Anna looked at the riveted double-doors through which the tracker departed, studying the dark wood as though it might offer some unconsidered answer. Much like Bora’s words in Nur Sabah’s marketplace, there was violence undone in his exit.
The orza cleared her throat, breaking Anna’s focus, then smiled at Bora. “Come, Bora. We’ll show Anna to her quarters. We should let her rest before this evening.”
“This evening?” Anna asked, wary.
“For your cause,” the orza said. “Before you enjoy the night and its wonders, there will always be the small matter of providing service to your cause. Tonight we’ll just witness your gifts once more.”
“What will my gifts do?”
“Our warriors require simple aid,” the orza said. “Tonight, we simply wish to see what you did to your attendant. A protective marking. Some of the men from the cause will be in the path of harm, and they require your care.”
“You want me to mark the Dogwood,” Anna said. It was the second most common use of scribes in Rzolka, outranked only by the protection of bogaty. On its own, there was nothing distinctly harmful about the request.
The orza gave her a polite look. “Is this acceptable?”
With some delay, Anna returned the gesture. “Of course.”
“Lovely. And how do you feel about lessons, dear?”
It was hard to say, as Anna had never received formal lessons in all of her years. It was something for the wealthy children in Malchym and Kowak. That wasn’t to say they didn’t fascinate her. There was always buried desire associated with Shem’s true letters, learning the functions and interlocking way of words between tongues. “I like them.”
“Good.” The orza added another pinch of black sugar to her tea. “Bora can teach you many things, of course, but we have other radiant minds in these walls. Some of them may surprise you.”
For Anna, the word surprise was rarely associated with good things. “It sounds lovely.”
“And,” the orza said with an exaggerated wink, “I’ll show you all of the joys within our districts. These halls are built for more than vaults, of course. Without celebration, what point is there in living?” She laughed as her eyes traced the tabletop. When she glanced up, the severity in her eyes turned her powders to war-paint. It made Anna’s hand constrict around her teacup, white-knuckled. “You have a wonderful heart, Kuzashur. This is easily known. But not all are so kind, and not all hold such radiant hearts. With every star’s blessing, you’ll live a joyful and prosperous life here. I simply ask that you consider each action carefully. Some men demand permission to be received rather than forgiveness sought.” The weight of her words haunted the study and formed a fragile silence, broken only when the orza herself stirred and sipped her tea. A glimmer of playful youth returned to her eyes as she lowered the porcelain, but the shift was forced. “Your days of southern darkness are over, dear. You should know that Malijad is the Gosuri word for womb, and you’ve arrived so near to the Days of Seed. What an auspicious path to rebirth.”
It was spoken as though the mood hadn’t soured moments earlier, and Anna did her best to overlook the lingering unease. Although the bile hadn’t settled in her stomach, she pushed her cup away and offered a thin smile, her fingers reaching up for the comfort of the purple flower in her tunic’s weaving.
A thorn cut into Anna’s thumb.
Chapter 15
Anna’s legs ached as she crossed the waist-high grasses of a balcony terrace, boots in hand and eyes pinched against the sunset’s fire, exhaustion blurring the orza’s palatial tour into a half-forgotten dream. Through the towering buildings she saw the dimness of approaching nightfall, kators moving in chrome flashes along hovering tracks, mirror signals glinting between posts, nocturnal markets sprouting in the aftermath of the sun’s terror. It was almost enough to distract her from the shouts, bestial and thick with drunken rage, that had been echoing from the lower levels since morning.
The orza wandered to the black iron railing that encircled the terrace, gazing out and holding Malijad’s sunset in her irises. “Is there such majesty in the south, dear?”
Far off in the haze, smoke and glass erupted soundlessly from a setstone high-rise. Seven seconds later, its dull clap reached across the sprawl. Nothing crossed the orza’s face. “No, I don’t think so,” she said finally. Dark bunches of Dogwood armor crowded her periphery, their mass no more than twenty paces away. “Do they have to come everywhere with us?”
It was an innocent question, but its implications sent knots through the orza’s brow. She was quiet for a time, presumably working to construct an agreeable answer for the cadre. “In time, you’ll grow accustomed to the scope of their presence.” She glanced back at them with a saccharine smile. Then, as though bleeding her own ambiguity, she hummed and stared back over the railing. “Most soothingly, their aid is always within reach. Even if you don’t imagine that you’ll require it.”
Anna was unwilling to press the woman’s veiled words, given how easily doubt could corrupt hope. Rare hope, no less.
In a descending capsule, its motion as fluid as the kator yet strangely weightless, Anna mentally recited her mantra with dogmatic insistence. Save Rzolka, save Rzolka, save Rzolka. Only her cause provided enough energy to stay awake, to blink away exhaustion, and ignore her blistered heels in the orza’s presence. For better or worse those words were her only link to the south, her only goal. She could become comfortable in the kales, of course, but her mind would be restless until she rooted out every trace of wickedness in the south.
That was how it had to be, she told herself.
On the designated floor, Anna wandered down corridors wrought from setstone and dark mortar. Save Rzolka. The masonry was chipped and blackened in spots, its support pillars bent into crooked spines. Reckless shouts echoed from the chamber ahead. Most of it was in the river-tongue, but inklings of flatspeak and grymjek bled into the din. No matter what they’d promised her, she knew she’d be terrified by her task. She fought to embrace Bora’s teachings, to stifle her fear and act with necessity.
Save Rzolka.
The orza’s steps echoed in pursuit, and Anna glanced back to meet her painted eyes. “I’d like to do this alone, if it’s all right.”
The orza’s brows arched in surprise; she was faintly impressed. “As the winds carry you.” She took a step back, her smile as vibrant as ever, and Anna continued onward. “And dear,” the orza added, forcing her to turn, “do as they ask.” Concern, thick and pooling in the twist of her lips, dampened the smile.
Anna’s throat tightened.
Their faces were haggard and streaked with black paint. Sigils pulsed beneath coal-dark smears, more luminous than candlelight on their sweat-stained skin, or their bloodshot, nerkoya-infused eyes. They hardly noticed the new arrival as they continued their rituals, shaking one another by the shoulders, sharing bulb-shaped flasks, flicking oils into their pupils, driving pins into fingers or palms. Some chanted praise for the bear’s fury and the ox’s tenacity in the grymjek, while others knelt in half-circle formations and burnt withered grass as an invitation to the Grove. A scattered few—mostly Hazani and dark-skinned northerners—were tossing mica into lantern light to form glittering stars as they cinched tunics and wicker breastplates, inspected ruji or short blades, laced up boots, pulled on leather gloves and rose dark hoods.
Toward the back of the hall, standing beside his three comrades with a painted mug in hand, was the tracker. If not for their garb of pressed shirts and laced pants, the four men might have also been taken for warriors. They drank and joined in animal calls, fueling the room’s energy. Their faces were shadowed and sharp in candlelight.
Anna slid through the crowd, dodging men who sloshed liquor and exhaled smoke. She was shorter than them, but her course was calculated, directing her feet through the scuffle.
When she emerged into the chambe
r’s clearing, ostensibly the ritual’s nexus, the eyes fell upon her. The clearing’s inner ring paused with bottles at their lips and half-spoken sentences unfinished. Then those in the outer circles peered through the mass, catching sight of Anna and angling their bodies in turn. The tracker and his comrades, swept up in fond recollection, were among the last to notice the growing silence.
The tracker stepped forward. “Chodge tu, panna.”
Those who stood beside Anna shrank away, granting her some freedom in her movement. Even those who’d pounded the tiles and screeched fell silent, giving the room a distinctly eerie feeling.
She met the tracker further in the clearing. Once again, she noticed telltale rings of violet in his eyes. She saw the feeling mind in his shaking hands and the way he tried to compose himself. His stare flitted away, little more than a momentary spasm of the eyes, but Anna read its buried message: shame.
The wicker-hatted man stumbled toward the tracker. “Do you see it, shest korpy?” He spun around, nearly collapsing with his drink in hand, and swept a finger over the crowd. His eyes were glassy. “Look at it, boys. This is death! The death of Nahora, the death of the Hazani cartels, the death of the two cities! This is Rzolka’s lifeblood. Look at it, and remember the face. Remember that your life is a gnat’s in her shadow! If a hundred men strike at her, a hundred of you korpy swallow the blades. This is your fucking goddess now, rosumesh?”
The chamber echoed with a unified, deafening bark: “Tek yest!”
The wicker-hatted man took a long swallow from his mug, then twisted his face into an angry snarl and thrust a fist skyward. “Are you bleating goats, che subraty? Let them hear it in Kowak!”
“Tek yest!”rattled the air.
Satisfied, the wicker-hatted man drank, spat his mouthful onto the tiles, and skulked back to the other men. In his absence was only the tracker and his subdued stance. Fresh energy set the bunkroom to murmuring and cackling.
“Right, then,” the tracker said in a low rumble, managing to captivate the audience all the same. “They tell me you’ve had to burn bodies on nights like this.”
Scattered nods and agreement filled the bunkroom.
“All over now,” the tracker continued, tossing a nod at Anna. “She’s a good one, and you’ll treat her like it. This isn’t the orza’s scribe. These marks don’t fade as soon as they hit your throat.” He lifted the hem of his mask, revealing a still-glowing rune. “Most of you are here because the old days are in your hearts. A few might be here for the salt, or the tits, or whatever they pack into those pipes.” He paused as chuckles broke out. “Your wants and needs aren’t any of my concern. Do your tasks, and do them well. Earn your fucking desires.”
A wave of approval spread through the men, softer than before but more directed in its purpose. They weren’t maddened; they were motivated.
The tracker approached Anna, struggling to regulate his walk. His withered eyes looked down at her. “The miracle stands before me.”
Anna surveyed the crowd. “I’m here for the cause.”
“You might as well be the cause, panna. They’re all talking about what you did today, you know. About how you put fire in the korpa’s eyes.” His voice sobered for a moment, graver and deeper than before. “Never seen one like you, and I guarantee the flatlands haven’t either. We ought to parade you around as a god. These sods would throw salt at hares, if they learned to jump high enough. Imagine what they’d do for your marks.”
Rather than salt, Anna saw bloodshed. She saw burnt bodies and orphans and entire cities laid to waste. Bora was right to say that life was precious here. So precious that it warranted murder. “I just want to do my part.”
“Did you get tired of the sukra?” the tracker asked. Anna said nothing, still clinging to the woman’s kindness as the tracker substituted his own answer and huffed. “And Bora said you’d never understand this place. Stick with your own breed, and you’ll stay sane. That’s a solid truth from sand to swamp.”
They aren’t my breed, she thought as she stared at the masses. Her blood was the same, but that was where their kinship ended.
“Remember what I told you about superstitions?” the tracker asked. “The orza wanted to bleed the mission because there are clouds over the stars. Not to say that we expected anything else, of course. Give any sukra a painted face and silk, and watch what happens.”
“She hasn’t done anything to you,” Anna said coolly.
“Things move slower in the flatlands.” He took another sip from his mug. “Grove knows she’d love to boil the river-blood right out of you.” He pushed past the confusion on Anna’s face. “You’re a smart girl, must know Bora was trying to crack your mind. We placed bets on what the orza told you during your private time today.” A cold laugh. “Fuck the flatlands.”
Anna steeled her gaze. “She hasn’t tried to persuade me of anything.”
“Yet. Come off it, girl.” He grunted. “Panna. I’m looking out for you in this place.”
“I’ll look out for myself.”
Laughter like winter winds issued from his lips. “My, my, we’re headstrong today. Where is the sukra, anyway?” Anna glanced back toward the corridor and the orza, but the crowd blocked her vision. The tracker waved a hand to call off her search, struggling to control his lids’ spasms, then gestured to the clumps of soldiers around her. “Let’s get to it. Just like you did to me, you understand. Some of them need their sight.”
Anna looked past the tracker, watching his comrades intently. “Tell me why I’m marking them.”
“For the cau—”
“No,” Anna said, halting the words as they dribbled free. “I want to know specific things. Don’t be vague.”
“Hard to explain.”
“You explained things already.” She recalled the kator and its moon-bathed deck as something distant, far from the palace’s beasts. “Tell me why I’m marking them. Tell me how it helps the cause.”
The tracker’s head lulled to the side. He twisted his shoulders to turn away, and just as it seemed he’d resigned himself to silence, he raised an unsteady arm and indicated a mass of black-clad warriors. “Look, panna. Do you see how they’re dressed?”
“For fighting.” But upon closer inspection, she noticed rows of pockets along the front of their shirts, all stuffed with squares of blackened ceramic. “They’re armored.”
“Tek,” the tracker said. “This must be coming up on their hundredth mission. Do you know enough numbers to count the men in here?”
She couldn’t tell if it was an insult, but she shook her head all the same. “Why does it matter?”
“They used to have twice as many in their ranks.”
“The orza has her own scribe,” Anna said.
“Wetwork is never as quick as it should be. Runes fade.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking with their captains, and they had a lot to say. About the raids, about the tactics, about the orza. Overall, they’re a savage lot. Thirsty for death trophies, and salt too. But they’re going up against tens of thousands.”
Again the numbers slipped past like water in her hands. But she recognized the amount was daunting. “Are they attacking Rzolka?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “Not tonight, panna. Not for a while. But if you put the blade to them properly, then it’ll happen. They can take it all back. The peaks, the two cities, the rivers.”
“Where have they been fighting, then?”
Before the tracker could answer Josip stepped into the clearing and danced with awkward hops. The warriors cheered and clapped for him, calling him “painted doll” in the grymjek. Errant arms and legs nudged Anna’s back.
“Step off, step off.” The tracker reached past Anna to shove away some of the men. He then folded his arms and turned back, raising his voice over the foot-stomping and clapping and cursing. “It’s all in Malijad, panna. S
ix districts are pressed against the Dogwood’s. We’re not here to yoke them; we just want them turned to dust.” The tracker spoke like a man addressing his equal. His explanations were sparse, but they were born of drinks and dusk-petals rather than deception. “Each one of those districts is a hive, Anna. Some send metal to Malchym, some give beds to the korpy from the plains. To men like Radzym.”
Spindles of hatred broke through her thinking mind. She held an imagined version of Radzym’s face in her thoughts, picturing him surrounded by mountains of salt and dancing girls, lining up young boys and girls to bleed them like lambs. “Radzym is here?”
“Might’ve been,” the tracker said. “They come by the dozens, panna. They like to talk about deals, sell their timber for whatever trinkets the Hazani are peddling.”
She held onto the distant hope that Radzym was in Malijad, and that he would die tonight. Not before he answered for his crimes, though. Even as his image stung her, she held it close to her heart. “Where are they going tonight?”
“Bilge.”
Anna was unsure if she ought to recognize the name.
“Down south, we knew him as Grymor Bilge.” The tracker tilted his head. “Now he calls himself Orzi Bilge. The flatlands are his dusty fucking fields, and he has it comfortable here. Yellow-eyed new woman, salt from Malchym every cycle to keep their metal flowing, giblets and crumbs to stuff his bloated—”
“So they’re targeting his supplies,” Anna said.
“Too many streets and levels in that district, panna. Not even these captains know where they are. And Bilge has enough blades to put a fire under them once they break down his doors.” He huffed. “No, they’re going for his skull. Signed his death writ the moment he tucked tail.”
Scribes Page 18
