by J. C. Staudt
“With us? No, we aren’t Scarred.”
“You are not Scarred,” Lethari repeated. “I thought you were Scarred. Sigrede, why did you not tell me these were not Scarred men you brought to me?” He launched into a hasty tirade in their own tongue.
Sig cringed at every word, flinching as if being struck. “I thought you knew,” he said, his voice meek.
“They dress like the Scarred,” Lethari shouted. “How could I know?”
“We wear the cloth of our enemies,” Jiren said, before Raith could respond. “Do you see how many we’ve killed? There was too much cloth for us to wear.”
Lethari shook his head. “Pale-skins, even if you are not Scarred, you have given help to Sigrede and Tallis. For this, they owe me dobae foirech. I claim you as my slaves in payment of this debt.”
Ernost grew fearful. “What does he mean?”
“Dobae foirech is the Coward’s Debt,” Sig said. “A warrior who shows weakness brings a curse of disgrace on his lord. If he does, he must pay the cost as he would a debt. It is our custom.”
“Tell him he can’t do that,” Ernost said. “We’re not your property to give him.”
Sig’s face was tight with worry. “Since I brought you here, you are mine by right. I am sorry, but… it is Lethari’s choice. I thought he would be more merciful.”
“I don’t care about your customs,” said Jiren, raising his voice. “Sig and Tally helped us find our way out of the tunnels. We consider them our friends, even if you don’t consider us yours. They’re fine warriors, and they’ve returned safely. They shouldn’t owe you anything for that.”
“Close your mouth, dueieh,” Sig said through clenched teeth.
Lethari was silent for a long while, his face emotionless. Then he laughed, slow guffaws with a moment of dead space between each. “You are a disrespectful dueieh. I do not like this, and I will not allow it. This is my domain, and you will show fear to me. I can see that the only way to get it from you is to make you bow your head. The rest of you will take this lesson and fear me the way you should.”
Lethari gestured. One of his men bowed low and presented his blade, a thick, curved scimitar with a silver lizard’s head pommel. Emerald spikes were embedded along the ridge of the lizard’s skull.
The warleader grasped the leather-wrapped hilt with both hands and slid it from the scabbard. He twirled the blade in one hand, firelight dancing on the steel. “You wear your head-hair like one of us. I do not like that either. It insults me to be imitated by someone so profane. Now, show fear to me. Lower your head, or I will do it for you.”
“Come and try,” Jiren said.
“Jiren,” Raith said. “This isn’t the time for show. Do as he asks.”
Lethari turned his attention to Raith. “I am not asking, old man. You think you are a smart one, do you? A wise man. You are wiser than this young dueieh, I will give you that. There are a lot of brains in that head of yours. Brains you want to keep.”
Raith stared into the warleader’s eyes. “Take them, if you have the need.”
“So you are a funny man, too. Good. We will get to you next.” Lethari approached Jiren and laid the blade of his scimitar flat on the young man’s shoulder.
Jiren didn’t flinch.
“He’s sorry,” Raith said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll follow your customs, if it pleases you.”
“It pleases me,” Lethari said. “Striking this man’s head from his shoulders will please me even more. When I am done with this one, we will speak more about what pleases me.”
Lethari gripped his blade with both hands and swung back. The Sons of Decylum gave shouts of protest, but the nomads around were quick to silence them.
“I would advise against that,” Raith said, but the din drowned out his words.
Jiren turned toward Raith and smiled, a look filled with fondness. His hands hung at his sides, blood and pus congealed between the cracks in his skin. Raith wanted to close the distance between them, but there was no time.
Lethari swung his sword.
There was a flash of red light. Steel clattered to the pavement. Lethari gave Jiren a puzzled look, then stared at his scimitar. A hilt and three inches of blade, topped by a line of beaded metal like the melted wax of a silver candle. A thin red line rose on the side of Jiren’s neck, and he wiped it away.
The crowd murmured, shuffling backward a few steps. The color had gone out of Lethari’s face. Sig shifted his eyes, looking as though he wished he were invisible.
“I will allow you to take that back,” Jiren said. “We can pretend it never happened. But if you ever try that again, I’ll tear out your heart, and you’ll die choking on it.”
Lethari lowered the hilt he still held in two hands, noticing the rest of the blade where it lay at Jiren’s feet. “You are yarun merouil. I have heard you could do these things, but I never believed it. They say you cannot be killed.”
“That… is true,” Jiren said. He made a sudden movement with his hands, and everyone took another step back.
Raith noticed him trying not to smile.
Lethari eyed Jiren’s scalp. “You wear the cloth of your enemies. Do you cut your hair like your enemies too?”
Jiren’s hair had grown since the last time he’d been able to shave. He flicked the veil out of his eyes. “My head stays cooler this way.”
“Your head is not good. You look like a mop.” Lethari smiled, the first sign of warmth Raith had seen in his face. Warmth, or fear.
“If you’ve heard rumors about us, it’s because we’ve traded with your people out in the wastes. You must know we’re not from Belmond. We come from far away over the sands. That’s where we need to go.”
“You have killed this many Scarred?” Lethari said, counting their uniforms.
“More. Many more,” said Jiren.
“How many more?”
“Two hundred.”
Sig cast him a doubtful glance.
“Okay, it was more like a hundred.”
“That is a good number. Not more than we have killed in this long year, but a good number. It is enough to pay your dobae foirech, Sigrede. And yours, Tallis.”
A wave of palpable relief swept over the courtyard, letting some of the tension dissipate. Sig and Tally bowed to their lord. Lethari barked commands, and men came to tend to Peperil Cribbs and the other wounded Sons of Decylum.
“We thank you for your help,” Raith said. “Whatever provisions you can spare us for our journey, we will send whatever recompense you require when we arrive home.”
“I fear I cannot give you these things,” Lethari said. “They do not belong to me. All we have here belongs to my lord, the master-king of Sai Calgoar. If you wish to return home, you must first come to the City of Sand with us and beseech the master-king. He is wise and generous, and it would please him to meet yarun merouil. He will help you.”
“We were told you would help us,” Jiren said.
“The master-king is busy with his affairs. But he is worthy of fear, and he is good. Bringing you to him is the greatest help I can give. If there is anything else besides these things you have asked, if it is in my power to do, I will do it.”
“That’s kind of you,” Raith said. “There is one other thing. I believe we have friends who survived when the Scarred attacked us, but who weren’t taken captive. If they’re in the city south, we need to find them.”
Rostand was looking at Lethari, hope written across his face.
“You must come with me when I leave the steel city,” Lethari said. “But this I can do for you. I will send word to my scouts. If even a single one of your men still lives, they will find him.”
CHAPTER 46
Where It All Began
Daxin stood in the doorway of the Prokin family’s cavernous palace, its thick pillars ringed in stratified sandstone. This place had been a second home to him once, a place to take refuge whenever he wanted to forget himself. It had been a long time since Daxin had visited,
and longer still since he’d felt at home in the City of Sand.
Home itself was a lost concept to him now. When he thought of Bradsleigh, all he could think about was Savannah, now the subject of his constant worry; of Victaria, with whom he had shared a household for some fifteen years; and of Toler, whose whereabouts he couldn’t guess. Toler might still be on his route with the caravan, or back in Unterberg tending to Reylenn. Or he could be here, in Sai Calgoar. The thought shook Daxin with a sudden fear. Toler had to have known I was on my way to Sai Calgoar. What if he’s here waiting for me? For the hundredth time, Daxin fingered the loop that had held his skinning knife, and confirmed it empty.
“Maigh Glaive. Good to see you again.” The voice was not Toler’s, nor was his the shape that appeared from around the corner to the next room. Oisen had been a servant in Lethari Prokin’s household for many years. He was older now, even more stooped than Daxin remembered.
“Oisen, how are you?” Daxin said, glad to see a familiar face that wasn’t his brother’s.
“Things here are the same,” said the old man. “You are here to see Maigh Prokin?”
“I’m early, I know. The sentinels in the caolas told me Lethari is in Belmond right now.”
Oisen nodded. “On his way back soon.”
“Daxin Glaive.” A woman’s voice this time.
“Frayla Prokin,” said Daxin, relieved.
“So you already know my husband is away,” she said, dark eyes twinkling as she flowed toward him in a slender green gown that bared her shoulders and was beaded in ivory through the waist. “He is due back any day now. I should think he will soon be on his way home. And what is this, a new style for you?” She twirled a finger over her head to indicate his haircut.
Daxin smiled sheepishly. “It was a bit of an accident. My way here was not pleasant.”
“Ah,” she said, her eyes warming. “You will stay with us until Lethari’s return, of course.”
“I’d be honored,” Daxin said.
“Then come in, old friend. We will try not to have any more accidents.” Frayla gave sharp orders to her servants and led Daxin into the sitting room.
It was dark and cool, oil lamps spreading pools of dim light across the rugs and fine pillows that covered the floor.
Daxin flung himself onto a huge disc-shaped cushion of dark red velvet, embroidered with golden thread. It felt like so long since he’d been able to indulge himself in the comfort he was so used to. There had been times over the past few weeks when he had doubted whether he’d ever experience such comfort again. As he drank the cold, clear water from the clay mug the servant handed him, he wondered why his brother would ever want to forego this type of luxury. For the same reason he’s thrown his lot in with Vantanible; because he’s a malcontent. He’s never been happy with what he has, despite having the whole world handed to him at birth. He’d rather spend his life searching the Aionach for some experience he thinks he hasn’t found yet. Daxin gave the room a quick glance, as if Toler might be listening to his thoughts from the shadows. Aside from his host and two of her maidservants, however, the room was empty.
Frayla draped herself across the seat next to him and turned onto her side. Her gown clung to the contour of her hip and pulled at her breasts. She brushed away the dark curls that fell over her face, regarding Daxin with a look that made him wonder if he’d missed a spot shaving. “Lethari has been pleased with your aid,” she said.
“I’m happy to hear it. He’s kept to his word; the caravans have been coming through Bradsleigh without any interruption all year. Though I hear the other trains haven’t fared so well.”
The corner of Frayla’s mouth drew upward. “To our great benefit, yes. We’ve struck the Scarred Comrades where it hurts, thanks to you.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Daxin said. “I have another blow that needs striking.”
“Lethari will be grateful for every advantage you can give him against the Scarred.”
“I’m glad to help Lethari. I’ve always considered him one of my closest friends, you know. I regret that he’s had to visit me in Bradsleigh more often than I’ve made it here lately. But I do have some helpful news for him.”
Frayla waited expectantly.
Daxin gritted his teeth. He’d held it all in for so long, hiding his thoughts and plans from the strangers he’d been forced to call friends; keeping his emotions pent up inside. He’d known Frayla for a long time; almost as long as he’d known her husband. He was sure he could trust her, if for no other reason than because her motivations were in line with his. “The caravan routes are changing again,” Daxin said. “I have the new ones. Last time we spoke, I gave Lethari the routes and told him I wanted Reylenn Vantanible dead in exchange.”
“Reylenn? Maigh Vantanible’s daughter? Why?”
“Because I knew she would’ve ruined everything if she lived. You understand, don’t you? Lethari did. My family heritage may not be worth much in the eyes of the calgoarethi, but it means too much to me to be spoiled by an idiot and his terrible decision-making.”
Frayla knew. “Toler, you mean. Daxin, a love between two people is exactly that. You may know your brother well and still know nothing about the way he loves a woman.”
“Thank Infernal for that. My brother has gone off the deep end, Frayla. If it wasn’t bad enough that he thinks he’s in love with a Vantanible, he tried to kill me. He caught up with me the day after I left Bradsleigh, on my way here, and told me Reylenn was still alive. Lethari’s Clay-brothers failed. For Infernal’s sake, my own brother would rather see me dead than a Vantanible. How’s that for a slap in the face?”
Frayla was frowning. “I do understand,” she said. “Blood ties are the most important thing. But I also think you have a hard head. You want things to be a certain way, and when they do not turn out that way, it hurts you. So you try to erase what has already happened. What happened to the Daxin we used to know? That Daxin visited more than once every other long year. That Daxin met the love of his life here and never looked back. He took life as it came because he was not so consumed with trying to fix the past.”
Daxin leaned forward on the cushion until his head was in his hands. He’d told Ellicia that he had met his wife in Pleck’s Mill, but that had been a lie. He’d met her here, in Sai Calgoar, all those years ago. From the very first moment Daxin knew her, Vicky had impressed herself upon his life with some powerful force, as though she belonged there—and from then on, she did.
He couldn’t help but smile when he thought of the docks, the flat rock at the end of the pier where he and Victaria had made love for the first time. All those smudged, fraying edges cleared away from the picture in his mind, and the memory of her came rushing back to him. He could see her slender face, smell her fair skin, feel her dark hair as he brushed it with his fingers. He wanted her back, so much. Even if only to spend one more moment with her, however fleeting, he was convinced that moment would be enough. To talk with her. To speak his mind one more time, and to find out why she was gone. To hear her say, once and for all, why she wouldn’t let him take care of her. Why she couldn’t understand that he loved her, needed her, more than he had ever needed anything.
“I know you miss her,” Frayla said. “But do not try to rewrite the past anymore. Not yours. Not your brother’s.” Frayla kissed him then, lightly, on the top of his head.
When Daxin looked up, the last of Frayla’s gown was disappearing around the corner.
The lowest tier of the city always came alive an hour or two before dawn on market day. Daxin had slept off his travels through the previous afternoon and had woken early in the guest quarters of Lethari’s household, amid elegance too excessive to complain about. The life of a wealthy man on the Aionach was harder than it might appear, if only because of the kinds of things a man had to do to stay wealthy in a world where so many others were barely getting by.
Daylight was nothing more than a hint of blue above the mountains to the east when Daxin
stepped outside. He knew how hazardous it could be for an unchained pale-skin to walk the market streets alone, so he had oiled his machete and cleaned the dust and grit out of his gun. He could see merchants scurrying like ants through the market far below, crossing in and out of view under tent flaps and canopies. It was a long way to the bottom, and almost two stories down from here to the next ledge. He’d never been afraid of heights in his younger years, but now, with the wind tugging at him, he found he felt better when he stayed a good distance away from the edge.
Daxin made his way down, past early risers hanging clothes to dry, servants fetching jugs of water, and children playing at sticks in the courtyards. Smoke wafted from the network of chimneys that tunneled between homes, bringing him the suety aroma of eggs and seared meat, and making his stomach rumble. He could have bidden the servants to make him breakfast this morning, but waiting on Lethari’s return was making him too anxious to eat.
When he came closer to the valley floor, he began to smell the sea air, and with it the tang of woodsmoke. The walled-in market grounds ended in a wide gap, where a pathway jammed with carts and herds of livestock sloped downward toward the port cave. Daxin threaded his way through the mob as angry merchants cursed one another in the name of making room for their vehicles. He snatched a handful of mulligraws from one of the carts as he passed, while its owner was distracted with the problem of coaxing the mule that was pulling it.
Tossing the crunchy beanskins into his mouth, he escaped the throng and entered the port cave, forcing the food down despite his worried stomach. The harbor was a familiar sight, a maze of leaning shanties built across the downward slope from the cave mouth to the docks. The air was damp with the green smell of dry rot, the darkness spotted with blemishes of soft light through fogged lantern-glass. But there was also a deeper haze and a stronger smell of smoke from further within.
The ground’s downhill angle joined with the excitement of things remembered to make Daxin quicken his pace. His feet carried him past the Gullwing Tavern, the three adjoining Haelicari warehouses, the Numassi shipwright, a string of fishing shacks, and dozens of other buildings without signage. There were more murrhods walking around down here than in the city. He’d never given them much thought before Eivan’s mention of them in Dryhollow Split; he had always accepted the verminkind as a facet of Sai Calgoar’s seaport society. It took him some time to reacquaint himself with the peculiar sight and smell of the squat, furry creatures with long tails and whiskers, but as they began to appear in greater numbers near the docks, he forgot his biases altogether.
