by J. C. Staudt
“A knife won’t buy you a—” he began, and stopped short when he saw the green shimmer on the blade. “Where did you get that?”
“It was the Captain’s. Zhigdain gave it to me when he slew him.”
“Do you know what that is, on the blade?”
Lizneth huffed through her nose. “Too well. Fane and I nearly died from it.”
“Then you must know that it’s nothing to toy with.”
“Of course I do,” Lizneth said.
“But clearly you don’t know its worth.”
“Its worth?” Zhigdain said, overhearing. He and the others were suddenly standing behind them, stretching and rubbing the places where the irons had been.
“Any poison so potent is worth plenty, given the right buyer,” Artolo said.
“And we’re likely to find the right buyer here,” Fane said.
“What better place than a town of criminals and thieves,” Artolo said, giving Zhigdain a needling smirk.
“Then there’s no doubting we must sell this dagger,” Zhigdain said.
“It’s Lizneth’s decision,” Fane said, calling her by name for the first time she could remember. “The dagger belongs to her. It’s hers to do with as she pleases.” He put a hand on her back and leaned in. “Don’t be bullied,” he whispered. Standing again, he looked to the others. “We’d better find ourselves some food and a place to rest. The day has been a long one.”
“Jeigan will see that you find both,” Artolo said, waving a finger at the tall vermilion-headed eh-calai, who nodded.
“I’m going to stay here for now. I’ll find you later,” Lizneth said.
Zhigdain opened his mouth to object, but stopped himself. He was grumbling under his breath as he left with Fane and the two ledozhehn.
“So, this Fane fellow. You and he are…” Artolo said, when the others were safely out of earshot.
“Oh, no,” Lizneth said, blushing. “We’re not.” A thrill ran through her. Something about Artolo’s simple aplomb made her feel at ease for the first time since she’d left Tanley.
The barest impression of a smile passed over Artolo’s face before he spoke again. “About that dagger,” he said. “I’ll take you to see the Poisoner.”
“The Poisoner. Is this someone I should want to meet?”
“Seems to me an item like this is worth knowing how to use,” Artolo said. “The Poisoner is our chemist, and a noted practitioner of all things pseudo-scientific.”
Lizneth touched her thumb to the dagger’s hilt. “Are you taking me there now?”
“Only if you want to go. I’m sure you’re just as hungry and tired as your friends are.”
“I’ve had a little to eat, and plenty to drink. Rest can wait. I’ll go with you.”
“Good,” Artolo said, eyes sparkling in the light of the blacksmith’s embers.
They both stood, thanking the eh-calai before leaving. He gave them a cursory nod and returned to his hammering.
Artolo led her down the shoreline. Lizneth let the waves roll over her feet and tail as they walked. She didn’t let herself cry out when the icy water ran between her toes and stung the wounds on her tail like cold fire. The light was dying in the passage above the village, and the distant pulse of daylight from Sai Calgoar’s port had waned to a dull glimmer.
They walked on in silence for a long while. Every now and again, Lizneth would cast Artolo a glance, half just to look at him and half to make sure he was still there. His eyes would always find hers, as if he’d been waiting for the chance.
“That’s the Poisoner’s place, up ahead,” Artolo finally said, pointing. He turned to her, but as soon as their eyes met, he broke off and looked at his feet. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” he said, looking up again, “but… I like being with you.”
CHAPTER 42
Squall
Halfway down the jailhouse hallway, the Sons of Decylum turned into a side corridor and passed through a series of heavy metal doors. Raith had gouged out the locking mechanisms on his way in, leaving heaps of slag on the floor and gigantic holes where the handles had been. Rostand Beige and the others were doing the best they could to support Jiren and Derrow as they ran. Jiren was still on the verge of falling under, but Raith knew the energy he had transferred to the young councilor would keep him awake.
A staircase descended to the basement, then shot them along a hallway flanked by half a dozen utility and storage rooms. Rostand had pointed out a service entrance on the prison floor plan they’d found. The service door was in the room at the end of the hallway. It was still intact and locked shut, slivers of daylight perforating its edges. But this wasn’t the way Raith was taking them.
Instead, he crossed the room and yanked a thick metal grate off the floor, then leaned it against the wall. “Frasier wanted to know how I got in here past the soldiers. Here’s his answer.”
Propped up against the wall beside the grate was half a mop handle wrapped in a slick wet piece of cloth. Raith lit his makeshift torch with his fingertips and held it over the gaping hole, where a concrete tube plunged about two stories further below ground. A series of iron rungs looped out from the wall like giant staples.
“Shit, we’re going through the sewer?” said Derrow.
“That sounds about right,” Jiren said, and smiled.
“Not sewers. Flood tunnels,” Raith corrected him.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Hardly. Do I smell like I’ve been walking in a river of night soil?”
Derrow was starting to drowse, swaying like a drunk as he spoke. “You don’t smell like a flower, that’s for sure. But let’s be honest here, how long has it been since any of us have had baths?”
“My last was on the day we left Decylum,” Jiren said, leaning against Rostand for support.
“Three days before that,” Derrow said with a smirk. He sniffed an armpit and let out a garish sigh.
“Enough,” Raith said. “Down the ladder with you. If we follow the tunnel, the Commissar’s map should get us to the outskirts.”
Raith descended last, handing off his torch and pulling the grate into place over his head to hide the evidence of their passing. The rungs were cold beneath his grip, a reprieve to the stinging in his hands. Being below ground again was a comfort, and he was willing to bet his companions felt the same.
Where the ladder ended, a circular brick tunnel ran at a slant from one interminable pit of blackness to another. The base of the tunnel was caked in sludge that stank of rot and decay. A trickle of brown runoff sluiced over the sediment.
“I came from that way before,” Raith said, indicating the higher passage. “To leave the city, we’ll want to continue down the lower way.”
Raith made his way to the front of the line, lamenting the number of bodies he was putting between himself and the most pleasant breeze he’d felt in weeks. The wind sailing down the tunnel made his hands go stiff, but it reminded him what it felt like not to sweat. “Careful of the stream. It’s rainwater. Straddle it as you walk, or it’ll soften your shoes after a while.”
He led them down the sloping tunnel and onward for what must have been miles. The men who could stand on two legs took turns making crutches of themselves to help Jiren and Derrow along, but they found it hard to avoid the muck that way. Jiren especially was struggling to keep pace, so as soon as Raith felt safe enough, he let them stop for a brief rest.
It wasn’t long after they started forward again that they began to feel the heat rising. Raith’s torch faded as hints of daylight touched the walls. Soon the tunnel ended at a junction, where the sludge beneath their feet waterfalled into a deep rectangular chasm. White noise climbed the flat concrete walls from a bottom that was further down than the torchlight would reach. A narrow ledge ran around the sides of the walls. Five other pipes poked in around the other sides, spilling drainage of their own into the chasm.
“Now which way do we go?” Derrow asked.
Raith halted
them and took stock of his bedraggled crew. He was exhausted, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, though he knew it’d been the better part of a week since. Even so, he stood as tall and straight as he could manage, willing himself to push aside his cravings and his fatigue for the benefit of those who followed him.
I dare not let them see me give in to despair. Those who look to me now must see strength, and nothing else, until this tribulation has passed. Now is not the time to crumble. “This drain basin isn’t on the map, but I think we’re almost there,” he said. “We should be able to take the tunnel straight ahead and get to the surface. That raises a concern, of course. Finding the surface is secondary to deciding what we’re going to do when we get there. We can’t hope to survive the desert like this, without water, supplies, or mounts.”
When Raith had found the others in the prison lobby, he’d noticed the two nomads right away. One was a broad, apple-shaped man who carried his extra girth in the chest and shoulders. Tribal brandings covered his neck and peeked out below the sleeves of the Scarred fatigues he was wearing. He had a gentle, sloping nose, and a long tail of black hair. The rest of his scalp was shaven almost to the skin. The second man was like a miniature version of the first; shoulder-heavy, but on a smaller scale.
It’s time to see what these men are about, Raith reasoned. If anyone is capable of finding us the provisions we need for the journey home, it’s them. “You two, there. If you wouldn’t mind coming up here for a minute, I’d like to speak with you.”
The two nomads shuffled to the front, where the larger one extended Raith a hand. “Sigrede Balbaressi, but you may call me only Sig.”
Raith took it. The grip was firm, the stubby fingers almost as thick as his own.
“And who’s this?”
“This is Tallis Estalviam. You would call him Tally.”
Raith shook Tally’s hand. Tally didn’t speak. He was at least three inches shorter than Sig, which made him a foot shorter than Raith. The left half of Tally’s head was shaven, while the right half was a nest of coils that bounced like black springs when he moved.
“And where do you hail from? Do you live here in Belmond?”
Both nomads burst into laughter.
Sig finished with a series of heaving wet coughs. He hacked and spat something pasty into the stream, then watched with proud interest as it tumbled over the edge. “Do not say such funny things. Belmond is tolech dom lathcui. Sig is from the greatest and most majestic city that ever was. Sai Calgoar.” Sig’s voice resonated as if issuing forth from some cavernous space within him.
“I am Raithur Entradi. Call me Raith. I’m pleased to meet you, if you mean well toward me and my people.”
Sig was confused. “Mean well?”
“If you don’t mean to harm us.”
“I would not harm one of yarun merouil. Never.”
“They who hide,” Derrow said.
Raith turned to him, surprised. “Do you speak the language?”
“I don’t know much. I’ve picked up a handful of words and phrases here and there, mostly the ones they use for naming. They call us yarun merouil—they who hide—or duairn calgoar merouil, the people of the hidden sands. You know how people call each other ‘dway’ sometimes? That comes from the Calgoàric word dueieh, for ‘man.’ So duairn is one of the plural forms of the word. It means ‘people.’”
Raith stopped him. “Okay, I don’t need a language lesson. You can translate; that’s enough for me.”
Sig was nodding. “Listen to him, he is right.” He pointed at Raith. “Lin merouil.” He thumbed at his own chest. “Ain calgoar suothain.”
“He of the sand eternal,” said Derrow. “That’s what he just called himself. The nomads have a penchant for bragging, so naturally they have lots of different names for themselves.”
Sig frowned. “You would brag too if your blood was purest in the Aionach.” He removed his Scarred fatigues and tossed them into the drain basin with a scowl, as if he couldn’t bear to wear them any longer. Tally followed suit. Underneath, they wore sleeveless tunics and loose leggings made of a thin, gauzy cotton.
Clothing like that would’ve made the journey through the desert a little more pleasant, Raith thought, plucking at his own sticky synthtex shirt. “How was it that you came to be detained in that jailhouse?”
Sig shrugged. “It happens, you know? The Scratches want to know what it feels to be a man. So they make study of me.” A grin spread over his face.
Raith was amused. “I don’t doubt it.”
“We had not let a caravan through to North Belmond all this long year. We had every caravan marked and watched. But this time, one week ago, or two maybe, the Scratches waited for us. We were in the city near Bucket Row, selling goods, trading slaves. Someone must have told the Scratches we were close. The next minute I knew, they circled us. We could run nowhere.”
“You came too close to their territory,” Raith said. “You got too bold.”
“Not too bold. Too big of threat.”
Rostand Beige was curious. “The Scarred are afraid of you?”
Sig puffed out his chest. “Of course they are afraid. Why would they not be afraid?”
“They have guns. I don’t see why they would consider a few tribesmen capable of any great harm.”
Derrow was shaking his head, giving Rostand a warning look. But it was too late.
Sig’s expression darkened, his offenses ringing like alarm bells. “Capable of harm? Capable of harm!”
“Forgive him,” Raith said. “He didn’t mean to offend.”
Sig spat into the stream again. “Gah, titraei ain nuir, ias ticrais abin erulum.”
“What did he say?”
Derrow shrugged. Tally doubled over laughing.
Sig’s eyes were wild. “Give me a blade and set me on the back of a cuarseile. Then you will see how capable of harm I can be. Have you never been ridden down by the calgoarethi? Of course not, since you are alive to talk about it. You will never know fear until that day comes for you. Saiulum ain calgoar. Calgoar oar singurienne.”
“I am of the sand, and the sand runs in my veins,” Derrow said, his voice echoing Sig’s.
Tally’s laughter died down.
Raith braced himself when a vicious smile crept over Sig’s face. He considered the sheer drop behind him, unsure whether he and Sig were about to come to blows. He may have been the larger of the two, but Sig was better-placed if it came to that.
“Everybody loves when the calgoarethi are in the steel city, unless they like paying full price for trades,” Sig said. He looked at Rostand. “But the Scratches are afraid. Yes, dueieh, they are afraid. I never thought somebody would betray us to them. I will skin the man alive if I ever find him. I dare them to try us when we know they are coming. It would have been a different fight, I promise you that.”
“It would’ve been different for us, too,” said Rostand, his words dripping with bitterness. “The Scarred think they own Belmond and everyone in it. They’d rather shoot you in the dark than face you in the daylight. Their treachery is what got us into this mess.”
“Yarun liel, buor bi cha buor, rao yarurec guemien,” Sig said.
Whatever it meant, it came out as a sort of recitation. Tally set to laughing again, and Raith looked to Derrow.
“Some old saying?” Derrow said, returning a blank stare.
Sig smiled. “An old saying, yes. It says, ‘If it does not need to be cleaned, it is not a mess.’ This is no mess you are in. Sig knows these tunnels. He will get you out. You do not worry. I am good with sword, but you should see me with broom. Messes run away screaming. So does my woman.”
Rostand smiled. “She sounds like a smart woman.”
“She hides her broom from me. She says I should stick to swords. I have two hands, I tell her. I can sweep. But she is right. It would not be good to take a woman’s broom. Then she might like to take my sword, and I would have angry woman with sword. Not good.”<
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“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Rostand said.
“You are young, dueieh. Give life time to happen. Swords and brooms are not so different, in the end. Only one of the two is a weapon, but both are for cleaning up messes.”
“You said you know these tunnels,” Raith reminded him, conscious of the time they’d spent standing there. “Can you bring us somewhere we can find food and supplies?”
“That I can. Good thing Sig and Tally came along, or you would be in more trouble than a naked cripple in a rainstorm. Let me have a look at your map, there.” Sig snatched the map from Raith’s hand, neither asking nor waiting for him to volunteer it. He tilted his head, rotating the map until it was upside down. He glanced up at each of the adjoining tunnels across the drain basin. He sniffed the air, then motioned for the others to clear out and give him some room. Dropping to all fours, he leaned against the tunnel wall and put an ear to the brick. Someone’s shoe scuffed the ground. He hissed for quiet. Fixed in place, he listened to the tunnel for what seemed like a long time.
Judging himself a patient man, Raith folded his arms and waited.
“That way,” Sig said, pointing toward one of the side tunnels—not the tunnel straight across, which Raith had indicated earlier. He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees, his baggy white leggings shedding a layer of brown dust.
Raith was hesitant to second-guess him, but he decided to do so anyway. Sig’s tunnel met the drain basin at a lower point, which would make it difficult, if not impossible, for them to get back up here once they’d jumped down. “What makes you think it’s that way?” he asked.
Sig shoved the map at Raith’s chest in a crinkled mass. “Sigrede Balbaressi does not think. He knows.”
Raith wasn’t sure whether to let that be a sufficient answer. He did know how cruel the desert would be to them if they tried to cross it unprepared, however. If this stranger could lead them to water and supplies, Raith would have to be content in yielding to his guidance for now. “Lead on.”
Sig shouldered past him. “Along the way, I will teach you a few things. Like how to be capable of harm.”
