by K. Eason
A second good fortune: the Academy did not bother with wards inside its own walls, on its own archives. The Academy trusted the archivist and her biceps to guard the place, reckoning that no one who had any right to the place would need to conjure at the doors. And they certainly never reckoned that someone would be brazen enough to try smuggling a highborn inside.
Snow had done better than try. She’d succeeded. Because there was Dekklis seated at the great table, with a half-dozen scrolls scattered around her in various stages of read and unrolled. Snow’s witchfire hovered over her head like a nosy svartjagr, adding its light to the witchfire braziers lining the room. There were no candles in the Archives. You didn’t bring fire into the library. That was a rule even Snow wouldn’t break.
Dekklis was staring somewhere past the scroll in front of her, into the dust and shadow on the witchfire’s far side. Didn’t glance up until Snow put a new scroll down beside her. Then she startled. Shivered.
“I was just thinking.”
Snow dropped onto the bench beside her. “You’re supposed to be reading.”
“Remembering lessons,” Dek said, as if Snow hadn’t spoken. “Want to hear what I learned as a child? That the Alviri tribes united under Eirik the Bloody and drove us Below. Superstitious, primitive people, the Alviri. They were afraid of us, because we were smaller than they were, and darker, and all that kind of toadshit. So the Dvergiri built Illharek in our exile, and we stayed Below a long time, learning metalcraft and conjuring. The Alviri did nothing in all that time except sacrifice to their gods and steal each other’s livestock. Oh. And kill any Dvergir they could catch Above, which wasn’t many of us. And then one day, we got our revenge. We came out of the caves, and we broke their chieftains, and we imposed order. Then, once we conquered them, we Purged their gods. And, Snow, I learned—as an afterthought—that we Dvergiri had been superstitious, too, once. That we’d followed a god when we first went Above. But we learned better. Like children who grow up.”
Snow shrugged. “That’s all any of us learned, Szanys.”
“But it’s not what happened.” Dekklis flicked at the scroll in front of her. “So tell me, Snowdenaelikk. Is it also superstitious to refuse to talk about the past? To say what actually happened?”
“Superstitious? No. Political. If you want to change history, you change the story. The trick is making sure everyone’s story changes and there’s no one else telling a different version.”
“And we told the wrong story.”
“We told the story that served Illharek at the time. Truth is, the Purge left Tal’Shik alive. And the Laughing God. But they were the tough ones. Maybe the lucky ones. You know we had a whole collection of gods once?”
Snow took her hard-won scroll and laid it in front of Dekklis. Unrolled it gently and weighted the edges with stones worn smooth with years of handling. “There. Look. This treatise was written by Mairut the Blind. Before she was blind, of course.”
“I can’t read that.”
“Sure you can. It’s in Middle Dvergiri. Sound it out. Letter by letter.”
“I can’t read the letters!”
“It’s just script. You saying a half-blood can do something better than one of you highborn?”
Dekklis slipped Snow a look of pure poison. “Just read it to me.”
“All right.” Snow smoothed her hand across the parchment. She hated that spidery archaic hand, with its ink-wasting curls and gouges. Reading it wasn’t her best skill. But Dekklis didn’t need to know that.
“In early times, the Mothers—for there was no other word for sovereigns, then, the Senate having not yet been imagined—ruled Illharek as a council. Of the council, there were two parts, consisting of the higher order, which were the Houses that had been present and contributed to the founding of Illharek, and the lower order, which were the Houses that had come to power since the Sunless War, and which concerned itself on the greater part with trade and commerce and agriculture. But the higher order, whose business it was to govern, and whose word was law, was most engaged with that practice known as theurgy, which is to say, congress with the spirits of Illharek. And of these spirits, several were known. Now, of this theurgy, we can say—”
“Summarize, can’t you? Hell and damn.”
“I see why you went into the legion. Not much of a scholar, are you?” Snow’s laugh was an airless clicking. “All right, Dek. A summary. Theurgy’s a fancy old word for making nice to the gods. Bargaining, yeah? What you give them, and what you get in return. It started out as a science. Very precise. I say my morning prayers, and you, god, grant me success in my business dealings. Or whatever. But then the high council, the one with all your relatives in it, got the idea that if you just gave to the gods, you were proving something. It was like—” She snatched for the word out of empty air, fingers clipping together.
“Ass-licking.” Dek hitched the corner of her mouth up. “Works in the legion.”
“Well. Worked for Tal’Shik, too. Next thing anyone knew, that’s just what you did. No more science, this for that. Theurgy turned into worship. You just offered up your prayers, you made your sacrifices, and you hoped that Tal’Shik liked you best that day.”
Dekklis looked as if she had eaten a bite of rotten meat. “Superstition.”
“Oh no. Superstition’s all toadshit, yeah? This actually worked. The favored Houses rose. Of course, favored changed faster than weather, but maybe since Illhari didn’t get out Above much, they didn’t notice the similarity. Veiko would call it poor bargaining.”
“And what does Mairut the Blind call it?”
“Much the same thing, with a lot more words. She gets really eloquent, near the end, when she’s all pissed off. Calls for a return to proper theurgy, calls for the councils to show some sense. Says that, where is it, there: ‘This slavish devotion to one fickle ancestor is an affront to all that makes Illharek great. It is indistinguishable from the babbling of the Alviri.’ That didn’t make the council very happy, since most of them were godsworn and licking Tal’Shik’s hindmost parts. A coalition of highborn—that’s in the official records—had Mairut arrested. They confiscated all of her property and burned it. They broke all her fingers. And then they gouged out her eyes.”
Snow imagined the woman who’d made those marks on the parchment, and felt that familiar rage she’d damn near forgotten. “She was an Adept. The Academy had some influence. Senate couldn’t kill her. But she was also midtowner. She didn’t have enough family to save her hands or her sight.”
A muscle ticked in Dek’s jaw. “You think it’d’ve been any different, she was highborn?”
“You know it would. You think your mother’d let some senator blind you?”
“She might if she knew the company I keep.” Dek started to say something else. Turned her head, mouth opening, while the witchfire crawled across her face like a sunrise. Then her eyes narrowed, suddenly, at something past Snow’s shoulder.
Snow guessed the reason before Bel even spoke. “You’re not talking about me, I hope.”
Dek uncoiled slowly, like a snake in cool weather. Propped her hip on the table, put a boot on the bench. Casual enough, unless you knew Dek. “I’m guessing you’re Snow’s friend.”
“Belaery.” Snow turned around, fast and smooth. “There you are.”
“Snow.” Bel’s most polite tone, which meant nothing good. “I’m sorry I’m late. And I’m sorry I didn’t remember that you were bringing a guest.”
“Well. I didn’t tell you. Bel, this is Dekklis. Friend of mine from up north, yeah? Dek, this is Adept Uosuk Belaery.”
Belaery hadn’t come any closer. She looked like she might stay right where she was, in the canyon between shelves. “Dekklis,” she said, as if tasting the syllables. Her eyes traveled over Dek’s face, marking bones and build and features. Settled at the neckline of Dek’s very plain, very northern sweater, which came just high enough to cover the Szanys sigil. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“That’s because you haven’t.”
Snow sighed. Dek had this effect on everyone. Take that legion stare that drilled into people, mix it with her highborn sense of do what I say, yeah, and you had trouble.
Belaery was an Adept’s ring past having to take that attitude from anyone in her immediate acquaintance. Her eyes glittered like glass. “That doesn’t sound like a northern accent.”
Dek hooked a finger in the sweater’s neck. Pulled it down and sideways and flashed her sigil. “I’m not northern.”
Fuck and damn, like putting two cats into a closet together. Circle and snarl, everyone’s figurative fur sticking straight up.
“Dek found the first sacrifice,” Snow said. “She saw the avatar, too.”
That got two sets of eyes on her, two flavors of the same you told her that? outrage. At least they weren’t scowling at each other anymore.
Some improvement.
“You told me,” Bel murmured, “that the woman who found the sacrifice was legion.”
“First Scout, Second Legion, Sixth Cohort,” Dek said, matching Belaery for tone and volume. “That a problem for you, Adept?”
“Yes. It is. You shouldn’t be here. Snow. A word?” Bel turned her shoulder on them both. Retreated partway up the aisle and pulled the shadows solid behind her.
“Be lucky if she doesn’t turn me inside out. You hear a squish, you better run,” Snow said, and left Dekklis wearing a crumpled-brow are you serious? stare.
Bel wouldn’t do anything like, Snow was reasonably certain. Uosuk Belaery had never even scuffed her knuckles in a bar fight. Brilliant anatomist, yeah, but a toadshit chirurgeon. Bel liked her subjects on parchment and in theory.
Then again, Adept Uosuk was several rings past needing her fists to do damage, and it looked like she might’ve remembered that. She really could turn Snow inside out. Or she could haul Snow in front of Academy administration for breaking the rules. Cut off a finger, yeah. Maybe two, for bringing a senator’s daughter into the Archives, into the heart of Academy knowledge and power. Belaery could end her conjuring, with a few well-placed words.
Same way Szanys Dekklis could end her freedom, with a warrant for her arrest.
Real fury on Belaery’s face, real betrayal. Snow felt guilty for that and dismissed that guilt in the next breath. There were bigger issues here than Bel’s feelings. It was a pity Dek and Bel didn’t like each other, but Snow hadn’t expected they would. They were two sides of the same arrogance, conjuror and highborn, with a history built on mutual distrust and dislike and dependence. If the Senate sent its legion out against the Taliri, then the Academy would send its Adepts. One wouldn’t go without the other. One wouldn’t let the other go alone.
But now they had a mutual, urgent problem. Belaery would understand that. Or. Snow measured the space between herself and Bel. Marked the width between shelves, and the arc her blade would take when she drew it. One step, one cut, no mistake. —Or she wouldn’t. That was that.
Then, only then, did Snow meet Belaery’s furious stare.
“She shouldn’t be here. Toadfucking highborn, Snow, what are you—?”
Snow cut her off, cool and quiet: “We need Dekklis to understand who Tal’Shik is. Where she came from.”
“We, is it? And why can’t she understand what you tell her?”
“Dek’s not like that. Has to see it herself. She’s—”
“I see what she is. Highborn.”
Snow took a bite of air. Held it. Let go. “Got a better word. Ally. How do you think we’re going to get the Senate involved without her? She can explain it to them. Her mother’s a senator, for the La—love of precious things.”
“We don’t need the Senate.”
“Of course we do. Tal’Shik fucked up before, yeah? She only cared about highborn, and what happened? A few highborn dissidents got the idea of the Purge together, but it was plain Illhari who did most of the killing and dying. You think the senior Adepts are going to deal with Tal’Shik’s godsworn all by themselves? Or with Tal’Shik herself? You need the legion for that, and for the legion, you need the Senate.”
“You said you had a partner.” Belaery licked her lip, as though the word tasted bad. “A skraeling. You said he knows how to deal with the gods.”
“I said he deals with spirits.”
He hits them with axes.
“Which is all Tal’Shik is. So bring him here. Show me what he can do. Prove it. If you have to show some highborn soldier the scrolls, to make her believe, then you can damn well show me what your partner can do. Make me believe.”
And imagine Veiko’s response to that kind of demand. Imagine what he’d say if Bel used that tone and looked at him as if he were some sort of trained animal.
Snow shook her head. Offered a smile that tried and failed at apologetic. “You wouldn’t like the proof. Besides. It’s not just Tal’Shik that’s the problem. It’s Taliri. They’re coming. And one skraeling noidghe can’t stop that. We need the Senate’s help.”
“So you say. Your word, Snowdenaelikk. That’s all I have.”
That was a good imitation of highborn contempt, yeah, not bad for a merchant’s daughter. But Bel hadn’t seen Tal’Shik’s avatar ripping through Ehkla’s body. She hadn’t seen the ruined village of Davni, or K’Hess Kenjak’s angry ghost. She hadn’t bargained with the God, hadn’t died and been dragged back from the dead. Bel was a sheltered Illhari spouting the same I don’t see it, so it’s not real toadshit. In that, she and Dek were almost the fucking same.
Snow grabbed Bel’s wrist. Squeezed with a hand that had learned to swing a blade and climb walls. Not a conjuror’s delicate grip, oh no. Bel knew it. Her eyes pooled wide, flickered between alarm and outrage.
Snow cut her off before she managed a syllable. “You want proof? All right. Here’s how it works. You die. You wake up in a black river, just like it says in Virka’s Customs of the Northern People. And then, if you’re lucky, someone comes down there and leads you back out. You want to experience that? Because I can arrange it. Let you meet my partner that way. Then maybe you’ll listen, yeah? Once you’ve coughed the black river out of your lungs. Once you start seeing ghosts.”
“That’s toadshit!”
“It’s not.” Dekklis came around Snow’s left side. Grim-eyed, unsmiling. “I’ve seen it. Ghosts walking around killing people. Dead women breathing again. Wish I hadn’t.”
Bel pulled her hand loose. Took a step back and cradled it against her chest. “That’s not possible.”
“I said the same thing. I was wrong. So are you.” Dek shrugged. “Why’s that so hard for you? You people call blue fire out of nothing. You.” She flipped her hand at the walls, the floor, all of creation. “You shape stone. You do things. Why are ghosts so impossible? Why is anything? You’ve got all these scrolls. All this history. You can read. Figure out what the godsworn did and undo it.”
“There’s no one left who can do what’s written in here. Listen. Conjuring’s one thing. Godsworn’s something else.” Bel cast wide-eyed alarm at Snow. “Tell her.”
“Dek. Godsworn’s something else.” Snow uncurled her fingers. Looked at her palm and the godmark. “Different sources of power. Different rules. Conjuring doesn’t care who you are, long as you have the skill. Gods, now. Gods play favorites. And you have to bargain. Give them something, get something back. We know what Tal’Shik likes. You willing to stick a pole through some third son to get her attention?”
“Maybe someone else is doing that already.” Dek leaned against the shelves. Crossed her arms. She might’ve been another student, debating the merits of Jussi’s Treatise on the Treatment of Festering Wounds. She looked at Snow. “Did you tell her about the missing highborn sons?”
Snow mocked up a frown and tacked it onto her face. “No.”
And on cue, from Belaery: “What missing highborn sons?”
So Dekklis told Belaery while Snow pretended to listen and watched instead: Bel’s slow un
coiling, and the way she leaned toward Dekklis. The way her suspicion melted into curiosity, Belaery having found a puzzle she hadn’t solved yet, new information.
“You think, what, Tal’Shik’s got godsworn in the city?”
Dekklis shrugged. “Worse than just inside. I think they’re in the Houses.”
Snow tried to say in the Suburba, too and damn near choked. Ari and Kjotvi and Stig’s names turned to mud in her throat. It was one thing to consign imaginary highborn to Tal’Shik’s poles. Another to put Ari and Stig on them, too, and present them to Belaery as evidence. Snow had known those men.
Is that loyalty? Could it be? I thought you were done with us.
Tsabrak’s voice, plain as steel, raised a chill on her skin. Tsabrak’s scent, knife oil and jenja, sudden and stronger than the mildew and dust. She felt his breath on the exposed curve where her neck met her shoulder. She would not look down and left, into that shadow there where the shelves met. Would not.
Dekklis saved her. “You think of another reason highborn men would go missing? Because they’re not running to the legion. And I don’t know where else they’d go.”
Belaery pursed her lips. Glanced conspiracy at Snow. “We’ve had highborn men disappear from the Academy before, haven’t we?”
All the dust in the Archives had collected on her tongue. “Only one I remember. Real toadfucker. Liked to vivisect svartjagr.”
Dek snorted. “These missing highborn haven’t cut anything more dangerous than bread. Pampered sons, all of them.”
“These could be political assassinations. Revenge.” You could feel sorry for Belaery. She looked so hopeful.
“Word you want is sacrifice,” Dekklis said. “Those men are rotting on poles in one of the deep caves. Bet they’ve got godmarks carved all over them.”
“You’re both right,” said Snow, and got them both staring at her. “These are highborn sons. They’re valuable. You take them, make it look easy, and you sow paranoia. And you send a message. The ones who’ve gone missing, Dek—they belong to Reform-minded Houses?”
