Enemy (On the Bones of Gods Book 1)

by K. Eason

  Tell me why we’re doing this, yeah?

  Have faith, Snow.

  The foremothers had learned the dangers of faith, hadn’t they? Damn certain she had. Snow measured faith in the scars on her wrist, her shoulders, her back. Measured it out in nightmares and cold sweat.

  And meanwhile Ehkla’s motherless Taliri burned their way toward Cardik’s gates and choked the city with refugees and kept the legion inside the walls keeping order. It had been more than a month since Davni. At this rate, Snow reckoned the city would burst before the spring snowmelt.

  “Please,” said Isla a second time, neither highborn nor Illhari. A woman doing what a man would not among her people. Begging.

  Which Dvergiri women didn’t, ever.

  Snow dropped her chair back onto four legs. Scooped the sack into her palm.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s talk business.”

  Veiko stripped his sweater off and dropped it on his blankets. Left his shirt on for decency, although the people here would probably prefer if he went outside bare as birth. Aneki would sell space at the windows overlooking the courtyard. See the naked skraeling doing axework in the snow, two marks.

  Veiko waited a moment, with his ear near the door. There were no voices. Logi crowded his knees and oofed, faint and impatient. Veiko cracked the door and let him through the gap. Followed more slowly, remembering which boards creaked. There was no one in the hall, by some fortune, but not all of the doors were closed. Aneki’s voice smoked out of the one closest the stairs, thick as incense.

  “. . . that’s the way, right, oh yes, see how she likes it—no, Tomi, too fast, that’s better . . .” A woman cried out, and Aneki said, “Good. Good.”

  His ears burned. Not at all like a crofter’s hut, no, nothing like. A whole village under one roof, and no curtains, and no modesty. Veiko held his breath and ghosted past that doorway. He thought someone saw him, a flicker of fair skin and bright hair as he passed. But no one called after him, thank the ancestors, and no one followed.

  Veiko took the stairs less softly, one hand on the wall for balance, and ached by the bottom. At least it was warmer in the courtyard. The sun baked off the bricks and left treacherous footing, mud and grass and gravel under snow. A man could slip easily, even with two good legs. Logi had no problems. Galloped the perimeter on four sure paws, snapping mouthfuls of snow. Veiko chose a spot near the center. Rolled his shoulders and shook his arms out, one after the other. He had known this dance since boyhood, when his father had put a hatchet in his hands and taken him onto the tundra.

  A man should be able to defend his herd and hearth.

  Not his father’s intention, no, not by any imagining, what shape his youngest son’s herd and hearth would take.

  One cut, one step. Step and turn, swing and dodge. As a boy he had imagined raiders from the neighboring clans falling under his blade like grass before a sickle. Had not imagined the truth of it: spraying blood and grey brains and tiny shards of bone. The drag of steel through flesh. The effort after, to wrench his blade loose again and see what he had done.

  Step and cut, turn and swing. Mind the angle of the blade, so that his weight stayed behind it, and his limbs, too. Remember Ehkla’s face, yellow-eyed and beautiful. She should have died from the wound he gave her and had not, because Tal’Shik would not allow it.

  Hard to kill the godsworn, yeah?

  Harder still to kill a god. A hunter could not do it trapped in his own flesh. A noidghe might, with the right allies, the right bargains. He wasn’t good enough as a noidghe, but he was a very good hunter, and his axe would do its work in either world.

  Step and turn, duck and swing. Ehkla had left a mark in him, half-drawn and ragged. A glyph. A prayer, because Illhari asked their gods for help and did not bargain. So he had been a gift, but only partway. But there were rules. And whatever the Illhari thought, the gods were spirits and must abide by those rules. Snow had believed him when he told her that. She had used that knowledge with the God and wore the scars of her bargaining.

  Spin and cut, reverse the blade and chop again. That was watery almost-spring sunlight warming him. Raw spring wind lifting his braids. And a cold kiss on the back of his neck, a damp gust out of place in the warmth. There were clouds smudging the ridgeline. Another storm by nightfall, dropping heavy spring snows. This one might wait for Snow and Briel to get back, if Snow’s business did not keep them late.

  Turn and slice, chop and step. Again. Again, until his muscles burned, until his mind relaxed into habit. Step, turn, cut.

  Slip.

  Ice, he thought first. Drove his heel into the mud and stopped the skid. Pain skewered him from knee to hip, red and white and blinding. His knee buckled. He twisted with it, mind the blade, rolled without cutting off his own foot. Came up neatly enough, on bad knee and good foot and the axe nowhere near either. Clapped a hand over his thigh and pressed hard on the throb and ache. A strain, that was all. Too much exertion. Not an arrow, or a spear, or a

  wurm’s tooth

  dagger. Only smooth, unmarked leather under his palm. But there was a spreading wetness, too. He thought it must be water at first, until he felt the warmth. Turned his palm and saw a red dampness soaked through the leather.

  That wound should not bleed—had been, this morning, a livid, smooth channel carved in his flesh. Dry, yes, healed. There had not been a scab for fifteen days, and he had been diligent with salves and oils.

  He gulped air. Held it and fended off Logi’s wet, black concern. Flexed his knee. Grimaced. Men fought through worse. He had once and walked away after.

  With help, yeah?

  He borrowed a handful of Logi’s ruff for balance. Let the good leg lift his weight. Swore, very softly, as snowmelt ran down the back of his neck. Took a step and swore again. Fresh pain backed up in his throat. He pressed his whole hand over his leg, and clenched his teeth as he found the whole cut reopened, split wide under the undamaged leather.

  A ritual. A prayer. Ehkla’s witchery, which Snow would call godmagic. And something was making it work now. Someone. Ehkla must be doing this, here and now. Must be here in Cardik.

  Snow needed to know that, right now. He tilted his face into the sunlight. Closed his eyes and reached through the red on his eyelids.

  Briel.

  Nothing. Quiet dark where Briel should be. Briel, who crowded into his skull whenever he stubbed his toe, demanding assurance that he was all right. Now, with blood running into his boot, she didn’t notice. Perhaps she’d found a cat on the rooftops. Briel liked cats.

  Tell yourself that.

  Briel, more insistent. Got a flutter of alarm from her this time, a phantom heartbeat too fast in his chest. Got a sending, in gashes of blue and stone and thatch, Briel flying. Then a sudden stillness that meant she’d landed again. And then, there: a man’s face, Dvergir and fine boned. Veiko rode the echoes of Briel’s recognition.

  Tsabrak.

  Red heat and hazed vision, cold punch in his chest and skin gone tight and hot. He got another pair of steps on that anger. Found himself with his hand on the gate’s latch before better sense caught him.

  Better sense, and Aneki, whose voice uncoiled and snapped across the courtyard and stopped his hand, midlift on the latch. “The hell you going, Veiko?”

  His fingers stretched. Curled. “Out,” he said. Then, “Nowhere,” as the pain caught up with him again. He blinked through the greyness. Swallowed bitter and nausea together.

  Shuffle-slap as she crossed the yard. The low murmur of profane disapproval of mud and Logi’s paws.

  “Don’t you come inside with those feet, dog. You’ll track all over—ah.” And silence for the beat it took Veiko to realize that he’d left his axe in the snow and she’d found it, before, “You dropped this, yeah?”

  He turned. Rested his back on the gate and his hand on his thigh because it hurt and because, oh ancestors, he did not want to explain the blood. He took the axe and one-handed it into its sling.
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  “I fell.”

  “I guessed that much.” Aneki came closer now, so that he smelled the cloud of incense that followed her like a shadow. Her eyes scraped his face. Narrowed. “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Toadshit.” Her gaze darted down. “You’re bleeding again. Did you tear it open?”

  “It is—”

  Nothing, he told Briel, nothing. Felt her attention glance off him like sunlight on snow. Yes, distracted. Worried. Focused, which Briel rarely was. So reckon that Snow had her own problems just now and did not need his distraction.

  She can care for herself, yeah?

  And water was wet. This witchery was Ehkla’s doing, which meant Tal’Shik. And she was his problem. He had promised his partner.

  “—nothing.” He licked his lip. Looked past Aneki, at the doorway, and did not feign his dismay at the width of the courtyard.

  Aneki sighed. “You hurt yourself, Snow’ll be mad, yeah? At both of us. Come on. I’ll help you back.”

  “Yes,” said Veiko, and let her take his arm.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There were Alviri behind her. Two, by Briel’s reckoning, which might really be three or seven or many. Street gangs weren’t unusual in the Warren. One per several blocks, usually, and they’d learned to leave the God’s people alone. Sad day, yeah, when she had to worry about a new crop of thugs and delinquents who didn’t know the rules. This lot must be new to the Warren and Cardik. Bet they were carrying more steel than was legal.

  Bet we didn’t smuggle what they’re carrying through the gates. Bet we didn’t sell it to them.

  So. Time for a lesson in professional courtesy. In city geography, too. Snow knew the Warren’s streets and alleys by the tilt under her feet, by the smell and the pattern of shadows. She knew the best places to fight and where to leave bodies. And best, smartest: how to shake pursuit. There were two ways onto the Market Bridge from the Warren, and only this, Broad Street, was wide enough for handcarts. She was counting on the clots and snarls, where foot traffic met wheeled and everyone claimed right-of-way. She threaded through, ducked and doubled back into one of the cross streets and flattened into a doorway. Pulled the shadows after. Counted to thirty while people passed and did not so much as glance her way.

  She waited another thirty to be certain. Turned back toward Market Bridge again. Hoped for no more tails. Trusted Briel to warn her if there were.

  Flicker, as the shadows peeled back and Tsabrak stepped out of the nothing-space between buildings and reached for her.

  He damn near lost the hand when she drew and cut, one motion. Damn near lost both eyes when Briel keened and arrowed, tail hissing like a whip. He ducked and rolled and came up a graceful pace and a half farther away than he’d started. He’d lost his shadows. The daylight showed her Tsabrak in city drab, rumpled now and smudged with alley muck. He had a knife in one hand, she noted, and another hilt visible in his boot.

  “Fuck and damn, Snowdenaelikk.” He peered up, where Briel had gone.

  Snow slid her own blade back into its sheath. “The hell are you skulking out here?”

  His teeth flashed white. Smile or snarl, she couldn’t tell. “Next time I’ll shout my name first, yeah? That better?”

  Her own heartbeat had almost settled. She watched, unsmiling, as he brushed at sleeves and trousers. “Might be, yeah. Or meet me where we agreed, yeah? Janne’s tavern. Tomorrow.”

  “Was a time you’d be glad to see me.”

  “You, fine. The God wearing your skin, not fine. Which are you?”

  His mouth slashed downward. He spread empty hands. “Just me. Snow. Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.”

  “What, right now?”

  “Yes, now.” He made a show of looking left and right. “Are you busy?”

  “Say I’ve got plans, yeah.”

  “Fuck your plans.” Honest affront on his face, honest surprise, both eyebrows hitched high. “You forget how this works, Snowdenaelikk? You’re my right hand. You do my business.”

  She strangled the laugh. “I’ve been doing your business all afternoon. That idiot Marl. Just got done at Janne’s. And now I’m going home.”

  “Plans changed. Got more work for you.”

  She squinted at the thin strip of sky. The sun had to be crawling up on the ninth hour. “Smarter to let me move at night, you know that. Briel doesn’t look like a crow.”

  “Most people don’t look up to notice her. And the Alviri mistrust the dark. You know that.”

  “Superstitious toadshit, yeah, I know. Can’t wait to see them stage a daylight raid on the garrison. You planning to run a betting pool? Because I think we could make—”

  “Snow.” The God’s own smile on his face, and only dark Dvergiri eyes to prove him still Tsabrak. “I’m losing patience.”

  “Right. Fine. Just.” She drew out two sticks of jenja. Pinched them between her fingers. “You want me good for anything, I need a smoke first. You want one?”

  He poked his tongue between lip and teeth. Sucked and spat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She let her eyes close. Sank awareness into Cardik itself. There were patterns in the stones, as predictable as Illhari architecture. Patterns in everything. A conjuror knew them. A second-rank conjuror who’d earned her gold knew how to change one to the other.

  Flower and flesh, tree and root: those things are fickle. Fire, water, constant stone: those are best. What is shaped once can be reshaped.

  A simple thing

  fuck it is

  to borrow stone’s strength. To hold that strength in your fist, with your fingers curved just so, the patterns the Adepts had taught you. Call it conjuring, yeah, like you made something from nothing; but know, in your bones, that it was borrowing and shaping, and dangerous as dancing on spring ice. Cardik was not Illharek, which was Dvergir to its core, all its patterns mapped and known. Cardik was stone walls and cobbled streets, Illhari order raised on Alviri ruins. One set of patterns on a different set. That was one wrinkle for conjuring. More urgent, more dangerous: the Wild was not so far away here. Forest on the other side of patchy fields. The S’Ranna ripping white down the canyon. The Wild didn’t appreciate Dvergiri conjuring. Veiko said that was because conjuring offended the spirits. Maybe. But—

  Focus.

  She opened her eyes. Tightened her hand into a fist and extended her forefinger straight. Exhaled. And there: a hair-slim coil of smoke rose from the end of the jenja. The glow followed. Then flame, finally, that flared and spat as it caught. Tsabrak flinched and scowled hard when he saw that she’d noticed. Eyed her as the smoke curled between them, as if he’d just remembered what that topknot meant, and the rings in her ears.

  Good. Let him. She handed him one of the sticks.

  “All right. Show me what’s so important.”

  Rare sunlight this afternoon, brass-bright past the clouds caught on the peaks. It cut stripes along the cobbles, bounced blinding off the ice congealed in the gutters. The Street of Silk Curtains looked better in shadow, Dekklis thought, with lamplight and witchfire to scrub away old paint and cracked shutters. Legitimate business didn’t happen on this street with the sun up. Soldiers didn’t come here before dark, not in uniform.

  But Dekklis didn’t look like a soldier just now. Neither did Istel. Civilian clothing, civilian slouch that Istel did better

  hunch, Dek, and stop looking at everyone

  than she did. Just two Illhari going about whatever business happened in daylight. Not much on this street. Daylight commerce happened on the Market Bridge, or on Broad Street, or in one of the squares on the Hill. The Street wouldn’t open its doors for business until sundown.

  But here they were, in daylight, on Rurik’s errands, which had more to do with what happened in the Warren and in the dark, and was not business at all.

  “There have been fights, one beating, and three murders in the last week,” Rurik had said just this morning as the dawn bled through the wi
ndows. “All in the Warren. All Illhari, you savvy?”

  She did, oh yes. A double handful of villages burned since Davni, the survivors arriving in clumps and clots and trickling away into the Warren. Alviri, all of them, and not a one with a citizen’s ink. Snow had told her about the new residents up in the Warren, a patchwork of men and boys and women.

  Scared people, Szanys. Angry people.

  And your friends? What do they say about it?

  “Ask your friend something for me,” said Rurik, and Dekklis had blinked and stared at him.

  “Sir?”

  “You understand that I am generally confined to the garrison. I don’t hear what happens in the Warren. But your friend, unless he lives under a rock, must know about this.”

  And Rurik had scooped a legionnaire’s sword, short and thick-bladed and notched, off the riot of his desk and held it out like an offering. “We took this off an Alvir on the Hill tonight, Szanys. The motherless Hill. No ink on him, you savvy? You want to tell me how destitute, homeless Alviri come to buy weapons?”

  Looking at her when he said it, not Istel. But Istel had answered, even-voiced: “My friend knows godsworn, sir. Not Alviri rabble.”

  Rurik’s stare had burned like sparks on bare skin. “If I remember my lessons, Scout, there’s a long and glorious tradition of rabble and certain godsworn going together. So maybe your friend knows something.”

  No, not a stupid man. Not a fool. The same shape and shade of angry he’d been the night Kenjak had gone missing, when he’d paced and cursed and sent her and Istel out into the storm. Same leashed fury in his voice:

  “The governor’s one step from ordering us into the Warren to keep order. But those Alviri aren’t soldiers. I don’t care what they’re carrying. We go down there, we’ll butcher them, and what do you think happens then?”

  Revolution. Blood and fire.

  “You’re thinking again,” Istel said, just louder than his footfalls on the cobbles.