“How long does that get me?”
“Long!” Eyes wide, Cal counted the money then scooped it off. “Don’t worry about days. That’s a fortune by our standards and you’ll have your room until winter’s over.”
A wave of relief washed over Arathiel. They might be trapping him—they could take his money and throw him out after—but Arathiel found it hard to distrust Cal or the Shelter as a whole. He’d often slept in low-class inns since leaving the Well, sometimes even curling up in the dark corner of an alley. He had seen people fight for a stale loaf of bread, get caught stealing half-rotten fruit, plead and beg for scraps and bones. Here they had an abundance of food and drink, but no one quarrelled for it, like they all knew that for once, they would survive without stepping on others. Instead they celebrated the young owner who no doubt made it possible.
“I’m glad I came here.”
Arathiel had been talking mostly to himself, but Cal brightened at the words, as if the praise had been addressed directly to him.
“You’ll have room number six. No locks anywhere, but you have a chair inside to bar it, if you’re worried about thieves. Take that corridor over there,” he said, pointing. “Numbers are painted on the doors. Welcome to Isandor, Mister Arathiel! I’ll be back with a warm meal and a towel to keep you dry and cozy.”
Arathiel knew he wouldn’t feel the food’s warmth whether down his throat or through the bowl. Yet Cal’s concern sufficed to draw him in, erasing much of this distance he perceived between himself and the world. He watched the celebration at the back of the Shelter continue, envious knots forming in his stomach. Larryn had a home, knew his role in life. Arathiel wondered if he would ever find his. At least he had somewhere to sleep, and the first genuinely kind contact in a long while.
One step at a time, Arathiel promised himself. One step at a time, and he would find meaning to his life again.
Hasryan didn’t mind the cold night if it meant he escaped the Shelter’s cheering crowd. Every occasion to mingle with the patrons brought mixed feelings. On the one hand, they never commented on his jet-black skin and included him in all discussions. On the other, Hasryan always detected a hint of reluctance at his presence, and he disliked large groups. Too hard to keep track of everyone. He preferred to know where others’ were and most importantly, who stood right behind him.
The Shelter’s roof might threaten to collapse, but to Hasryan’s over-cautious mind, it would always be safer than a mass of people. Besides, he’d shared a drink with Larryn in more dangerous locations before. They’d initiated their friendship on a balcony of House Allastam’s tower. It hadn’t threatened to give in under their weight, but had any guards found two half-elves—including a dark-skinned one—sharing life stories in their home without permission, it wouldn’t have ended well.
Larryn let his legs dangle over the edge of the roof, mug stuck between his knees, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. They’d come up together, Hasryan sitting on Larryn’s right as always—his friend’s left ear had never entirely recovered from an infection. Larryn had spent the last five minutes in silence, chin tilted up as he glared at the criss-cross of bridges above their heads. Between the bridges and the rising towers, they could barely see the sky. Hasryan didn’t speak. The quiet didn’t bother him. They could let it stretch for over an hour at times, especially if Larryn had his hands busy preparing the next meal for the Shelter. Strange, how different Hasryan’s two friendships were. Cal couldn’t endure more than a few minutes without anyone speaking.
“What did Cal say about the newcomer?” Larryn’s voice shattered the silence. He turned his grey eyes to Hasryan, not bothering to hide his wariness. He extended the same protectiveness to his Shelter as he did to children, and Larryn could always sense when someone didn’t come from Isandor’s streets. He could tell from their smell, their demeanour—from a lifetime of experience inhabiting the Lower City.
“He declared him trustworthy.”
“Which means shit coming from Cal. He’d call an assassin trustworthy.”
Hasryan stiffened. He’d shared so many stories and silences with Larryn, he often forgot how much more he’d kept secret. “He also said it sounded like most places didn’t want to serve him. Funny how that happens to people with dark skin and white hair, huh?” Not that this Arathiel possessed any elven blood. His facial structure wasn’t angular enough, and he had round ears.
“Point taken.” Larryn raised his mug and drank. “As long as he doesn’t cause problems, I don’t mind him here. Same rules as anyone.”
Rules Hasryan inwardly thanked him for. It helped to have a safe haven, and he often wished Larryn had entered his life sooner. He might have been too young for such a building, however. “So … Are you ever going to reveal how old you are, or is it some kind of state secret?”
“Secret. Best to let everyone believe they’re dealing with a responsible adult, well into his twenties.”
Hasryan’s clear laugh covered the hint of conversations below. “No one thinks you’re responsible. Do you take us for fools?”
“Shut up.” Larryn grinned and shoved him. “I’m more adult than all the assholes living in towers above, prancing about with fancy silk underwear and commanding dozens of servants.”
“Not a high standard.”
Larryn snickered, then downed the rest of his beer. “Tell you what,” he said with a substantial slur to his speech, “I’ll give you my age when you reveal what it is you do, exactly. For work.”
Hasryan had to force himself to laugh. A lifetime of lies made it easier than it should have been. “Me? Just a trustworthy assassin.”
He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. Some things should remain unsaid, even as a joke. When Larryn snorted, reiterating how ridiculous the idea was to him, Hasryan focused on his drink and struggled to ignore the painful stab in his heart.
“I can live without knowing your age,” he said.
More importantly, Larryn could never learn of Hasryan’s job. How did one tell his best friend—his only friend, aside from Cal—he was a trained assassin? Oh, nothing much, Larryn. I just kill people for money! No way, especially now. They joked about the mystery around Larryn’s age, but to Hasryan, secrets were a matter of life and death. Larryn and Cal knew he worked for Brune, the head of Isandor’s tentacular mercenary organization, but Hasryan had never slipped a word about killing anyone. He had found people who trusted him despite his dark elven blood—actual friends!—and refused to risk that. What could ever be worth more?
“Plans for the coming year?” Hasryan asked, eager to push the topic in another direction.
“Some. Fix the Shelter even more. Force the merchant prick using the second floor as storage to sell it to me.” He motioned at one of the two towers between which the wooden Shelter had been built. He sketched a smile and ran a hand through his hair. “I’d love to dedicate an entire level to the kids. They could have a safe space to play and sleep. Efua would have company her age.”
“You just want an excuse to adopt them all.”
Larryn’s sheepish grin was all the answer Hasryan needed. He laughed, then clapped his friend on the back. “I could help with the merchant. Bring my parentage’s terrible reputation to bear, make him piss his pants.”
“I’d love to see that.” But Larryn was shaking his head. They’d had this kind of conversation before, and Hasryan guessed what Larryn would add. “You know I try to stay as legal as possible with the Shelter. Wouldn’t take much for the guards to decide to shut it down and then everyone would be on the streets with no food and no roof over their head. Winter’s about to roll in. I can’t inflict that on them.”
Hasryan might have laughed earlier, but Larryn's behaviour, though reckless, exceeded the typical maturity of others his age. At least when it came to the Shelter. Not even in his twenties, he’d said, and yet so many people depended on him already. They relied on him and his Shelter in a way very few had ever relied on Hasr
yan.
“Not much we can do, then. I doubt our new friend has large enough funds to buy you a whole floor.” Not if Hasryan judged by his paper-thin clothes, sewn over and over, and the lack of coat despite the chilling weather. Besides, he’d emptied his purse in front of Cal. They knew how little was available there. A cold wind swooped through the Shelter’s alley. Hasryan blew on his hands. “We ought to go back inside. I wouldn’t mind the fire, and there might even be some cheese left.”
“With Cal around?” Larryn snorted. “Don’t count on it. He’d share just about anything in his life, but not cheese.”
Hasryan laughed as he stood and stretched, blood warming his frozen limbs. It really was getting too late in the year for long discussions outside. Or even short ones. After shaking his legs and arms awake, he moved to the side of the roof and leaped off, glass still in hand, onto a large crate below.
“Just a warm fire, then, and maybe a quick game if you’re all up for it?”
“You bet.”
Larryn jumped after him, his landing less graceful than Hasryan’s. More alcohol and less practice. Hasryan steadied him, then smiled as they ambled to the door. Cheese didn’t matter. Neither did the fire, in truth. He only needed an evening with real friends to fulfill him.
Nevian’s back and knees hurt from scrubbing the floor. The soapy water had wrinkled his skin, and the nerves in his wrists screamed every time he clenched the minuscule brush given to him to accomplish his task. It was shorter than his index finger—not at all appropriate to clean the large storage room. If only he could use his magic to mop the floor in seconds. Master Avenazar’s orders were clear, though: no spells and no bigger brush than the one Jilssan had created. Nothing but long hours on his knees, supposed to teach him discipline. As if Nevian needed the lesson! Discipline had carried him through the rigorous training required to become an apprentice to knowledgeable Myrian masters. Discipline allowed him to tolerate Master Avenazar’s ridiculous and time-consuming demands and Master Jilssan’s subtle mockery without a word of complaint. Discipline meant that when Avenazar unwound his frustration on Nevian, shooting waves of agonizing magic into his mind, he endured the punishment then managed to crawl to his room and study through the night.
In the long run, only the studying mattered. No matter how much he hurt at the end of the day, Nevian opened his books, picked up his quill, and learned what Avenazar refused to teach him.
Nevian scrubbed harder. Discipline would transform him into the best wizard in the Myrian Empire, all odds be damned. He had laboured for too long to let anything stop him. Especially not a floor. Nevian straightened to evaluate how much remained to clean and smiled. Three-quarters done! Not so bad. He stretched his fingers, easing his cramped hands, when a shadow fell upon him.
“Is this the tiniest brush ever created? What a cutie.”
Nevian recognized the chirpy voice and withheld a sigh. Isra, the enclave’s only other apprentice. The one person who could strain his self-control even more than Avenazar’s abuse. He didn’t know why she pierced his defences so easily. Something in her constant good mood, in the simplicity of her entire life. Isra didn’t need discipline. She hadn’t struggled. Whenever he thought of all the opportunities offered to her, of how she wasted the gift of her circumstances, sharp and bitter pain stabbed his stomach.
Isra reached for the brush with a grin. She fit Myria’s beauty standards perfectly, as if her parents had followed a chart upon her conception. Every strand of her dark blonde hair was placed with calculated care, her nose was round and small, and cherry makeup highlighted her lips. Nevian didn’t know who she was trying to impress with that. Not him, he hoped. He had no interest in these things—not with her, and not with anyone. The thought had always made him recoil a little. Nevian gripped the tiny brush, certain she’d never give it back.
“I have Master Jilssan to thank for that,” he told her.
Jilssan was Isra’s tutor and a specialist in transmutation spells. Unlike Avenazar, Jilssan cared about the success of her apprentice and did her best to teach Isra every day. Nevian avoided attending their training sessions. They reminded him of his first Master. Sauria would buy him fancy quills or new tomes to celebrate his achievements. She’d shown him her secret spots outside where she both studied and caught some sun. If only she had never offended Master Avenazar, she might still be alive, and Nevian wouldn’t be paying for her mistakes. How powerful would he already have become, with her help? Better not to think of it, to just focus on the present—on what was rather than what could have been.
Isra favoured him with a bright smile. “Jilssan’s really talented, isn’t she? But why use the brush? Snap your fingers, cast a spell, and finish the cleaning, no?” Isra touched her chin, as though an important idea had occurred to her. “You can cast spells, right? I’ve never seen you wield magic.”
Nevian’s fingers clenched around the brush. He lumbered to his feet, straightening until he stood almost a full head taller than Isra. “Master Avenazar forbade the use of magic to teach me the value of hard work and perseverance.”
Isra snorted, then scanned the partly-cleaned floor without bothering to hide her disdain. “Nevian, no one knows the meaning of hard work better than you do. Just do a spell.”
She lifted a hand, readying herself to cast without waiting for him. Nevian’s heart skipped several beats. He grabbed her arm and pushed it down, stopping her before she could ruin his life.
“Don’t! He ordered no magic!” His voice squeaked, high-pitched and out of control.
“He’ll never know.” Isra peeled away his fingers one by one, her nose pinched into an exasperated expression. “Come on, Nevian. This is called initiative. It’s a very useful skill for wizards, and you’ve yet to learn this one.”
“Master Avenazar doesn’t care for initiative.” Nevian’s throat tightened, and the blood drained from his face. Isra was too carefree. No one had taught her what happened when you disobeyed. He had to make her understand. “He’ll punish me.”
Isra’s eyebrows quirked, then she drew back with a fit of giggles. Energy swirled around her hands, and she kicked the bucket of soapy water, spilling it across the still-dirty floor. Nevian rushed to interrupt her, but this time Isra pulled her arm out of his grasp. His heart clenched as the water fizzled, shone for a second with white energy, then vanished. The floor beneath sparkled, stainless. Nevian suppressed a groan as Isra stood with her hands on her hips, studying her handiwork. She looked so proud of herself. Didn’t she realize she had condemned him to hours of pain?
“I’m doomed,” Nevian whispered.
Isra laughed and slapped his shoulder. “You’re always so dramatic, Nevian! Don’t worry. If he asks, I’ll tell him I did it. You’re safe.” She wrenched the tiny brush out of his grasp and flung it next to the upturned bucket before grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the exit. “Now come on. I don’t like visiting Isandor alone.”
“No way!”
Nevian snatched his hand away and stopped in the middle of the room. He wasn’t going anywhere with her! Isra turned to him, and the corners of her lips lifted in that arrogant half-smile she wore whenever she accomplished her goals.
“You don’t want to be alone if Master Avenazar realizes magic was used, do you?”
His lips parted to answer, but no sound followed. Trapped. Isra winked and tugged him along, and Nevian wondered if she’d had it planned from the start. Her bubbly exterior lured others into becoming complacent, and he had fallen for it. She had wanted company for her escapade into Isandor. No choice now. All he could do was follow and pray Master Avenazar never found out.
✵
Isra dragged Nevian all the way to Isandor’s Lower City, where the poor and the stinky gathered. A risky area for a teenage girl. Wanting company made sense, but Nevian wished she’d set her sights on someone else. Located in a town plaza shadowed by the criss-cross of bridges above, the apothecary’s shop was one of many sleazy establishments cat
ering to the local lowlife. Its door led to a cobblestone square erected twenty feet above ground—not high enough to be part of the Middle City, but avoiding the utter filth of the ground level. Nevian kept his nose scrunched up in an attempt to block the stench of unwashed bodies and waited by the door of the dimly-lit shop. Isra rummaged through shelves of ingredients, squinting to read the labels, slowly filling her arms. Nevian wondered what the purchases were for. Maybe she’d found recipes for fancy potions and intended to waste time on them. He’d never understood the use. Not when spells required no materials and could be stored by experienced wizards into single words of power, easily shouted in a bind.
Regrets surfaced as he watched Isra’s shopping. He should have stayed at the enclave and continued to scrub the already-clean floor, to prove he had nothing to do with her use of magic. He couldn’t even enjoy this exceptional visit to the city. Too nervous. By the time Isra paid for the ingredients, he was aching to return to the tentative security of his room.
“Come on,” he said, pulling her through the entrancetoward square outside. “We’ve been gone long enough.”
Nevian stopped dead after his first step outside the shop.
In the middle of the area stood Master Avenazar, waiting with his arms crossed. Most residents gave him a wide berth, perhaps sensing the danger packed into the Myrian’s small stature. Nevian’s fingertips grew cold, his stomach heaving. Avenazar had known. Of course he’d known. How could Nevian ever think this would go unnoticed?
Isra bumped into him. Nevian didn’t budge.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Master Avenazar.”
City of Strife Page 2
