by J M D Reid
“Ooh, knock him down, Phelep!” she cried as the second thief reversed course and rushed at Ōbhin.
Avena ached to go down there, but she wasn’t one of the guards. Besides, she wore only a thin nightgown beneath her robe. She didn’t fear a pair of sneak thieves. Dje’awsa was another matter. She chewed on her lower lip.
What foul blackness are you working on with Carstin’s body?
Anger burned inside of her. She had spent days nursing the man, keeping him alive for the chance of being saved, and now that disgusting man had his body. She didn’t think he was selling cadavers to surgeons for study. He had something else in mind.
Elohm, watch over Carstin’s earthly vessel. Do not let it be—
The maids and cooks below gasped in shocked delight. Avena glanced at the dark field to see the thief collapsed at Ōbhin’s feet. Smiles appeared a moment later, hitting the miscreant with the binder, ending the chase.
Avena sighed. It looked . . . exhilarating being out there, racing through the dark, pursuing villains. She leaned forward, elbows braced on her windowsill. She shook her head, her eyes flicking across the dark grounds, hoping that maybe, just maybe, a third slinked in the dark.
Movement drew her attention.
A figure slipped through the east gate which led to the small grove of trees on the Breezy Hills side of the estate. Her brow furrowed. The gate should be locked. Just like the postern that led west to the blackberry hill. Her eyes focused on the figure. She leaned out her window to track him and . . .
Pharon?
The butler rushed across the lawn, smoothing his dark jacket and patting at his hair. She tracked him as he hurried to the commotion. Questions danced through her mind. Why was he out in the small grove at night? By day, it was a pleasant place to take a walk, with a small clearing in the center holding a marble bench. A delightful place to read a book or relax and breathe in nature.
Out of sight.
Her eyes flicked up to Modesty shining through a large gap in the dark clouds. The purple moon glowed near full and was straight overhead. It’s near midnight. What is he doing out at this time of night?
She couldn’t imagine Pharon would be up to anything nefarious. He was devoted to managing the household. He kept the books, paid the staff, and ensured supplies were carted in daily from the surrounding farms and shops.
“Avena,” a voice called.
She blinked, staring down to see Miguil beneath her window. He was dressed in his pants, the top buttons of his rumpled shirt open. A flutter ran through her, his face illuminated by the porch jewelchine torches, the steady light painting his handsome, near-beautiful features.
“Thieves,” she said in excitement, leaning out.
His eyes widened. “Truly? How’d they get in? One of the gates?” He glanced at the grove gate. “Was one left unlocked?”
His question stirred through the delight she always had at her promise’s face. “I don’t know,” she said. “Um . . . did you see anything when you checked the horses?”
He woke in the middle of the night to do that.
“No, no,” he said. “Just horses. You know.” His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “Thieves, huh?” His face darkened. “I see Ōbhin has them in hand.”
Miguil’s jealousy always amused her. He had no reason to worry. She was promised to him. Ōbhin was too broken. Their night of drinking, the fuzzy haze that she could remember, had educated her about him. Killed a man for a woman. The guilt had ripped out something from him. That vital part that made a person alive.
Though he seems more like he’s living right now. She knew that was easy to fake. You just didn’t think about that emptiness. You filled it with other things. Healing. Cleaning. Romance with a handsome man.
Solving puzzles.
Her eyes slid to Pharon talking with Ōbhin now. What were you doing out in the dark?
*
“What is this ruckus?”
Ōbhin turned from his conversation with Pharon to see Dualayn marching from the house, the maids and cooks gathered behind him on the porch. Ōbhin hadn’t seen his employer since Carstin’s funeral. The man looked haggard, hair wild, his clothing rumpled and stained.
Are those the same clothes he wore at the funeral? It had been eight days since Ōbhin had arrived.
“Just some thieves,” Ōbhin said, holding back the information about Ust. The man was petty, but would he do more than steal a corpse and unleash boys to cause problems? Would he risk attacking a man under the Boss’s protection? “My guards captured them.”
“Oh, I see.” Dualayn looked around. “Good, good. And it’s night. The date?”
“Very nearly the thirty-fifth, sir,” Pharon said.
Dualayn blinked. “Truly? My, oh, my. I hadn’t realized. Well, the Recorder is just fascinating. The things I’m learning and . . .” He blinked. “The thirty-fifth, you say?”
“In a few more hours,” said Pharon. “Sunrise will be upon us.” The butler yawned. “Oh, my, it is late. I am hoping to find my bed and get some more rest. Unless you need anything, sir?”
“Well . . . thirty-fifth . . . I think we should visit the Daughters tomorrow. Have, eh . . . ?”
“Miguil, sir,” Pharon supplied.
“Have him ready my carriage. We’ll go to the Daughters after breakfast.” Dualayn patted his waistcoat and then plucked out his pocket watch. “Oh, my, the hour. Hmm, I shall seek my bed, too.” The old man turned and headed back to the house, unconcerned by Smiles and Fingers marching the two boys towards the main gate.
“Doesn’t he want to know more?” Ōbhin muttered.
“You captured the boys,” Pharon said. He gave Ōbhin a friendly, even admiring smile. “Well done, I say. And you’re injured. You should have that looked at.”
Ōbhin waved. “Just a scratch.” Then he noticed the watching women and shoved his hands behind his back. “What are these daughters?”
The butler blinked. “Oh, yes, yes, they don’t have the Daughters of Elohm in Qoth, do they? A monastic order. All women.”
“I had guessed that.”
“There are seven orders, of course. These are the Daughters of Patience. They run the Hospital of the Prism’s Grace, ministering to the poor of Kash what medicine they can. Dualayn goes usually once a week to render what aid he can. Sometimes, he takes the sickest back here to heal them in his lab.”
“Do they recover?”
“Some.” Pharon shook his head. “You must understand, he is trying experimental treatments on those who are dying. Sadly, he is not always successful.”
Ōbhin nodded, darkness rippling through him. “I’ll make sure he’s guarded.”
“Very good.” Pharon yawned. “Mmm, Miguil, a word before I retire.” The butler headed over to the groom standing beneath Avena’s window. She was leaning out, staring down at her promised with the bright cheeks of a maiden. Ōbhin remembered their near kiss.
If she wasn’t promised . . .
Least you won’t end up dead on my blade, Ōbhin thought, his chest throbbing. Wreathed in black guilt, he headed for the servants’ entrance to find his room and bandage his wound.
What to do about Ust . . . Shame he’s not like those boys. Embarrassing Ust wouldn’t scare him off but only engender more enmity.
Chapter Fourteen
Thirty-Fifth Day of Compassion, 755 EU
The carriage wheels clattered over Tendril Bridge, carrying them over the narrow ravine of Blue Tendril Stream as it flowed north toward Lake Ophavin. Ōbhin shifted, glancing down into the reed-choked waters. Something dark writhed in the flow. Eels? They crossed the bridge and he lifted his head to study the start of the Breezy Hills Slums, a grimy and rundown squalor at odds with the picturesque estates that Dualayn and others maintained along the lakeshore.
His hand drifted to his sword as the carriage entered the slums, following Angle Road towards the walls of Kash which covered the horizon. In alleys, drunks lay snoring, faces covered in patch
ed cloaks while others stumbled inebriated down the road. Street urchins, faces smeared in ash, ambled down the street in a cheering mass, mobbing around the carriage in a heartbeat while from soot-stained windows, shadowed faces peered out. Workers trudged out of the way of their path in stained clothes, heading to the factories belching coal smoke into the air. A fine soot covered everything, creating rippling smears down whitewashed walls and the exteriors of brick tenements.
Miguil held the reins in a causal hand, hardly paying attention to the streets. His eyes were bleary. Ōbhin felt the same heaviness. Last night had left his mind circling with questions. Why was Ust here? Had he seeded the rumor to test the estate’s defenses? It would go against the Boss’s commands, but Ust simmered with jealousy.
Part of Ōbhin wished he’d just killed Ust. I’ve killed better men. The world would do better without him staining it. He’d humiliated Ust. There would be consequences. Not that Ōbhin feared the man’s abilities.
Dje’awsa frightened Ōbhin. What does he want with you, Carstin?
A squeal of delight burst from the street urchins. It drew Ōbhin’s attention from his thoughts. He glanced back to see Avena leaning out the carriage window, her brown braid, wrapped in a mauve ribbon, swaying down the side of the door. She tossed out brass glimmers, the cheapest denomination of Lothonian coins. The glittering pennies were snatched up by the children’s dirty fists.
“They’re going to hound us all the way through the neighborhood,” muttered Ōbhin as the road bent to go around a swelling hill.
Miguil grunted. “She’s got too much heart.”
Ōbhin glanced at the groom. The handsome youth sat stiffly now, shoulders erect. Ōbhin sighed. Jealousy was an ugly thing. If he knew a way to allay Miguil’s suspicions, he would. The girl was besotted with the youth. His fine features, almost womanly, must draw more than a few maid’s eyes. Certainly hers.
“Miss Avena!” the children began calling. “Miss Avena.”
More coins flung out to their cheer.
“Every time?” asked Ōbhin.
Miguil nodded. “A pain when she’s not with us. Dualayn indulges her. Likes helping people, he does. Fixed my pa’s arm when he got scaled working at a cannery. Thought he was going to lose it. Dualayn charged a glimmer. ‘How can you drive my carriage if you’re worried about your father?’ he said.” A smile crossed his fine lips. “Better than most.”
“Different from most,” Ōbhin noted.
“We’re all different.”
Ōbhin glanced back down the carriage. Avena had closed the sliding panel. The carriage was fine craftsmanship, hardwood stained a dark, deep red, and a leather roof that could be removed for summer days. Large wheels were bound in iron. A pair of dun-hued horses drew it, not the heavier drafts pulling the wagon following them. Smiles lounged on its bench, handling the reins in a loose grip.
Angle Road held a mostly northeast bearing towards Kash, diverting only to skirt the hills that gave the Breezy Hills slums their name. Ōbhin saw nothing breezy about the place. The smoke from the factories stained the air a sickly yellow as it lingered overhead. His eyes burned like he sat on the wrong side of a campfire.
Traffic swelled the farther they went. Soon, they left behind Breezy Hills and entered the Roida Slums. Here, blond foreigners peered out of windows at the flow of traffic. It was mostly men who were marching down the street. Ōbhin noticed the purpose in their strides. These weren’t men slouching to work. Backs were straight, almost marching. Most had green or white cloths tied about upper arms or wrapped around their felt hats. A few wore scarves. Those who had the blue moved in tight, nervous knots.
“What’s going on?” Ōbhin asked, straightening. “A festival today?”
“Nah,” Miguil said. “Heard the high refractor is giving a sermon on the burdens of taxes. King and Parliament signed an increase on grain tax. Bakers are furious, and there’s a new tax on canned goods. Hard winter damaged the roads, or so the rumors say.”
“In Blue lands, right?” asked Ōbhin, beginning to understand.
Miguil nodded. “Where else would King Anglon pave?”
Ōbhin leaned over and rapped on the carriage’s side. A moment later, Avena’s head popped out the window, the collar of her high-necked, light-blue dress just visible. “Something wrong?”
“Maybe this isn’t the best day to go into the city.”
She glanced at the crowd. “Because of the high refractor’s speech?”
“Yes. Whoever he is, a lot of angry men are going to see him.”
She blinked shocked eyes. “Whoever the high refractor is . . . ?”
Embarrassment flushed Ōbhin’s cheeks. Her tone made him feel like a dunce asking why water was wet.
“He’s the head of the Church, Elohm’s chief prism on Earth. He can interpret the Colours and guide us to Elohm’s will. His word holds a great deal of sway.” She shook her head. “You’ve never heard of him in Qoth?”
Ōbhin held back what Qothians thought of stuffy Elohm. “No. Still, this could be dangerous.”
“It’s just a homily,” she said. “He’s a holy man. He’s not going to incite a riot or anything.”
“Dualayn hired me to guard you all. I think we can go tomorrow.”
She sighed and ducked back inside. Ōbhin couldn’t hear the discussion. He glanced at the men they passed. They squeezed out of the way of the carriage, dark gazes following them. The undercurrent of discontent itched his shoulders.
I wish I had a green or white rag . . .
Avena’s head re-emerged. “Dualayn says we must continue on. It has been too long since he’s been to the hospital. It’ll be fine. It’s in the Southern District. It’s a much nicer part of Kash than . . .” Her cheeks pinked. “Oh, dear, that sounds terrible, but . . .”
Ōbhin chewed on his inner cheek as he glanced ahead. The walls of Kash loomed closer. The city had long outgrown its ancient defenses, but the gray curtain wall still reared strong. Angle Road headed towards Patient Gate. A river of men flowed through the yellow-painted portal into the older city.
He stroked the emerald pommel of his resonance blade, scabbard in its sheath and held between his legs. He couldn’t sit with it on the bench. He glanced back at Smiles driving the following wagon and saw the other guard no longer slouched.
“You know how to fight?” Ōbhin asked Miguil.
“Surely you jest,” Miguil said. “I mean, I brawled as a boy, but . . .” He glanced at the sword. “Weren’t you hired for a reason? You killed the bloodfire.”
“We’ll see.”
Ōbhin’s stomach tensed as they neared the gate. Now the carriage seemed to float on a river of humanity, a boat drawn almost as much by the current flowing through the yellow-painted arch of Patient Gate as by the two horses pulling it along. A squad of city guards—wearing tabards of blue and green with the white stag over padded gambesons—stood out front, staves and binders dangling on heavy belts, their eyes hard as they watched the flow of humanity.
All the guards had blue tied to their arms.
The clatter of the carriage echoed as they passed through the thick curtain wall before emerging into the older city. The buildings on the other side, though modest, were made of stout stone and not cheap brick or wood framing wattle and daub. They had a sense of permanence, existing far longer than Ōbhin’s short lifespan. First floors were dominated by shops and businesses, signs out front declaring what goods or services could be found inside. Many upper windows had sheets hanging out to dry or other clothes, well-made linens and leathers.
Rising over the buildings to his left thrust a massive, gray tower. Ōbhin had never been inside Kash’s walls before. Bandits had little need to go farther than the slums. The scale of the spire shocked him. It loomed above, a mighty finger of ash thrust into the sky. He couldn’t look away.
“The Pillar,” Miguil said. “Everyone gapes at it when they first come.”
Ōbhin nodded. “There is no structure that t
all in Qoth.”
Miguil swelled. “We have talented architects. It was raised a thousand years or more ago. It used to be the home of the kings of Lothon before the Palace of Lights was built. The Pillar on the Lord’s Isle in the center channel of the Ustern. From the top, they say, you can see all the world spread out. Or, at least, the Arngelsh Isles.”
Ōbhin could almost believe that.
Another tower, shorter but almost as arresting, soon came into view. Seven colors spiraled up it. Red, blue, yellow, green, purple, white, and orange. It looked almost twisted as it glinted in the morning sunlight.
“And that one?” Ōbhin asked. “More of your famed Lothonian architecture?”
“Elohm built the Rainbow Belfry,” Miguil said, something like awe in his voice. “It rises over the Temple of the Seven Colours. They constructed the temple around the tower. No mortar holds the belfry together and the outside is as smooth as glass. You can’t even see the joints between the different blocks of the exterior. It’s not painted, either. Those stones are that color. When Lothil Boat-Breaker brought our people here, they found it.”
“An artifact from before the Shattering?” Ōbhin muttered, remembering the red-stained woods where he’d met Dualayn and Avena. He’d fought Ni’mod in the shade of a spike of ruby thrusting two or three stories out of the forest floor.
“Like I said, Elohm made it,” Miguil said. “It chimes the hour, the entire structure ringing across the city. You can often hear it at the manor house.”
Ōbhin frowned. He did recall hearing a chime from time to time. A deep and distant reverberation humming through the air. “A mechanism?”
“It does it on its own. A miracle created by Elohm. We’ll see it. We’ll pass St. Jettay’s Square that lies before the Temple. It’s where the high refractor will give his homily.”
Artifacts from before the Shattering abounded the world. Every country had their legends, their own beliefs of them. It was said in his homeland that the tip of Purity’s peak, one of the seven volcanoes that ringed Gunya, was a solid Diamond that reflected the truth of any man who reached its summit. Everyone who attempted never returned, save one man. It was said seeing who they truly were, all their lies and self-deceptions stripped away, broke their hearts. Only Qotherin had survived. His reward, knowledge of the gemstones in the mountains, was a way to give wealth to the poor goat herders eking an existence in the Vobreth Mountains.
