The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  “Whether or not we can do that,” the dragonman replied.

  The female screamed and took off at a sprint. The dragonman didn’t seem particularly bothered to chase her, nor did he seem particularly bothered by the carcass lying nearby, blood leaking out on the street from where his armor had splintered and pierced his flesh. Rather the dragonman leisurely rose up to his full height, and Denaos held his breath and waited for him to move along.

  But the dragonman did not move. Denaos’s eyes grew wide as the dragonman’s nostrils flared, sniffing the air. And by the time the dragonman looked in his direction and drew in a scent, Denaos had no breath to scream.

  No, no, NO! His mind broke into scattered, fleeting thoughts. How? How could he smell me? I smell right. We planned for this. We—

  And then he eyed the nearby corpse of the male guard. And it hit him: He might smell like silk and grass, but such a scent surely reeked strong and clear amid the stink of blood and death.

  And sure enough, the dragonman hefted his tremendous ax and began to stalk toward Denaos’s hiding spot.

  And so he ran.

  He darted around behind a nearby house, felt along the walls for something: a back door, a servants’ entrance, a low-hung window, or maybe—

  A pipe.

  His hands wrapped around the cold iron of a pipe leading up to rooftop gutters—a most detestable vanity, considering how little rain Cier’Djaal saw, but one he was thankful for. He took a keen grip and, using its soldered joints for footholds, shimmied his way up the house’s wall and onto its roof.

  He peered over the edge and onto the street and saw the dragonman look down the back alley where he had been a breath ago. The monstrous creature sniffed the air, snorted at the darkness, and, clearly not paid well enough to pursue, turned around and stalked back down the street.

  Denaos breathed out a sigh as he fell onto his rear. High up here, there was no sound of guards clattering or dragonmen stomping. He could finally hear the sound of his heartbeat and how hard and heavy it came.

  Fuck, he thought. When did it get like this? You used to be able to break into a dozen houses, knife a dozen thugs, light a dozen fires in one night and still be able to think about what you were going to have for breakfast. He looked down at his hands, callused and broad and rough. When did it stop being easy? When did you start giving such a shit?

  Another sound pierced the night air: an avian screech that carried over the rooftops. He looked out over there, beyond the walls of Silktown, into the city.

  The city, so dark and quiet while Silktown burned and breathed with life. The city, its only lights the fires lit by Sainites as their scraws flew overhead. The city, its only signs of movement Karnerian patrols marching down the streets.

  There weren’t so many fires burning tonight. Only a few scraws flapped in the darkness. The seemingly endless rivers of Karnerian legions that had thronged the streets seemed like a few scattered blots of inky armor.

  Maybe Asper’s plan had worked: Maybe the attacks against the foreigners really had weakened them. Or maybe they were just running out of shit to destroy. So many houses stood in ruins, so many stalls had been smashed, so many storefronts hung quiet and empty.

  Why should that matter? Denaos asked himself.

  Since he had first stepped off the boat and onto Harbor Road, Cier’Djaal had never felt like home. He was always an intruder, a foreigner, a little pale boy in a world where he didn’t belong. That had been fine by him; he didn’t trust the city any more than it trusted him. There was no regret for the blood he had spilled here.

  Ramaniel had never cared about Cier’Djaal.

  Why did Denaos?

  He looked long to the Souk, the beating heart of Cier’Djaal. The Silken Spire, its three pillars bound together by the silk spun by its spiders, still stood strong, untouched by the foreigners. They still needed that symbol, that idea that they were here to save Cier’Djaal and not destroy it. So long as the Spire stood, they could go on pretending that.

  Even if it was all that was left when the rest of the city had burned to the ground.

  Denaos’s boots hit the other side of the iron fence surrounding Mejina’s estate but half an hour later, after he had made his way through the remaining guards. He darted across the lawn, into the shadows of the manicured trees and elegant hedges of the fasha’s estate.

  Crouching beneath a low-hanging bough, he glanced up at the windows. All alight, the glow of lamps cast brightness out of every pane. Even the servants’ quarters, which should have been dark at this time of night, were bright and cheery.

  And yet where were the servants?

  He saw no house guards in the bright windows, either. If Mejina had decided to retire for the night, surely the lights would have been doused, wouldn’t they?

  Perhaps he was out, discussing plans with Khovura allies or Jackal traitors. Or perhaps he was walled up with his servants inside some secret room, terrified of retribution from the Jackals who had caught wise.

  A pang of paranoid fear wedged itself between the vertebrae of his neck.

  Or maybe someone had told him about Denaos’s raid.

  What if the traitor had struck again? But who? Not Rezca. Rezca didn’t know. And Yerk had gone underground. And that just left…

  No, Denaos told himself. No. That can’t happen. Not a single word of this has been breathed to anyone save for Anielle. She’s with you. You’re going to do this, then run away together. She’s—

  He nearly started as a hand was laid upon him. But he steeled himself at the last moment. Two fingers placed on his left shoulder; the sign he and Anielle used to use to let each other know who was behind them when silence was called for.

  She crept forward to join him, murmuring through a mask over her face.

  “You’re late,” she whispered.

  “If we agreed not to move until we were both here, then I’m not technically late,” he replied. “Lot of bodies on the street tonight. How’d you avoid them?”

  “Came from the north, through Harbor Road,” she said. “Figured you’d do it, too, since it was closer.”

  “Yeah, well…” He snorted. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to see the house is empty. I could have walked in the front door and not been stopped.”

  “That can’t be right,” Denaos said. “Mejina had the most guards out on the street. He wouldn’t have left his house undefended.”

  “He would have if he’s not who we think he is.” She sighed, pulled her mask down. “I was kind of hoping you were late because you weren’t going to show up. I hoped you had thought of your idea and seen how little we have to go on. The Khovura are radicals, rebels. Why would they assist a fasha?”

  “Why does anyone become a rebel? They want something they don’t have. Who better than a fasha to give it to them?”

  “I feel compelled to mention that the Khovura are also completely insane. Completely insane and running around with monsters we don’t even have names for, Ramaniel. Whatever they don’t have, they can take, surely.”

  “If they could, they would have already. There’s got to be another angle we’re not considering.”

  “Maybe one you’re not considering. You thought Ghoukha was aiding them earlier and we weren’t at all ready when they burned his house to the ground and—”

  “We weren’t ready because there was a traitor interfering,” Denaos snapped. “And the traitor and the fasha are both helping the Khovura, and the Khovura are just one more thing that’s going to kill this city if we don’t stop it.” He narrowed his eyes upon her. “Why bring this up now instead of, oh, say, any other time we weren’t about to break into someone’s house?”

  “You fucking know why,” Anielle shot back. “You’ve got no evidence and we’ve got everything to lose. The Jackals are going down, the Khovura are clawing up, and every moment we waste here is a moment we could be spending gathering what we can and getting the fuck out.” She winced, voic
e softening. “Silf hates deals he’s left out of, Ramaniel. Best not to offend him further by pulling a dirty job. You know that.”

  Denaos stared down at his feet. “Yeah, I know that. And you know why I can’t go back. Not yet.”

  “No, I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s driving you. I’d say pride or a sense of righteousness, but I fucking know you don’t have room for that inside you among all the stupid. So what is it? Why is this, of all things, important?”

  “Because I…”

  Denaos fell silent. What could he tell her? That there were some acts that could cut even those hearts caked in grime and filth? That some demons couldn’t be chased away by drinking so much one’s conscience threw up?

  Those answers wouldn’t satisfy her.

  And he couldn’t tell her the real story. He couldn’t tell her Ramaniel was dead, but not yet buried. He couldn’t tell her that Denaos still had a life to lead, one free of past sins like the riots, the Kissing Game, the Khovura. He couldn’t tell her that the only way to achieve that life was to shove Ramaniel in a grave and bury him so deep his ghost would never return again.

  That would be honest. She hated honesty.

  “We made a deal,” he settled on saying. “I’ll sweeten it for you, even. One hour inside Mejina’s house. If I can’t find what I’m looking for, we’ll leave.”

  “Leave the house?”

  “The house, Silktown, Cier’Djaal, all of it. We’ll head right for the gates and head to Gurau and catch the first boat upriver to Muraska.” He held up a finger. “If that doesn’t sound like enough to you, then you can go now and I’ll think no less of you. But if you’re coming, I get one hour.”

  Anielle looked at him carefully, scrutinizing him for another angle, as if she could make this even better for herself. He wasn’t surprised when she sighed in resignation.

  The sadness that tinged her eyes when she nodded, though? That was unexpected.

  “One hour,” she agreed, pulling her mask up. “Starting now.”

  A quick nod, a brush against his belt to check for the comforting presence of his knives, and they were off.

  They darted across the lawn, beneath the trees, between hedges, heading for the southeastern corner of the house. Mejina’s name was not big, but it was old, and his manor had been erected in the early style of Cier’Djaal, from when the fashas had attempted to belittle each other daily.

  The southeastern corner of such a manor was always reserved for the guest quarters. Far out of earshot of servants, these rooms had originally been planned to force visiting nobles to get out of bed and get whatever they needed themselves. Before extravagant displays of wealth became the fashion, “comfort tombs,” as they were called, were very popular for spiteful fashas.

  Small surprise that they happened to make the ideal point for a break-in.

  Denaos swept up beneath the window, five feet above them. He pressed his back against the wall and formed a cradle with his fingers. Anielle acted immediately, placing one foot in his grip and letting herself be boosted up. Denaos glanced up, making sure not to boost her any farther than she needed to see within the quarters.

  She glanced down, gave him a nod. All clear. He boosted her up farther, muscles quivering as she made short work of the lock on the window and slipped it open with a squeak.

  Her weight left him as she pulled herself inside. He paused, began to count to thirty—it was usually assumed that if a thief reached fifteen without word from his partner, he should go in blade drawn. But he had barely reached eight when he heard a soft whisper from above.

  Anielle leaned over the sill of the window, arms draped down for him to catch. He leapt up, they took each other by the wrists. With his feet scrambling against the stone of the walls, they fought to keep silent as she hauled him up and over the sill. They quickly eased the window shut behind them, settled in to have a look around.

  By even a merchant’s standards, the guest quarters were shabby. By a fasha’s they seemed more akin to a prison cell. There was a bed, a low-slung table, and a few pillows for sitting, but nothing else. No artwork to flaunt taste, no bookshelves to flaunt education, even the light was dimmer here, the sole lamp providing little illumination.

  Suddenly Mejina’s reasons for wanting to prove his worth to Silktown became quite obvious.

  Denaos slunk toward the door, peered out, and looked down a long hallway. It ended in the house’s houn, that reception area where all guests would be greeted. In the light of the lamps, he could just make out a staircase leading to the upper level of the house. Mejina’s house might be old-fashioned, but it wasn’t so old that he wouldn’t keep the important bits—his accountant’s office, his study, his records—on the top floor.

  But then, fashas also usually stocked servants. From here Denaos saw at least a half dozen doors leading to a half dozen rooms on either side of the hall. Surely there should have been at least one servant attending to at least one of them.

  “No one here,” Anielle muttered quite louder than she should, as if to emphasize that fact.

  “Must be upstairs,” Denaos replied.

  “Or must be no one here,” Anielle said. “I don’t like the looks of it. We should leave while we can.”

  “Has it been an hour yet?”

  Anielle glared at him. “Asshole.”

  She made no further protest—or insult—as they swiftly slunk down the hall. The lamps cast too many shadows for Denaos’s liking, but to put out the lights would be to give an obvious sign of an intruder. Better to move quickly and hope whoever might see them would do so out the corner of their eye and dismiss it as a trick of the light.

  They came to a halt at the end of the hall, peered around the corner into the houn. Denaos could see an elegantly furnished room: fairly big, with a high ceiling, plush carpeting, the requisite number of artistic portraits and busts to demonstrate the size of Mejina’s fortune. He saw a modest staircase opposite the door, leading up to a landing where two hallways opened up and yawned off somewhere into the darkness.

  What he didn’t see was a doorman.

  No one to wait for visitors, no one to polish busts and dust portraits, no one at all. Even the most frugal fasha kept someone on hand to mind the houn and keep it impeccable, lest a rival fasha come and see a house less than pristine and go spread that gossip to the rest of Silktown.

  That struck Denaos as odd. It struck Anielle as something a little bolder.

  “Well, fuck me.” She strode into the houn, extending her arms. “How’s a fasha that can’t even afford a doorman going to support the Khovura, Ramaniel?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Denaos muttered in reply as he stalked in after her. “And I don’t know. Maybe he’s helping them to get a payout.”

  “Really?” She lofted a brow. “How would he be able to pay off a Jackal to turn traitor, then?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. He’s got… some angle, something to offer them, some plan.” His own voice rose as he whirled on her. “And I said keep your voice fucking down.”

  “Why?” She threw her hands out, gesturing to the emptiness of the room. “Who’s going to hear me? The fucking statues?” She seized a nearby bust—a stern-looking bald man doubtless intended to be an honored ancestor—and looked earnestly at it. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” She wagged the bust back and forth, dropping her voice to lend it dialogue. “‘Not at all, I’m thankful for the company. I’ve had no one to talk to for a while, because, you see, there’s nobody fucking here.’”

  As if to simply rub that in, Anielle tossed the bust aside, letting it crash against the floor. Denaos winced and reached for his blade. But it was for naught: No guards came crashing through the door, no servants came rushing in to investigate. The echo of the crash lingered in a houn empty of everything, anything.

  “Ramaniel,” Anielle said, sighing. “You’ve been gone awhile, but some things don’t change. If Mejina had anything worth guarding, he’d have guar
ds. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t have anything because he spent everything trying to be Silktown’s new head.” She gestured around the houn and its modest opulence. “He’s just one more rich man trying to climb over the heads of other rich men to make himself a little more rich.”

  Denaos opened his mouth, found no words there. He searched around the houn, hoping to find something—an out-of-place object, a missive left carelessly behind, art that looked too expensive for Mejina—but saw nothing. He drummed his fingers on his legs if only so he wouldn’t pick up another bust and smash it out of frustration.

  This had all seemed so logical when he came up with it. Mejina was the one making waves in Silktown. Surely he had to be getting help from somewhere. But the marvelous tapestry of a plot he had surmised unraveled more with every stray thought.

  If Mejina truly had a Jackal working with him, he wouldn’t be this loud, drawing so much attention to himself. If Mejina truly had the Khovura in his pocket, he would be directing their resources elsewhere, against other fashas, not wasting his time attacking Jackals.

  But back in the tunnels, he had seen the Khovura emerge from Silktown. He had.

  Hadn’t he?

  He couldn’t even recall what that one Khovura, the one with the mutated arm, had said in its whimpering, gurgling babble. Something about going back the way he had come. It had all made so much sense back then: He was going to bloody the noses of the Sainites, he was going to clean up the Khovura, he was going to expose the fashas, and he was going to make up for all the hell he had put this city through.

  And his heart sank at that realization.

  He had never been searching for a plot. He had never been searching for a traitor in the Jackals or the fashas. He had never been searching for something so tangible, so easy, so firm.

  He had been searching for absolution, a way to assure himself that he wasn’t the scum he thought he was every night moments before he fell asleep. He had been searching for something that would make the ghost of Imone go away so that he would never look up and see her smiling with her slit throat and bloodied dress.