by Megan Derr
In reply, she grimaced and said, "The council has probably already marked him a loss, to be honest. The Seven are the liaison between clients and assassins to keep apprised of and some control over the clans. That control has always been tenuous at best, however, and since getting rid of Benta, matters have only gotten worse. If they had any real authority over the clans, Myra never would have been kidnapped to begin with. Venturing into Soltorin to deal with them directly is tantamount to suicide. So far as the council is concerned, Myra is already as good as dead. They're simply trying to save you so they have something to appease Harken. This is all supposition of course, but I am good at my job, and I've lived here a long time—and have been dealing with Soldonir even longer."
Anger curled through Jac. "I'm not going to save my own skin by throwing Myra on the pyre, and I'm not letting anyone else do it either!" She struck the ground with one fist. "Do Sarrica and Allen realize that's what the Triumvirate is doing? They can't—they'd never permit it."
Charlaine surged forward and grabbed her shoulders, said something Jac didn't catch, and pulled her into an embrace. Jac held fast to his sides, trembling with anger. It wasn't fair. If Allen or Shemal or anyone else with a title or high standing had been kidnapped, this matter would have been handled completely differently. Sarrica would already be sending Lesto out or coming himself to wreak divine havoc until he got his people back.
But nobody had ever moved mountains to save a secretary and a couple of mercenaries.
"Jac, just breathe," Charlaine said softly, and damn it if his voice wasn't calming. "Their Majesties would never abandon us, you know they wouldn't. Allen loves you. Sarrica loves Myra. They're doing everything they possibly can, even if we can't see it right now."
"They had damn well better be," Jac said, more reassured and comforted by Charlaine than she liked. Damn it, why did the man have to be so fucking perfect and wonderful? The more time they spent together, the more laughable the idea of Myra choosing her became. The more she wondered what it might be like if nobody had to choose, and how foolish did that make her? She swallowed and pushed away from him. "Sorry."
"You don't need to be sorry," Charlaine replied, and looked at her with a frustration Jac absolutely understood, though she doubted they were frustrated for the same reason.
"I don't understand why they aren't trying to save Myra, why they're just leaving it to the Triumvirate."
Charlaine gripped her shoulder again, and Jac hated herself, absolutely fucking hated herself, because she wanted another hug, wanted a kiss, just for the comfort and strength those gestures could bring. It wasn't fair. Couldn't she go on a simple rescue mission without developing feelings for her own fucking rival? Wasn't it difficult enough cooperating to rescue Myra while avoiding that they both wanted him—and had kissed each other. Not to mention Myra had also kissed her.
Had he kissed Charlaine? And of course her immediate reaction was that she wished she could have seen that.
Was love always this difficult? Had Allen had such internal turmoil? Lesto, the bastard, had practically just shown up after being kidnapped with the love of his life in tow, because of course Lesto had. She wasn't even going to think about Jader and Kamir.
Ugh.
"We don't know that they're not trying to save Myra," Charlaine said. "We don't even really know why they've sent the guards for us—we're just making assumptions. They could be doing something to find Myra. Realms, maybe some of the guards are trying to find him rather than us. All we can do for now is carry on and do our best to win the day."
Jac nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."
Charlaine tweaked her nose. "No apologies. Now come on, let's keep going. The sooner we're out of the city, the better."
"Just so," Mark said. "This way."
It took them until well after dark to finally get out of the city, and from there still more walking until they came to a large, sprawling complex that seemed to be a tavern, an inn, a private pier, a public stable, and something else Jac couldn't figure out.
Mark bid them wait outside before she slipped into what seemed to be the main building. A few minutes later a young man came out and approached them with a tray bearing bowls of what resembled the congee she'd grown up eating, though this kind was heaped with salted fish and pickled vegetables instead of stringy bits of barely edible meat. There were also cups of warm rice wine that helped cut the brisk night air.
Sitting on the low wall that surrounded the whole place, Jac happily dug in.
"I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy food as much as you," Charlaine said, grinning around a piece of fish he shoved in his mouth. After swallowing, he added, "And I've been surrounded by soldiers my whole life."
Jac ignored her burning face. "Between growing up an orphan and being a mercenary, I appreciate food when I get it. After all the lousy food on that ship, I'm eating every scrap of good food that appears in front of me." That got her the laugh she'd been hoping for, even as it knotted her stomach and started up an ache in her chest.
Damn it, she'd been happier when she and Charlaine had been passing acquaintances and really only talked when work brought them together. Becoming friends with him was the worst thing ever. All it did was make her wish they could be lovers too. With Myra right there with them. What would they say if she suggested it?
Nothing good, probably. Growing up in Outland had made it very clear that the Islander way of love and romance wasn't acceptable in Harken, unless it was under the propriety of dames and sires.
"Do you think we'll get to him in time?" she asked. "Or are we really in need of someone to save us from ourselves?"
"I think it doesn't matter," Charlaine said, leaning in close, resting his forehead against the side of hers. "I think we're both the type to do whatever we can, damn the consequences. Why else would I be the shadowy third of Fathoms Deep and you the woman crazy enough to leave the High Consort presumptive practically alone in the middle of enemy territory?"
Jac grimaced. "It's not like a wanted to. I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
"Of course not. Heroes usually don't live down their deeds. Nor should they," Charlaine said as he sat up again. He finished the rest of his food and set the bowl aside, picking up his cup and sipping at what remained of his wine.
Jac shook her head and stuffed more food in her mouth. She'd never forget that awful moment when she'd been forced to abandon Allen. It hadn't been heroic at all. It had been desperate and reckless and nearly failed. Cartha had chased her nearly the whole way, and twice they'd caught her, beaten and tormented her. She'd escaped the first time by using the last of her firebombs.
The second time…the second time she didn't remember. Sensations of pain, terror, desperation. Screaming. Branches cutting her face. But the actual events were a blur. Her first clear memory after that was looking into Sarrica's face and telling him all that she could. Doing her duty had never been so difficult, and the Dragons had been involved in some nasty affairs. The glorious empire so many enjoyed being a part of came at a steep price most never knew about. The price that day had been leaving Allen behind to be captured. Allen never spoken of that time, but they all knew he'd had nightmares for months after. Every once in a while, after particularly rough days, they came back. He'd always have the scars on his back, piled on top of those left by his brothers.
There hadn't really been any other choice but to leave him behind. She'd replayed that moment over and over again, but still only saw the solution she'd taken. That didn't make it easier to live with, even if no one else blamed her for Allen's suffering, outside of ignorant nobles who enjoyed talking about things they didn't understand. Even if she had plenty of scars of her own.
She'd be damned if she ever let him down again. Even if getting Myra back cost her everything.
Jac swallowed another bite of congee and the last of the pickled vegetables, none of which she recognized but were all delicious. It wasn't Mestan lobster chowder or Outlander-style r
oasted chicken, but it was good.
Mark returned before she could figure out how to obtain a second helping of everything and beckoned them to follow her. She led them up a set of stairs and into a large room containing four beds. "I've paid for the whole room, so we will not be bothered. No guards or rumors of guards have come this far, so we should be safe through the night and we'll leave at first light."
Jac didn't groan or whine, but it was a near thing. Instead she went over to the bucket in the corner and used the soap and rag set next to it to quickly wash up before she changed into fresh clothes that didn't smell like filthy sailors and hours of walking.
Leaving the others to do as they pleased, she flopped down on one of the beds and fell almost immediately asleep.
*~*~*
She jerked awake to someone shaking her feet and reached for the sword she'd been too stupid to remember to put to hand—but her fingers touched it anyway, and she would have kissed Charlaine for that alone if she wasn't just awake enough to remember why that was a bad idea.
"What?" she asked, voice pitched low.
"Guards downstairs," Charlaine said, and withdrew to pull on his boots and weapons.
Jac rolled out of bed and did the same—and had just strapped on her sword belt when the door flew open and guards spilled into the room. Damn it. She reached into her special pouch and palmed two of the contents before spreading her arms to show she meant no harm.
"Stop in the name of the Seven!" the woman in the lead bellowed in Harken, as eight additional guards fanned out. "Lady Mark Valturr, Master Charlaine Astor, Mistress Jac Denali, we request that you come peacefully. If you refuse, you will be arrested and treated as prisoners rather than guests."
"Do you aim to stop us from completing our mission?" Charlaine asked.
"I am not fit to comment on that. My orders are to bring you to the Court of Seven," the woman said. "Will you come—"
Jac lobbed the smokebombs she'd been holding, one right after the other to opposite sides of the room. "Go!" she bellowed, and rushed forward into the smoke, holding her breath as she shoved and punched and kicked her way through the chaos until she at least reached the door—more by accident than intent, since it was far too easy to get confused even in a small space.
A guard came out of the mess next, and she knocked him out with a simple one-two. She put down the next as well, and almost punched a third before she registered it was Charlaine, smoky and with a bloody lip and black eye, but otherwise all right. "Mark?"
"Here," Mark hissed as she tumbled out. "My father isn't going to murder me after this, oh no, he's going to send me to my stepfather." Another guard came barreling out, and Mark got hold of him, slammed his head into the nearest wall, and blew loose strands of hair out of her face. "Let's get out of here."
Swearing at everything they were leaving behind, including her daggers and all of her clothes, Jac followed behind Mark and Charlaine, more smokebombs at the ready. She threw one on the stairs and at the base just to be safe. Out in the courtyard, Mark and Charlaine were mounting horses that clearly belonged to the guards they'd just attacked. Not certain whether to laugh or cry, Jac mounted another horse.
She and Mark took off, and a few minutes later Charlaine caught up, his grin just visible in the moonlight. "Sent the other horses off in the opposite direction. They may yet catch us, but it'll take them that much longer. Nice work with the smokebombs, Jac. Did you bring your firebombs along as well?"
"Does a Dragon go anywhere without smoke and fire?" Jac asked.
Charlaine laughed, and Mark chuckled. "Come," she said. "My friend with the boat is only a couple of hours from here, and once we're on the water they'll have a much harder time catching us. Smugglers' vessels can go places the royal and private vessels can't. Even most fishermen won't venture where we're going, especially as we draw closer to the more secluded parts of Soltorin."
Groaning at the idea of riding and then sailing, with no chance of rest in sight, Jac nevertheless heeled her horse to a faster pace and raced with her companions into the night.
Chapter Ten
Myra stared out the grungy window a few paces from where he sat on a narrow bed. They were in a small inn just outside Odokka, with Ryan and everyone but Kim having gone back into the city. They'd left that morning, and it was approaching evening. The day had been long, tense, and miserable—exactly like every day before it.
He just wanted it all to be over. The worst part of going to his death was that it was taking forever. Not that he wanted to die, but this slow waiting, sitting around doing nothing, day after day of eat, sleep, wait, eat, sleep, wait, was damn near worse than death.
Never again would he complain about the tedium of rearranging the schedule for the five hundredth time, or sorting out what legal texts would need to be pulled for Allen to look over, or writing out contracts in multiple languages.
Since their arrival in Odon, he'd been moved around three times. The only good thing was that every inn they stayed in was of good quality, so he got decent food and a comfortable bed and didn't have to worry about lice and other vermin.
Minus the ones who'd kidnapped him, anyway.
Kimberly kept watching him, and she was always the one put in charge of babysitting him while the others were out, but since their conversation about her brother, she'd not said a word to him. Her doubts and worries were plain enough to anyone who knew to look, but Ryan and the others were so distracted by reporting the failed mission to their liaison that nobody paid Kimberly much attention. It was clear they didn't consider her a real part of the team; she was treated more like a servant than an assassin.
So far as making her an ally was proceeding, he was about to declare that a monumental failure. Whatever her reticence and doubts regarding the clans, she'd not yet worked herself free of their cultish thinking. Then again, it had taken him witnessing a murder of a clanswoman to realize just how terrible life would be if he remained. Leaving aside they never would have seen him as anything but 'a woman living as a man,' which was already unbearable, all their talk of killing for the greater good, removing those who were hurting the world, was lies. Killing was killing, and good was often a matter of perspective.
Nearly every kingdom in Harken was happy to be a part of the empire. But ask most Tricemorien citizens and they'd be happy to regale the listener with tales of the Battle of Korron; the Massacre of the Nine; the Pyre of the Lost City. No one could be forced to join the empire, that was one of its oldest laws, though it hadn't come soon enough to prevent some of Harken's earliest crimes. Tricemore hadn't exactly joined with ringing enthusiasm, and every now and then it seemed like they might rebel and join Cartha.
Kin del Kar got along with Harken now, but they had plenty of stories of empire brutality of their own to tell. And the history between Cartha and Harken was carved in bone and soaked in blood. Harken's history with Benta and Treya Mencee was only moderately better. All of the empire condemned Treya Mencee for their slave colonies, but Mesta and Selemea had once purchased some of those slaves and might still if ceasing such practices hadn't been a requirement of joining the empire.
Treya Mencee should be rightfully condemned for slavery and many other horrific practices, but they'd done a lot of good too. Benta had its own complicated history, with just as many people who loved and hated them—Including Soldonir. Yet despite the animosity between the two countries, it was highly likely it was someone in Benta who'd paid for the hit on the High Throne.
When all the pretty words were stripped away, the clans were not so different than the mercenaries the rest of the world relied on so heavily, save that mercenaries could leave if they chose, and did a lot more than kill and spy.
If he had not witnessed that murder in the woods, would he be any better than Ryan, than Kimberly? Probably not.
He fervently hoped that, whether she helped him or not, Kimberly saw sense and found a way to escape.
He also rather hoped he survived, but he'd known
his fate the moment he'd seen his nephew in the dungeon.
Myra tensed as the door opened and relaxed slightly when it proved to be Kimberly bearing a tray of food. She arranged him at the table and sat across from him, scowling at the bowl of rice, salted mackerel, and pickled radish, bamboo shoots, and lotus root as though they'd called her mother a two-pin whore.
"Something on your mind?" he asked.
"Be quiet."
Myra obeyed and managed to finish half his meal before she started giving him pensive, confused, frustrated looks. Though he itched to push, he left her alone. Some people needed to be persuaded, some needed to be seduced, some needed time.
Just as he wanted to scream, Kimberly said, "The clans are shrinking. It's not common knowledge. The clan leaders don't want people to realize."
Despite his thoughts of a moment ago, the words were a blow. Myra shoved the unwanted emotions away. The clans had made their own mess. It was always going to catch up with them. "That's what happens when you hoard people the same way you hoard secrets and treat your own like they're as expendable as the people we're contracted to kill," Myra said. "Every person dead is another family that will never be, and every once in a while you get someone like me. No matter how much of a spectacle they make of me, no matter how much they'll shame and humiliate me to terrorize everyone else into falling back in line, there will be another who decides my death is a step too far, and once you see one flaw, you begin to see them all."
Kimberly went back to glaring at her food, but after several more minutes said, "I don't have the resources or skills to save you. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm willing to throw my life away to save yours."
"I never expected you to," Myra said. He didn't need her to save him. He just needed her to give him an opportunity to save himself.
She looked up, met his gaze. "If you could have escaped without killing your father, would you have? And that other man you killed?"
