their plan. This could ruin everything!
He paused with his hand over an Illmynish porcelain figurine. Perhaps things were not as bad as they appeared. The deaths on the Council were a setback, but no one else had enough votes to swing the election. That meant he was still in a position of strength. If he moved swiftly and with purpose, his plan could still succeed. But first he needed to rein in that bastard Levictus. The second thing he'd done upon returning to the palace had been to summon the sorcerer. It was time to remind the man which of them was the servant and which the master.
The lamp over his desk fluttered as if in a stiff breeze. The windows were closed.
Vassili turned, and stepped back reflexively as
the slim figure appeared behind him.
"God's blood, man. What are you doing here?"
While he took a moment to catch his breath, the assassin took a seat by the fireplace. The archpriest's fingers curled into fists, but he forced a calm tone into his voice. Ral still had his sword with the ostentatious silver handle belted at his waist. The security lapse only increased his ire.
"Have you found them yet?" Vassili asked. "I need that girl, and the man-what's his name?"
Ral produced a knife and twirled it between his fingers. "Oh, we're still searching for them. No good having such hazardous tools lying about where anyone could snatch them up."
Vassili frowned. This was a different Ral than the one he was accustomed to dealing with. He went behind his desk and sat down. He considered calling for his guards, but held off.
"What are you getting at?"
"You've been colluding with dangerous people, Your Luminance. All those rumors about war in the north must be driving you mad."
"I don't-"
"Don't waste your breath." Ral reached into his jacket and dropped a scroll on the desk.
Vassili stiffened as he saw the wax seal on the parchment. How could this be? All his most secret documents were kept under lock and key. Then, he knew.
Levictus.
Vassili brushed a hand down the front of his robe as he composed himself. "Yes, I have had dealings with certain entities in Eregoth. What of it? We are surrounded by foreign powers that work toward our annihilation, from the pagans of Arnos to the godless heathens of the western realms. The prelate understood the use of clandestine means to further the Church's mission. The use of assassination as a political lever, for example."
Ral didn't take the bait. "Dealing with the Shadow is sacrilege, and treason to boot."
"Don't prattle to me about sacrilege and treason! I have spent my life in service to the Church. After Immaculate passed, I should have been elected to the high office. Me. Not that dotard, Benevolence. Your failure may have altered the timing of my plans, but nonetheless I will be the next prelate."
Ral frowned as if perplexed as he examined the palms of his hands. "I'm afraid there's been a change of plans. You see, it's not Caim who's been killing your peers on the Council."
Vassili grasped the desk. "I'll have you whipped through the streets for your inso-"
His words dribbled to a halt as he gazed down at the knife's shiny handle protruding from his chest. It was a curious sensation, more pressure than pain, radiating out from his breastbone. A thin line of warmth trickled under his robe, down his belly and into his smallclothes.
Another figure appeared before his desk. Levictus in his black robe. Nothingness reflected in the opaque depths of the sorcerer's eyes.
Vassili wanted to reach for his sacred medallion, to cow the man in his tracks, but his hands refused to obey. His body was too heavy; he couldn't move. He looked to Ral, who had risen to stand beside Levictus.
"You don't know," he whispered, barely able to summon enough breath to speak. The wound began to throb. "You think you've won, but you don't…"
The room spun, and then he was lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling. Little shadows crawled across the coffered surface, so many of them, like a hive of formless black termites burrowing through the palace. Something tugged at his sleeve. Papers rustled in the dark. Ral was going through his desk. Clever boy, he found the secret compartment under the lowest drawer that held the secrets he had killed to protect. Now they were laid bare like his body would soon be, dressed in a white funeral shroud and placed in his stone tomb. He hoped his son would honor his wishes and give him a mahogany coffin. He'd always loved the luster of that dark wood.
The sorcerer leaned over him. An object came down beside Vassili's head-a pale wooden box. It resembled an offering box. When he was a boy his father had allowed him to place their family's alms into the box. The young parish priest had had such fervent, penetrating eyes, always watching him. The pain was fading. It wasn't so bad, dying. He would close his eyes and drift into a deep, endless slumber.
Strong hands rocked him. Metal clattered in the distance. Vassili frowned at this disturbance of his peace. He was a distinguished principal of the Church. He should be accorded all due dignity and respect, not pawed over like a fish at market.
Levictus bent lower. Words fell into his ear, soft as goose down. "Benevolence spilled his last secret as he died, old man. I know who ordered the arrest of my family."
A crumpled piece of parchment was placed on his chest. The indentation of the Vassili family seal stared at him from the bottom of the document like an evil eye. The archpriest strained to speak, but only a dry wheeze issued from his lips. A final surge of indignation constricted his chest, and then evaporated, leaving him empty and weak.
Footsteps drifted away across the cold tiles. Ral departing. Levictus crooned softly as he reached out to the archpriest. Was this a last caress, an act of compassion for a dying man? No, something approached from beyond the misty edges of his sight. A knife, its blade as black as the new moon, colder than the depths of the midnight sea, descended toward him.
Closer… closer… closer…
Vassili's final kiss came not from the lips of his mistress but from the bitter bite of Shadow-tainted steel. He screamed, but there was no one to hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
aim swayed to the rocking pace of his stolen horse. They were on Ithe road, if the term could be applied to the rutted pathway wending between hedges of wild golden-brown wheat through the wilderness of rural Nimea. A colossal stone aqueduct ran parallel to the road, its arches clogged with ivy vines and detritus. A century ago it had carried water to Othir from the purple hills staggering away in the distance. Now, it was a monument to a tribe of humble origins that had gone on to conquer most of the world. But even empires died eventually.
Josey rode beside him on a piebald nag; the animal's mild temperament matched its rider. Since they'd left Othir, Josey had lapsed into a quiet reticence. Caim was content to leave her to her solitude. After their escape through the underground tunnel leading from Pieter's tomb, they'd emerged in the foulburg of ramshackle homes along the western banks of the Memnir River. Caim liberated a pair of steeds and gear from a tavern stable, and they set off into the night. There was only one place in the world where Josey would be safe until he settled their problems, only one person he trusted to protect her.
They rode west past sleepy villages and isolated homesteads. As the miles wore on, the farms and vineyards fell behind and they entered into a vast tract of wilderness. Still, Caim kept one eye over his shoulder. Even though they hadn't seen a living soul in hours, he couldn't shake the feeling they were being pursued. Invisible phantoms prickled his imagination, and not all of them originated from the events in Othir; with each passing mile he slipped deeper and deeper into his past.
A yawn broke the morning silence as Josey stirred and stretched. Caim watched her without embarrassment. The last few days had taken their toll; she was thinner than when they'd met; her face had lost some of its color. Still, there was a core of iron in her that could not be denied.
She caught him staring. "What are you looking at?"
"Maybe we should talk about it."
"Talk about what?" But a blot of color crept into her cheeks.
"About what happened in your father's house when you kissed-"
"I was overwrought," she blurted, "and you had one foot in the grave. It was just a moment of weakness."
"Weakness, huh?"
She fixed her gaze on the road. "It won't happen again."
"That's good to know."
He shifted in the saddle. He wasn't used to riding anymore. His thighs would be sore tonight. Up ahead, trees limned in shades of bronze and gold emerged from the flatness of the plains. Far in the distance, rounded hills pushed back the horizon, and beyond them towered the shoulders of lofty gray peaks.
They passed an old marker beside the road.
Half hidden by weeds, there was no telling what it said, but Caim didn't need to read it. A cardinal perched atop the stone marker watched them as they passed. Caim tried to remember the last time he'd seen a bird besides the filthy pigeons that infested Othir.
"So where are we?" Josey asked.
"Dunmarrow."
Josey stood up in her stirrups for a better look around. "I've never been so far outside the city walls. Do people actually live out here?"
"Few. At least, not many you'd want to meet. We're getting into bandit territory."
"Caim, are you sure about this? We could turn back. There might be people who would help us in Othir."
He snapped the reins. His gelding trotted for a few steps before falling back to a lazy walk. Josey caught up a moment later, handling her mount with practiced ease.
"This person you're taking us to," she said. "He can help us? Who is he? Your teacher?"
"Not exactly. But I trust him, and I don't trust many people. Neither should you."
"All right. So where does he live? On the other side of this wood?"
The path entered a stand of red maples. Cool shadows played across the ground. These woods were no mystery to Caim. He had explored their length and breadth extensively as a boy. They had been his refuge, his castle, his haven from a host of memories that refused to fade, but he had never considered returning until now.
Half a mile after they passed under the leaf canopy, a humble dwelling appeared beside the road. Caim pulled his mount to a halt. Not much had changed since the last time he'd seen the place. A tendril of wood smoke rose from the clay-brick chimney. Roughed logs formed the walls, insulated with thick layers of wattle. The roof was bundled thatch.
"Is this it?" Josey asked. "How long since you've been here?"
"A long time."
Their horses whickered as a heavyset man came around the corner of the cottage. He had a wood axe with a black iron blade in one ham-fisted hand and a load of firewood tucked under the other arm. He looked to be somewhere in his fifties. His broad frame was clad in a homespun tunic tied with a rope over buckskin breeches. His face was uneven from an old war wound that had smashed in the left side of his jaw, giving him a menacing appearance, like a mangled wolf that'd been in too many fights. Watery blue eyes watched their arrival without expression.
