Rare was the man, woman, or child who crossed one of Solstice’s invisible borders after night had fallen. When the shops of the High Market closed for the night, the inhabitants of the Noble District had no further reason to leave their enclave. Every great house might dispatch its lowliest servants to the lower market from time to time, but these excursions were always during the day, the servant sent forth without livery, and generally unacknowledged as taking place. Likewise, no denizen of the city’s other districts ever had good reason to visit the Noble District, and with High Market dark and sleeping there was no business there either.
Tonight, however, nearly a hundred men – the youngest of them rapidly approaching middle age – spread out from the darkest corners of the lower market and ventured into every corner of the subdivided capital city. They slunk through streets narrow and wide, crept into the counting houses of High Market, and lurked in the lowering shadows of the Noble District.
***
Idris Selban was the most successful soul trader in the entire lower market of Solstice. The paunchy, balding merchant took great pride in his success. He dressed in ostentatious fashions and wore jeweled rings on each of his pudgy fingers.
Selban liked to present a flashy impression to his fellow traders and customers alike, but he knew when to tone it down. That was, perhaps, the real secret of Selban’s success. When he was summoned to the great houses of the Noble District, he donned a simple cloak of dull brown wool and covered his sparkling rings with bulging brown gloves. It was important, he had long ago discovered, to avoid the appearance of thinking better of yourself than certain of your customers.
Selban never dealt with archons themselves, naturally, but even the lowest servant in one of the great houses was socially far superior to the likes of Idris Selban, trader in souls.
Take old Frudge, for instance. Olman Frudge worked for Archon Wyrran, purchasing souls on his master’s behalf. Each of the archons had agents such as Frudge, one in every city mansion they kept. Frudge was no better than his counterpart in Winterguard, or even his opposite number across the street right here in Solstice. But old Frudge, he thought mighty high of himself and mighty low of any soul trader not lucky enough to find himself employed by an archon.
The key to Frudge, Selban knew, was approaching the old goat with the awed respect of an apprentice for a venerated master.
Tonight, Selban had once again flattered old Frudge and begged for his wisdom and guidance. At the same time, he’d unloaded nearly sixty souls on the unsuspecting man and gotten near double their worth! It seemed that Archon Wyrran, just recently arrived for the upcoming Conclave, was short on his tribute for the emperor. Not that Frudge was fool enough to say it or even let on, but Selban had seen the clues in the old goat’s somewhat anxious attitude and pounced at the opportunity.
Loading the heavy chest of gold in the back of his wagon, Idris Selban patted it fondly before jerking a heavy blanket over it and shutting the wagon’s tailgate. He rocked once on his heels in self-satisfaction and walked around to the somewhat decrepit mare – no mule for Idris Selban! – that pulled the wagon. Patting the old girl fondly, he plucked an only slightly withered apple from beneath his cloak.
Three things happened so quickly that to Selban, they all seemed to happen at once. First, there was a muted thrumming sound in the shadows across the street. Second, or possibly third – Selban would never be sure – his mare snorted and reared her head, eyes rolling in fear. Last – or possibly second – a crossbow bolt speared the apple in Selban’s hand and plucked it violently away.
In the time it took Selban to connect two of the three events and spin around with his mouth open, ready to cry out for the guards, three wiry men loped out of the shadows and rushed across the street with sharp steel in their hands.
A blade found Selban’s throat in an instant, and a gruff voice spoke hotly right against his ear: “Don’t make a sound, princess.”
Idris Selban closed his eyes, which were already filling with tears, and clamped his jaw shut. He very nearly lost control of his bowels right there on the street corner. The knife at his throat was cold. In Selban’s imagination, it was so much colder than it should have been, as if chilled by winter magic. He whimpered as quietly as he could.
“We'll be having everything in the cart,” the gruff voice explained in what seemed an unusually reasonable tone coming from a cut-throat thief brazen enough to ply his trade on the well-patrolled boulevards of the Noble District. Selban nodded meekly, eyes still squeezed tightly shut.
“Better cut him,” said another voice, from somewhere near the back of Selban’s wagon. “Too much in this buggy to carry. Have to take the whole thing. Easy to spot if any knows to look.”
“No,” snapped a third voice curtly. “Collam said only kill‘em if we absolutely have to.”
“Looks a squealer to me,” said the second voice.
“You a squealer, soul-man?” The question was breathed right in his ear, and Selban felt the knife blade twitch at his neck.
“No!” he cried at once, and was dismayed to hear the fear distorting his voice into what sounded very much like a squeal. Selban knew he was going to die.
Quiet laughter in his ear, joined by the other two. Finally, the curt third voice spoke again: “Dump‘im in the bushes, then.”
Something very hard struck the back of Idris Selban’s head and after that there wasn’thing until a guardsman woke him up several hours later.
***
Jacin Verret adjusted the bright golden cloak on his shoulders, pushing it back from his left side so he could get at his sword easier if needed. His partner, Dav Hetters, chuckled at Jacin’s discomfort. Beneath his amusement, however, Hetters was just as uncomfortable as Jacin. Six years he’d been a Suncloak, and this was only the second time he’d been ordered to strap on a sword instead of the cudgel the city guards habitually carried.
Passing by the pile of water-soaked ash and charred wooden fragments that had been, up until the previous night, a soul trader’s stall near the southern edge of the lower market, Hetters shook his head at the reminder of why they carried swords today.
Four nights of ever-increasing lawlessness spreading through every quarter of the city. It was old Pedderson’s nightmare, figured Hetters. Every available Suncloak was pulling extra duty shifts. Armed parties of as many as a dozen gold-cloaked soldiers patrolled some of the neighborhoods. The still faintly smoking, burnt-out market stall he had just passed gave Hetters a pretty good indication of just how much good the extra patrols were doing.
“Nearly second watch,” said Hetters, glancing up at the sky. The first hints of twilight were spreading over the busy city. “You on with Kracas again?”
“No,” answered Jacin Verret, with a tight shake of his head. He didn’t look at his partner, blue eyes constantly scanning the passers-by for signs of danger. He was really on edge, Hetters noted. “Pedderson switched me over to Wallem’s party.”
Hetters whistled appreciatively. “They're over in High Market, ain’t they?”
“Aye.”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it, Jacin,” Hetters muttered. “Lord Commander’s got me stuck with Fubbin’s squad nights. We get to make the rounds of every tavern and drinking house in the lowest of the lower market. Ten of us in full regalia, smashing heads in crowded common rooms. Dunmir’s mercy, but it’s a way to spend an evening. Fancy trading?”
Jacin Verret looked at his partner and shook his head slowly. “Not a chance,” he said without a trace of humor.
“Didn’t think so.” If Hetters was disappointed, he kept it to himself. “Come on, we’d better get back to barracks before the second watch muster.”
The two Suncloaks turned at the next intersection, winding their way back out of the lower market toward the massive city barracks near the center of Solstice. Ten minutes later, they were passing through the granaries and storehouses that took up most of the central district; they w
ere almost back to the barracks, and the first shadows of evening stretched across the dusty streets.
A group of five men, laborers by the look of them, came around a corner just ahead of the two gold-cloaked men and came to a dead halt in the center of the street. The one out in front, an older man with a grizzled salt-and-pepper beard and the dark complexion of a northerner, pointed an accusatory finger at the guardsmen.
“Looks like we start early, tonight, boys,” he crowed, and all five of them drew slender daggers and advanced.
***
Murdrek Thorne stood at the window of his study, watching the fires in High Market from this comfortable distance. He smiled, appreciating the dancing glow reflected back by the clouds overhead. He could just hear the clanging of bells in the distance, the Solstice fire brigade rushing to contain the blaze. Shops would be destroyed and lives would be lost. Thorne found all of it…stimulating.
“My lord.” It was Stazzik, the archon’s steward in the capital. Absurdly tall and slender, the Solstice native had always been pallid and morose. Thorne hated the man, but he was so efficient, so useful that the archon always found some excuse for not killing him. Turning from the window, Thorne decided Stazzik would no longer be necessary when he took the throne.
So soon now…
“Yes, what is it, Stazzik?”
“My Lord Commander Pedderson of the Imperial Solstice City Watch awaits you in the small receiving room, my lord.” Stazzik’s tone was laconic, almost bored, but Thorne knew his steward was itching for the Conclave to end and the archons to scatter once more. Then he could play at lord of the manor, bossing the servants and managing Thorne’s affairs in the capital without what he thought of as “interference.” Thorne’s smile slipped into a malevolent sneer.
“Calling at this hour?” he mused. “The fool must be getting desperate. What does he want?”
Stazzik frowned, no doubt thinking that if Thorne wanted to know the answer to that he should take himself to the small receiving room and ask the Lord Commander himself. The steward suppressed the frown at once.
“I believe my Lord Commander has come to request the loan of some of your armsmen to bolster the City Watch, my lord.”
Thorne snorted derisively. “I believe you're right, Stazzik,” he said, turning his back and the steward and returning his attention to the far-off fire in High Market. “Send him away.”
“My lord?” Stazzik had a nasty habit of sometimes questioning orders. Thorne gritted his teeth and reminded himself to wait. Once he took the emperor’s throne, he would devour Stazzik’s soul and destroy the body. Until then, the steward was necessary.
“I'll not have my soldiers wearing Suncloaks,” the archon declared in a harsh tone. “If that fool Pedderson can’t keep order in the capital, then perhaps it is time he was replaced. You may tell him I said so, Stazzik. Leave me, and see to it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Thorne didn’t turn from the window to see the steward bow his way out of the chamber. The archon was already deep in thought. So, Pedderson’s Suncloaks couldn’t keep the peace? That was obvious enough, just look at that raging fire.
Lawlessness was on the rise. A crime wave the likes of which had never been seen was sweeping the streets of Solstice. Daring robberies, armed hold-ups, and even murders struck every quarter of the city with ever-increasing frequency. Honestly, it was no wonder Pedderson was making the rounds to beg help from the visiting archons.
Thorne’s smile returned. His force was far and away the largest of any archon’s personal armsmen. His men could take those of any two or even three of his peers without undue strain. He was certainly not about to let his strength bleed away propping up something as useless as the City Watch. But he certainly wished Pedderson luck with the others. Yes, let them send their personal guardsmen to help the Suncloaks with this crime wave. Let them weaken themselves.
Murdrek Thorne was no fool. He knew what this rash of thieving and violence signified. He could guess what was coming.
Idly, he wondered if that gutterweave girl had found her way back to her friends. Perhaps she had. Or maybe she was dead in the woods somewhere, and the daring gang of thieves acted without her. Either way, he knew who was behind the crime spree and he knew what their ultimate goal must be.
Thorne laughed in dark anticipation.
Chapter 21 - Assault on the Archons
Passing yet another heavily armed Suncloak patrol, Kal resisted the urge to avert her eyes or change direction. Instead, she forced a cheery smile and nodded to the officer leading the band of eight gold-cloaked men. He ignored her, as did his men.
“Dunmir, Kal,” said Shel, pausing in front of a fabric-seller and running her hands over the bolts of cloth displayed out front on one of three cheap, wooden trestle-tables. “You're as jumpy as a hare.”
Schooling her features, the honey-haired thief stepped out of the street and leaned forward to examine the same bolt of cloth. Her eyes darted from side to side in a sweeping check of the sidewalk, then fixed on Shel irritably.
“There must be five hundred guardsmen on the streets,” she said in a hissed whisper. “I'm a little nervous about that, okay?”
“They're right where they're supposed to be,” said Shel with an unconcerned shrug. “Collam’s friends have the Suncloaks on edge, maybe, but they're also got them occupied. That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah,” muttered Kal. “And any minute now, the floodgates are going to open. Shouldn’t we be getting in place, not standing around gawping at fancy cloth?”
Shel straightened, turning away from the displayed fabrics with a small, indulgent smile. “There’s plenty of time, yet, Kal,” she said. “But, very well, let’s continue on for a while. I remember a goldsmith’s on the Street of Wonders…”
“You want to go jewelry shopping?” hissed Kal, incredulous.
Shel’s tinkling of laughter sparkled with genuine amusement, and she slapped playfully at Kal’s shoulder. “Be serious,” she said. “I'm not going to buy anything.”
***
Rori hunkered down at Alban’s side in the thick hedge. They were both uncomfortable, having crouched in the same cramped position since before sunrise. The occasionally thorny stems and branches of the hedge prodded and scratched them whenever they shifted. Alban had told the redhead to go wait with the others, behind Archon Messuren’s abandoned mansion, but she was glued to his side.
“Not long now,” the burly young man said now, peeking through the dense leaves of the hedge. Concealed in this particular bush, he had a perfect line of sight on the front gates of Archon Timbek Norres’palatial estate.
“Alban.” Rori leaned closer to speak in an anxious whisper. “It still isn’t too late to back out of this. It’s never going to work, and you know it. Why get yourself killed for her?”
Alban’s features crinkled in irritation. When he answered her, there was a distinct sneering tone in his reply: “If you want to run away, Rori, no one will stop you.”
The auburn-haired young woman clenched her fists in frustration. She wanted to grab Alban by the shoulders and shake the nonsense out of his head. But the first of Archon Norres’guards had appeared across the street, coming out of the front gates in pairs. She knew she couldn’t risk shaking the entire hedge and giving them away. She gritted her teeth, and tried reasoning with him again.
“This plan is suicide,” she hissed right in Alban’s ear. “We can’t take on the Suncloaks and every single archon all at once! Think about it, Alban. How’s this really going to end?”
The look he turned on her made Rori draw back. His narrowed eyes blazed anger, and his lips were curled down in a contemptuous scowl. “Do you really want to abandon Rez?” he demanded in a hoarse stage-whisper. “Do you? After everything he did for us, you want to turn your back on him?”
“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Rori asked in a small, cowed voice.
“Why would they kill him?”
“Alban.” Rori closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, they glistened with anxious tears and desperation. “We're thieves, not revolutionaries. Does any of this seem like something thieves would do? Shel’s using us. I don’t know what she’s up to, but please listen to me. You can’t go through with this!”
Alban smiled, but the expression was cold and humorless. “I thought about that all week,” Alban revealed. “Do you know what I realized, Rori?”
She shook her head slowly side to side.
“We were never thieves,” Alban said. “Not once we hooked up with Rez. Don’t you see? Rori, who steals souls? Dunmir! The only people who have a collection worth stealing are the archons…and the emperor himself! It should have been obvious. This was what he was after all along!”
The burly young man’s callous smile had transformed into a grin, his eyes alight with a mixture of enthusiasm and admiration for their missing leader. Alban had finally put it all together, and he was amazed by what Rez had done. His pride stung a bit at first, wounded by the deception and the implied lack of trust. But upon reflection, he realized Rez couldn’t possibly have told everybody in the gang. There were too many of them. At the same time, he’d needed a big gang to pull off his scheme.
He wasn’t sure why Shel seemed to have inherited his position, gradually edging Kal out of leadership ever since they arrived at the Midnight Grove. Alban had seen Shel’s powers, of course, and he had to admit she was formidable. In the end, Alban accepted that Kal – as one of Rez’s chief lieutenants – knew the captured leader’s mind better than anyone else; she wouldn’t simply bow out and stand aside to let Shel call the shots without good reason. As far as Alban was concerned, Shel’s decisions had Rez’s blessing – even if it was once-removed through Kal.
“An uprising?” Rori was stunned. But now that it was spelled out for her, she saw all the same connections Alban had. She realized he was right. Rez had always been steering them toward something like this. But she still couldn’t accept Shel’s suicidal plan. “Madness!”
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