Stick to the plan, Lark. Go home and be done with this.
So when she spotted a shadow-sign, she followed it, cutting across a bustling street and past yet another crowd of clan-folk. Their wolf-dogs sniffed after her, their jeten suspicious, but none approached or called after her as she cut down an alley between densely-packed shops. She appreciated that about them. The Riddish weren't friendly, but they understood personal space and didn't involve themselves in the business of outsiders.
The shadow-signs sent her across the next street then down a third, past vendors selling goat-hide and wolf-wool, carved bone tools and ornaments, glassware, beads, tea. She was out of the snake-clan area now, back among the mixed crowds, but while a few people of ogrish descent loomed out from among their fellows, there wasn't nearly the diversity of Bahlaer, or even Turo. Brown hair or black, slicked-back or shaggy, everyone was still Riddish or so integrated as to be indistinguishable, their faces the same dark tan, their pale eyes watchful.
As she followed the signs around another corner, she had to wonder if they reported what they saw, or let it pass just as indifferently as they stepped aside for her. According to Dasira, their king had little interest in enforcing Imperial law; that was left to the Sapphire Army, led by Trivesteans whom the Riddish hated. Would they tattle on a mage's suspicious behavior? She suspected not, but still felt like she might draw unwanted attention to this Shadow cell.
Halfway down the alley, a sign just above head-height caught her eye. Hand-sized and spiky, it pointed to a ladder of brickwork that ended at a second-floor door.
Lark checked both directions, then squinted up at it. There were no windows here, and no definite evidence that the place was occupied. A sudden fear took her: what if this was a trap?
For who? All those Shadow Folk far from home, roaming around in Imperial territory with neither knowledge nor contacts? Ha.
Still, her nerves stayed taut as she climbed the brick ladder to the four-inch ledge that inset the door. It was plain wood, no handle; when she banged on it, she heard a bar on the other side rattle. For a long moment, nothing else happened, and she checked the alley again to make sure no one had turned down it.
Then she caught the faint shuff of slippered footsteps, and tightened her grip on the alcove handhold. The bar grated its withdrawal.
The first thing she saw was candlelight in the gap—then a man's face, both strange and surprisingly familiar. Despite swept-back Snake-style hair and dark wool garb, his broad stubbled cheeks, sloe eyes and olive-brown skin marked him plainly as an Illanite, just as his bobbed ears declared him a thief.
“Wha— Yes, magus?” he said, baffled.
His accent hammered it home. “You're Bahlaeran!” she said.
He stared, evidently trying to process her appearance on his doorstep. “Yes, magus, but I have legal living-papers. If you insist, I—“
“No, no.” She made one of the Kheri hand-speak signs, requesting entry, and when he kept staring, she did it again more slowly. That seemed to snap him out of it, and he stepped back and pulled the door wide for her.
“This is just a costume,” she said as she slipped in and scanned the place. Floor-cushions around a low table, an interrupted game of solitaire, a small stove that exuded a smoky goat-chip stink. Crates with varied crests and labels lined the walls and stacked nearly to the ceiling, leaving only an unusually large window uncovered. A curtain concealed the entry to a second room.
It was so comfortingly Shadow Folk that she could have cried.
“I thought there were no enclaves in the shadowless circle,” she said, moving toward the stove to warm her hands. She heard the door close, the bar drop. “Or did they really mean no proper shadow-paths?”
“This is hardly an enclave. But who are you?”
“Oh. Lark of Bahlaer. Sorry—“ Half-turned, hand out for an arm-clasp, she halted at the sight of the crossbow he held. “Whoa now...”
“Lark, Lark, Lark,” he said as if feeling the name out. “I don't recall you from Bah-kai...”
“I don't recall you either!”
“You're young,” he said, looking her over cursorily. By the silver strands she saw in his hair, she guessed him half again her age, if not more. “When did you join?”
“Autumn of 166.”
“Hm. Who leads?”
Is that a trick question? “Before I left, Shan Cayer. Now, I don't know.”
“Left?”
“I'm—“ She gestured vaguely at her clothes, still trying to hold her neutral position. “I suppose I'm on a mission. It's gotten out of hand. I'm here because I want to go home; there's nothing more I can do here. Look, if it's the robe that's raising your hackles, I bought the piking thing off the enclave in Turo. I figured, look at me. No other way to blend in!”
His eyes narrowed, but he made a considering sound. “So you know Cayer.”
“I was his lieutenant.”
“You, a twig of a girl—“
“Better me than the blockheads and thugs he had otherwise. Better me than a shadowblood who would skip town the moment things got messy. Look here, I can read, write, do sums, I'm educated, and I got us an in-road with the piking goblins before I even joined. I've managed our affairs with the Lord Governor for years. So you can take that 'girl' bit and cram it.”
The man laughed and put up his crossbow. “You certainly sound like his type. All right, well met. Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
“No, first tell me who you are.”
He snorted, then made a flourishing sort of bow, hands out to keep crossbow and candle steady. “Maevor, also of Bahlaer. Jumped into the kai back in '36. Been rambling my way through missions ever since.”
It was Lark's turn to stare. “Maevor—I've heard of you. The agent who got sent to spy on the Crimsons?”
“From the inside. That's me.”
“They pulled you out?”
“It got too risky.” He set the crossbow atop a crate, the candle on the table, then moved to the stove. “Tea?”
“Please.”
She watched him as he set up the cups and sifted tea from a tin. His missing fingers gave weight to his story, two from the right hand and one from the left, but something was odd here. “Don't you have a partner?”
“I do. Out on errands right now.”
“When did they pull you from the Crimson camp?”
“Mm. Month ago.”
“Did you know Cobrin son of Dernyel?”
His hand froze in mid-sift, and he turned slightly to regard her with one dark eye. “Did you?”
“You first.”
Maevor frowned, but returned to fixing the tea. “Very well, yes. We were camp-mates. In fact, he was my secondary assignment. Strange things happened around and to him, and he was close with one of the monstrous freesoldiers, so I was told to monitor him. Not much chance to report, though. No shadow access within the camp-wards.”
“You knew him personally?”
“I bribed myself into position as his team leader.”
“Small world... So you heard what happened, right?”
He cast her another look. “The camp kept me out of touch until recently. I haven't had time for an update.”
“Not even about the Guardian? The Great Spirit?”
“Oh—yes, that.” He splashed water from the kettle, then brought the cups to the table, sliding one in front of her before settling down across the way. It amused her to note how many shirt-collars peeked out from under his woolen robe. Seemed she wasn't the only one suffering in this northern cold. “Of course that. Dark-touched Cob, rampaging through the countryside.”
She snorted. “It's true.”
“And now you're here. With him?”
“He's in town.” She blew across the steaming tea, wondering how much to tell. This was not Shadow territory, so they had no protections; they could be spied-on easily and would have nowhere to run if Imperial agents came. “Not for long, just a stopover. We have pla
ns.”
“And you need a bit of Shadow help?”
“Not for him. Seems he'd be just as happy to go it alone—and I'm happy to let him, brick-headed idiot. No, I'm splitting off, going back to Bahlaer. I don't suppose you can get me there...”
Maevor sipped his tea, then shook his head. “I can't open a shadow-path. My partner, maybe. Should be back at nightfall. You're welcome to wait.”
She blinked. “What? But the shadowless circle...”
“These are the outskirts. It's not reliable, but it's possible.”
Galvanized, Lark heaved to her feet, forgetting the cup she held. It sloshed tea across her hand and sleeve, and the sudden scald made her fling it away. It hit the rug and splashed everywhere. “Oh shit,” she said, hurrying to retrieve it. Under her sleeve, the water elemental slid down to absorb the dampness and cool the burn, and she shivered at the sensation but let it. “Pikes, that was stupid. I'm sorry. But if your partner can really do it, I need to get this gear to my friends. I'll be back after that, all right?”
Maevor, half-risen, held his hand out for the cup and said, “Let me get you another first. It's cold out there.”
“No, no. Maybe when I return.”
“Then I'll escort you. Finrarden folk can be rough.”
“I can take care of myself.” She plucked the collar of her robe. “It'll be half a mark at worst. And I'll give Cob your greetings.”
“No, I'd rather you not.” Now he was on his feet fully, and Lark grabbed up her carry-bag, suddenly unnerved by the light in his eyes. His tone was even, but there was something...
He turned away before she could identify it, shoulders slumping under his rough garb. “He never knew my affiliation and it's best he doesn't now. If he's running toward danger, his knowledge could expose me. We weren't close, anyway.”
“Well, if you insist,” she said, thinking it noble but a bit silly. Men and their feelings. “Hopefully this will be over soon. We're aiming for Darkness Day.”
“For what?”
“The plan.”
He gave her a furrowed look, but when she just smiled, he reluctantly moved to unbar the door. “By nightfall,” he said as she started down the brickwork.
“Don't worry, I'll be there.”
Her steps were light as she hustled back to the Ragged Hen. No one impeded her, and if anyone followed, she lost them with her long strides. A jingle of her room-key made the inn-guard step aside, then she fairly flew up the stairs to her friends' door.
Arik opened it on the third knock, naked and looming. He looked strange with brownish hair—less wicked, more goony—and she rolled her eyes as she pushed him backward with the bag. “Gods above and gods below, let Cob do it if you won't wear breeches! And don't wag your tail at me when you're like that!”
Grinning sheepishly, the skinchanger shut the door behind her. On the tiny bed, Cob and Fiora sat up, blinking, and she almost yelled at them too before she realized they had their clothes on. That was a relief.
In fact, they looked the same as when she'd left them.
“Did you three just nap all day?” she snapped. “Shadow's Heart, what will you do when I'm gone?”
“It's cold,” said Arik. “Cold is for napping.”
“Please, please put your fur back on.”
“We discussed things,” said Cob. “Figured some stuff out.” He sounded defensive, but she was pleased to see his arm around Fiora. Perhaps they'd survive this.
“Well, good,” she said, and began unpacking the bag. “I hope you figured out how to act like a normal person, because I won't be prompting you anymore. I've found a way home. And I booked passage for the three of you to Keceirnden—here.” She tossed three varnished wooden tokens onto the bed, each one branded with the caravan's mark and a number. “Tomorrow morning. The caravansary isn't far. Caravan-master said that pilgrims walk the rest of the way, but we're running behind schedule.”
“How far is it?” said Cob.
“About a hundred and fifty miles from Keceirnden to Daecia City. Another hundred from here to Keceirnden. She said the caravan does that in a day and a half with good weather but more like two at this time of year, which—since it's the 34th already—will give you three days to reach the Palace by Darkness Day. Five for the end of Midwinter.”
“Three days, a hundred and fifty miles—can we do that?” said Fiora, looking to Cob. “We must've done something similar to get through the desert.”
“Yes, but he can't put his antlers up in public.” Lark extracted a larger robe and tossed it to Cob. “Has to be wearing this, and remember, the whole point of pretending to be pilgrims is to sneak in. The three of you can't go running off; you have to clump up with other pilgrims.”
“Surely they'll be walking quickly to make it in time.”
“Who knows how these people think? I was told that once they're on the White Road, they don't stop until they reach Daecia City—not to eat or sleep or even to piss—but that could be propaganda. Anyway, it's coming up on piking midwinter. Unless it's some grueling test of stamina and frostbite, there must be waystations.”
“This is all we get to wear?” said Cob.
She tossed him a sash and a penance cord, the latter solid black. “Footwear is optional. Apparently a lot of them go barefoot.”
“What about the swords?”
Lark shook out an embroidered cloth and presented it along with a white cord. “Offering wrap. Make something up about bringing them to the Palace to be cleansed or blessed or whatever, tie them up with this, and no one will question it. Your staff looks fine.”
“Money?”
She glowered at him, but pulled out her pouch and quickly divided her earnings. It pained her to let the silver kifar go, but the beads were Cob's work, so he deserved them. “That should keep you well. No taxes on pilgrims, so don't let anyone bilk you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm headed back to where I won't freeze to death on the road.”
“Pikes, woman, I know you don't like me but at least take a hug with you.” Cob extricated himself from his girlfriend and edged past the wolf to enfold Lark in his arms. She considered resisting—she was still angry with him, almost blindingly so—but this might be the last time they saw each other.
So she squeezed her arms around his ribs and gave him a peck on the chin, since that was all she could reach anymore. “Stupid,” she told him. “The three of you against the world. Once you've brought down the Empire, look me up in Bahlaer, eh?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, breath warm on her braids. “I'm sorry for everythin'.”
“Not your fault. Give Enkhaelen a kick in the teeth for me.”
“'Course.”
“Hoi, let me get in there!” said Fiora, trying to wedge an arm between them. Cob hooked her in for a group hug, and a moment later Arik added in too. That was far too much naked wolfman for Lark's tastes—or, apparently, anyone else's—and after a bit of a struggle and some choice insults, they separated.
Straightening her robe, Lark said, “If you see Dasira again...tell her she can meet me in Bahlaer too. Luck be with you.”
“And you,” said Fiora. Cob just nodded, the look in his eyes as sad as she'd ever seen it. She wondered, for a moment, if she had been too hard on him. Expected too much.
But she couldn't stay.
So she walked out the door.
The trek back to Maevor's apartment felt strangely weighty. She dawdled a bit at the stalls, unsure if what she was experiencing was regret or freedom, apprehension or resignation. The urge came again to just flee: to disregard Maevor's offer and book her own passage out of Finrarden. Get lost in the world. Cut all ties.
But she owed Cayer and Rian and the rest of Bah-kai more than that. She had to go home.
Maevor was waiting for her, and had the door open before she was halfway up the bricks. She tried to pay attention to his questions, tried to give polite but noncommittal answers, but could not take her eyes from the window—from the daylight slowly draining
from the sky. Soon, Maevor's partner would arrive, and she would be on her way to Bahlaer.
She did not notice the aftertaste in the tea until her third or fourth cup. By then, the samarlit had already taken effect, the world smearing around her, and she tried to say Why? But the words would not come. The water elemental sleeping under her robe could not help.
He approached as she sank to the floor, reaching out to pluck the cup from her sagging hand, and she glimpsed the black bracer his sleeve had hidden.
And then she was gone.
*****
Thyda. Nightfall.
Detached from its body, the bodythief that had most recently called itself Dasira listened from the top of an inkwood cabinet as the lord magistrate and his aide went through the day's reports. In bracer form, with its tiny hooks operating as legs and its marrow-spike tucked up into its black interior, it could have been mistaken for a broad centipede or a wide-bodied spider, but was sufficiently stealthy to keep from being noticed at all.
Now, though, it considered showing itself—if only to be malicious. It recognized the magistrate by his voice and scent, and remembered the grip of his hands back when they had been strong instead of palsied.
It also remembered slamming him face-first into a wall while wearing the skin of his best friend. Remembered how he'd screamed, and how it had laughed.
The aide was a much younger man, and seemed fit enough to keep up with Cob and the others. Considering how battered the Dasira-body was, it would only be wise to take him over—and, of course, finish things with the magistrate.
But the thought of Cob soured that plan. Soured everything, really.
It couldn't say that it had ever enjoyed what it did, but there had been a certain satisfaction in their cries. In the look of mortal terror in their eyes, in the disbelieving drop of their jaws as their trusted ones turned on them, in the flinching and shying it saw them perform for months after each attack. The acts themselves had been surprisingly hollow, making it wonder why men even pursued such so-called pleasure. Perhaps it wasn't made for manhood after all.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 67
