by Sam Sykes
Silf was not an enigmatic god, despite his dominion over thieves. He was the Patron, a businessman: Give him a favor, he’ll give his blessing, and what you do with it is up to you. He didn’t send visions, riddles, signs; that was the province of frivolous, flighty deities.
Which made Denaos wonder, then, if perhaps some other god was looking out for him at that moment.
He had, at least, consciousness enough to wonder that as he groaned to wakefulness.
Before he saw anything, he felt the scratchy sheets of his cot and the pillow underneath his head. The humidity of the Sumps seeped in through an open window, bathing him in sweat. His previous aches had coalesced with the fresh agonies inflicted upon him by the wizard to conspire to make it painful even to open his eyes.
And when he did, he saw her.
The desperate concern painting Anielle’s face didn’t fit her. Hers was a face made for cooler emotions. The lips parted in murmured prayer, the mussed strands of dark hair hanging in front of her eyes, the frown scarring her face: These were features she wore poorly. They made her look unkempt.
Vulnerable.
Upon her recognizing his wakefulness, her face slid into a more familiar contempt. “Moron,” she muttered as she pressed a damp cloth against his head. “The point of being a thief is to avoid danger.”
“How’d you find me?” he asked, voice creaky in his throat.
“Followed your connections,” she said. “Found out who owns these apartments and pressed them.” She glanced at him. “Another part of being a thief is to leave a not-quite-so-painfully-obvious trail.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, “maybe you’re a better thief than a healer.” He grabbed the cloth off his head. “What the hell was this supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” she protested. “I’ve seen healers do it before. I thought that’s what they all did!”
“For fevers,” Denaos replied. “Not for getting the shit kicked out of you by a wizard.”
“Is that what happened? There’s wizards involved now? What grudge do they have against the Jackals?”
“Not the Jackals, just me.” Denaos sat up in his cot, rested his head against the wall.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if there were. Everything else about this is fucked up enough for it to happen.” Anielle leaned back in the chair she had pulled up next to him. “Scarecrow came out of the tunnels, told me what happened.”
Denaos looked at her. “And?”
“And… it gets worse.” Anielle shook her head. “The knives we sent out to mess up the Sainites all had the same thing happen: They got the job done and got ambushed immediately afterward. Like someone had told them to wait for the Sainites to soften them up first.”
“Shit.” Denaos rubbed his face, found his hands greasy with sweat.
“Rezca’s been in a fit, tightening down security, recalling everyone from everything. He’s been decrying this whole operation as fucked.” Anielle looked at him meaningfully. “It is, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be if someone weren’t ratting us out,” Denaos said. “Only the heads knew about this. It had to be one of us. And now they’ve got a fasha supporting them, so—”
“They what? How do you know?”
“They came into the tunnels through Silktown.” Denaos looked back at her. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? A fasha sees the other team is getting the upper hand, reaches out to someone in the Jackals to rig the game.”
“You’ve thought this before, remember?” She leaned forward again, her intentness turning to warning. “Ghoukha’s whole house went up in fire because of it.”
“How else would they be in Silktown? Mejina’s dragonmen have been keeping that place locked down. Someone had to let them in. Now would be the ideal time, wouldn’t it? Ghoukha was the most powerful man in this city and now he’s gone. Anyone would be reluctant to go after another fasha now.”
Anielle blanched, looking down at the floor. “Still.”
“I can’t think of another fucking idea,” Denaos said, rising up and swinging his legs over the cot. “I’ve tried, but I just can’t. This fits, Anielle. Fits like a gods-damned boot.” He rose up, stalked to where he had left his tunic and spare daggers in a crumpled heap. “Find the fasha, find the rat. Find the rat, kill the Khovura’s advantage. Take back the underground, take back the city, take back the—”
“No.”
Anielle hurled the word, rather than spoke it. It struck Denaos against the back of his head, made him almost dizzy as he turned around.
When he had first seen her so many years ago, it had been only a few days after he had sneaked off the boat from Muraska he had stowed away on. She had been a boyish-looking girl: too skinny and too tough, like an overcooked chicken. But he had taken one look at her and hadn’t dared make fun of her.
She had stood strong then, feet planted firmly on the ground and arms folded across her chest, chin upright and daring the world to take a swing at her. No matter what about her changed—when she grew from a girl into a woman, when she grew from a gutter-runner into a Jackal—she had always stood firm. Whether she was seducing a mark, acting the hapless damsel to fool a guard, cutting a purse or a profit or a throat, she had always stood firm.
Until now.
Now, painted dark by the dim, flickering light of the candle on the bedside table, she shook. Now her hands were clenched at her sides in a way that looked almost petulant. Now she was the scared little girl she had never been.
And Denaos found that frightened him more than anything else.
“No?” he asked.
“No, Ramaniel. Just…” She shook her head. “Fucking no. No more.” She approached him. “No more gang wars. No more fasha conspiracies. No more fucking Khovura turning into demons. No more… no more of this.” She gestured to his open window. “We always knew this was going to happen someday. We cut down the gangs that came before us knowing that we’d be cut down ourselves, eventually.”
“I don’t remember having that discussion,” Denaos said, “or that thought.”
“Then you’re a fucking idiot. We played a good game. We cut them up bad. But they’re not playing by the rules and we don’t have the time or the men to learn the new ones.” She drew close to him. Close enough that her breath felt hot on his skin. “We’ve lost. I’ve lost friends, money, almost everything.”
She reached up. She laid her hands upon his shoulders, shaking so badly he thought they might throttle him. But in another moment they calmed, sliding down and settling upon his chest so that he could feel his heartbeat press against her palms. She looked up at him, the desperation in her eyes clouded by tears.
“I’m not going to lose the rest.”
Anielle’s hands ran across his chest, up his neck, cradled his jaw. There was no tenderness in her touch, no delicacy in fingers fit for cracking locks as easily as they braided hair. Her fingers betrayed only tension and desperation, a need to hold him, a need to remind herself that he was still there.
He knew the sensation keenly. He could feel it in his own hands as they slid down and settled upon her hips.
Maybe that was why he didn’t resist as she drew his face close to hers. Maybe that was why he closed his eyes and let his aches and pains fade away as she pressed her lips against his. Maybe that was why he found his fingers curling under the hem of her shirt.
He tore the garment free from her as she raised her hands over her head. Her tight-fitting undershirt came after, both garments pooling upon the floor in a heap.
Beneath the leather and cloth, he scarcely recognized her body. Her breasts were full now and her hips sloped away from her waist in a womanly curve. Yet in the core of her body and the way her ribs showed as her arms stretched overhead, she was still the skinny little girl he had known so long ago.
And he was still the same scared little pale boy. The remainder of his clothes came off with their own desperation, eager to do this, lest she slip away while his hands were off her and disappear
into the night and leave him alone. He tossed his breeches aside, slipped out of his drawers, and took her by the shoulders.
In kinder times, in nicer rooms, in better days, he would have guided her down gently like the man he had once been. But these were not those days. These were the bad days, when shadows were for blades, not lovers, and things were done harshly.
He threw her down upon the cot, heard her gasp as he hooked his fingers into the waist of her breeches and pulled them free, tossing them aside. Her hand was up in an instant, seizing him by the hair and drawing a pained snarl from him as she pulled him down on top of her.
No room for words between them. No room to ponder what a bad idea this might be, why they’d stopped doing it in the first place. No room for the doubts and fears and sorrows of these past weeks. They pressed themselves so tightly, feeling their skin slick with each other’s sweat, that there was no room for anything but each other.
Only her fingers in his hair, his lips at her throat, and the sound of her breath escaping her in a moan as her legs coiled around him and he entered her.
There was nothing kind about it. There was nothing soft about his hips pressing against hers as he entered her, about her arms looping around his neck and pulling him close, about his fingers twisting in her hair. There was no tenderness, no romance, no easy sighs of satisfaction.
They were not that kind of people. And no matter how many names they had taken over the years, they could never pretend to be.
They were Ramaniel and Anielle, two young punks out of the gutters of Harbor Road. They were wild youths who had smashed wine bottles against walls and fallen into drunken embraces in back alleys. They were cutthroats who had made love on rooftops as rival gangs’ hideouts burned in the streets below. They were Jackals who wore identities easily and tossed them aside just as easily.
Whatever was left beneath those identities was what they clung to now.
No names. No words. No lies.
Just each other.
And when she craned her head back and let out a scream, and when his grunt came with an agony all its own, and when they fell limp and breathless into each other, whatever they had left was something they dared not let go of.
And when they lay still, when a passing breeze blew through the window and brought brief relief from the humidity, there was still no gentleness. They clung to each other, reluctant to let go and return to a world where shadows brought no comfort.
Denaos stared a long time at the wood of the ceiling. And when she spoke first, he only barely heard her.
“Let’s run.”
“What?”
“I want to leave.” Anielle spoke into the night, not looking at him. “Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight if possible. Head to Jalaang, take a boat upriver, and cross the mountains into Muraska. I want you to come with me.”
He didn’t respond, perhaps wondering whether, if he remained silent enough, she would simply not speak of it again.
“Ramaniel?”
No such luck.
“I can’t,” he said, and it hurt.
“Why not? Don’t you want to go with me?”
“I do,” he said, and meant it.
“Then why? We don’t owe the Jackals shit.”
“Not them, no.”
“Then what? Your friends?”
He didn’t answer but for a look. She knew full well what he was going to say. He could see it in her eyes just before she buried her face in his chest.
“Fucking moron,” she whispered. “This city’s always been rancid, Ramaniel. The riots were going to happen sooner or later. You don’t owe Cier’Djaal any more than the Jackals.”
“I killed it,” Denaos said. “I caused the riots.”
“You didn’t. We all did. I was part of the Kissing Game, too, remember? I killed three fashas and seven nobles. I pretended to be their slaves, their friends, their lovers. I don’t feel guilty at all. The Houndmistress had the poor eating out of her hand, but she was just one woman. You killed just one woman and you’d let it ruin everything you had?”
“She wasn’t just a woman,” Denaos said. He pulled away from her, sat on the edge of the cot. “She was… someone great. Someone that said all this shit about changing the city and if you could have heard it, you’d believe it.” He buried his face in his hands. “And we fucked that up.”
He could feel the woundedness in Anielle’s stare. “You loved her.”
“I did,” he said. “I loved what she was going to do and I wish to any god out there that I hadn’t been such a fucking coward, that I could have told the Jackals to fuck off and let her fix this city.”
“She would have killed all the Jackals, Ramaniel. She would have killed me. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. She looked so small, smaller than she had been even when she was that skinny little girl, as she pressed against the wall. He couldn’t help but smile.
“We could have had new lives,” he said. “We could have forgotten the shithole we came out of. We could have disappeared, Anielle. Like ghosts.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Yeah.” He looked away from her. “Anytime something big happens and shit’s about to change, everyone says, ‘It’s not that easy,’ like that’s reason enough to not try. Maybe that’s why Imone—”
“Who?”
“The Houndmistress. That’s why she was so great. She knew it wasn’t easy and wouldn’t stop trying.” He bit his lip. “Fuck me, Anielle, but I’ve got to try. I’ve got to at least fucking try to fix this.”
“For her?”
“Not for her.”
“For Cier’Djaal.”
“For us.” He stood up, faced her. She looked as vulnerable as he felt. “For kids who won’t be taken in by gangs and wind up like we did. I started this. I can’t not at least try.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then… I’ll go away with you. Wherever you want. But before that, we do one last thing together. We find the fasha who’s supporting the Khovura, pass that on to Rezca, and hope everything turns out all right.”
“And then we leave?”
He nodded. “Then we leave.”
She stared at him. He had known Anielle long enough to know when she thought an idea was stupid. And it didn’t sound that right to him, either. It sounded like something Asper would say, that stupid woman, in a fit of pious righteousness. He wasn’t a priest. He wasn’t a selfless Talanite. He worshiped the Patron, who asked only that he look out for himself.
But if there was a chance…
Anielle closed her eyes, nodded briefly. He returned to bed with her, held her in his arms. But it was for nothing.
Whatever they had been clinging to was gone, carried out the window on a stale breeze and leaving them alone with the stink of their own sweat.
EIGHTEEN
TEN FINGERS POINTED SKYWARD
The Rhega had no elders.
They grew old. They died. Like anyone else. But there was no reverence for age or the wisdom that came with it. A Rhega, if he was canny enough to live so long, simply told his offspring what they needed to know and then left.
After all, Gariath thought, what else would one do with old age?
Apparently, waste everyone’s time by making it some giant, masturbatory spectacle.
That wasn’t what the tulwar called it, of course.
They called it Humn Tul Naa. Many Old Souls Meeting.
Gariath thought a better name would be A Lot of Gassy Old People Pretending to Be Important, but he wasn’t sure how to say that in the tulwar tongue.
Nor was he sure that any of the tulwar would approve, considering the significant effort they had put into preparing for it.
They had begun that afternoon, taking brooms and rakes to the center of Shaab Sahaar and clearing the city’s square of gaambol shit and other refuse. They had worked well into the evening, until now, in the dead of night, when they gathered around a large circ
le reserved for an entirely different kind of refuse.
One by one they made their way to the circle, ringed by salt and dotted with cushions for sitting. From every corner of the city, with bent backs and gnarled canes and potbellies, they came. Grandmothers. Grandfathers. The colors in their faces long since faded, their fur fallen out in patches to reveal sagging skin.
The Humn. The Very Long Lives. Spiritual leaders of the tulwar. Old, decrepit pieces of shit to whom the proud, the brave, and the ferocious unquestioningly bowed.
Only saan tulwar—those men and women who earned for their families by the edges of their swords—were allowed to witness. In clothes of many colors, arms crossed and blades sheathed, they clustered around the circle in which the Humn sat, observing in utter silence.
As though any of this mattered.
Gariath was allowed—or at least convinced—to observe the proceedings from the outskirts of the circle.
He glanced across the circle, to the red-and-orange-clad cluster of tulwar. The Rua Tong clan. Daaru’s clan. Daaru glared back at the dragonman. Things had been cooler between them since the evening Gariath had berated him; the tulwar had invited him, but made a point of not standing beside him.
He suspected Daaru thought to impress his guest with this ceremony, to show him that tulwar roots ran deep enough not to be severed by human influence.
“Did no one remember to bring drink?”
That, of course, remained to be seen.
“We are intended to be fasting,” one of the Humn—a thick-bodied tulwar with a long beard and wearing Rua Tong’s colors—muttered from the circle. “It is custom before Humn Tul Naa.”
“I have obeyed the custom,” the voice that had spoken earlier protested. This one belonged to a particularly large elder, potbelly poking out from beneath a purple-and-black chota. “It is not breaking a fast to drink.”
“Water, Gowaa,” an old woman tulwar with a wizened face said, her breasts heavy with age and her gray hair done up in a braid. “It is not breaking a fast to drink water. You Tho Thu Bhu would drink the Lyre dry if it were made of wine.”
