by Sam Sykes
And Khoth-Kapira’s scream all but shook the stars from the sky.
He pulled his hand back, whether from shock or pain Lenk didn’t know. Nor did he care to find out.
Shuro’s hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. And together, they were running. Across the shores, across the sands, out toward the desert.
A howl pierced his ear. Out of the darkness, the Chosen came charging, loping along on all fours like a beast. They lunged out from the darkness, one of them leaping at him.
“Lenk!”
He turned, saw the sword flying toward him as Shuro tossed it to him. He caught it and swung. The blade caught the Chosen in the neck and brought it down to the earth in a wailing heap of black blood and twitching flesh.
The others continued to chase but fell behind. Their howls softened. Or perhaps they were just harder to hear over the anger of Khoth-Kapira chasing them, Shuro and Lenk, as they fled into the night.
How far they went, he didn’t know. They ran until the oasis was far behind them. They ran until the sounds of hellish fury died out and left only the thunder of their hearts. They ran until they could run no farther, until their bodies all but collapsed.
At the bottom of a dune, the sole rise in a featureless expanse of sand, they stopped. Lenk doubled over, hands on his knees, as he struggled to catch his breath. When he had enough sense to do so, he turned around.
No Chosen pursued them. No earth shook at the stride of almighty demons. Nothing but their tracks stretched out behind them, and those too seemed to vanish in the wind.
“We made it,” Lenk gasped. He turned back to Shuro. “We’re safe for—”
She had run just as far as he had, just as fast as he had. Yet where he was ready to collapse, she still seemed to have enough energy to drive a fist into his face.
Her punch cracked against his jaw. The second one knocked what little wind he had from his belly. He fell to his knees, where her foot was waiting to smash against his chin and send him sprawling to the sand.
He cried out something that might have been Wait or I deserved that, I guess. She didn’t seem to care. When he lay there, stunned and breathless and waiting for her to finish it, it never came.
His ears filled with the sound of her feet crunching on the sand as she took off running, leaving him behind. He raised a hand impotently, as if to stop her or beg her to stay. She didn’t do either.
Nor could he blame her.
She was right.
The realization settled on him like a stone, pinned him to the earth. Khoth-Kapira was going to do … whatever he had done to the Chosen to everyone he could. And Lenk had helped him to do so. Lenk had believed him. Lenk had killed everyone. Lenk had … had …
He had no strength in him to hate himself. He had no power to drive the sword into his chest out of shame for what he had done.
He lay there, prone and unmoving on the sand. The sun would rise upon him soon. The heat would be unbearable. He had no water, no food, nowhere to go. And maybe that wouldn’t even matter. Maybe the Chosen would find him and tear him apart as he lay helpless.
And that was fine.
It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve that, too.
EIGHTEEN
THE PROPHET AND THE THIEF
Don’t go.”
That had been good advice.
“For fuck’s sake, take an escort with you. Ten men. No, twenty. Armed. Eyes on you at all times. At the very least, take me.”
That had been good advice, too, if coarse. Dransun was full of gems like that.
“Please, just … think about this. Think about how much you mean to us, to this city. You’re not just a person anymore. You’re the Prophet. Everything we need rests with you. You can’t risk everything like this.”
And that hadn’t been good advice. Aturach had simply stated a fact.
It would have been stupid to be out in the war-torn Souk, alone and at night, in even ordinary circumstances. And the circumstances in Asper’s life, of late, had been anything but ordinary.
Those circumstances, at least, had led to friends like Dransun and Aturach. Good men with good wisdom, full of concern for her. She found she had a hard time shaking the sound of their concerned voices from her thoughts.
That seemed unfair.
Despite the years she had spent adventuring, Asper still had a hard time ignoring sensible advice.
How was it, she wondered, that her companions made being stupid look so easy?
Former, she thought, correcting herself. Former companions. She let out a sigh. Can’t call them friends anymore, can you?
A frown pulled itself across her face.
No. I guess you can’t.
Lenk and Kataria were gone. By now they either were rotting in shallow graves together or had returned to their bloody old way of life that would see them in one.
Dreadaeleon, if he ever saw her again, was infinitely more likely to kill her than talk to her, unless it was to say something insufferably smug.
Gariath was now a hundred miles away, behind a wall of stone and tulwar, the scent of her blood still in his nostrils and her imminent death on his mind.
And Denaos …
She felt a sudden stab of pain in her chest.
Denaos was why she was out here. Alone. Against all reason.
He had disappeared. Men like him often did. To escape responsibility, blame, or the noose, he had a habit of vanishing. But he had always come back, always made his presence known. She would have liked to have him by her side in these circumstances.
And someone was keen to make that happen.
Should have burned the letter, she told herself. Shouldn’t have even read it.
But she had.
She reached into her pocket, felt a square of paper damp from all the times she had held it in a sweaty hand and read it over and over. She pulled it out, unfolded it with one hand and her teeth—her broken left arm of little use for it.
The letter was brief, barely two dozen words, having come in the middle of the night. But they were words she had been desperate to read, conveying a message she had been desperate to hear. And they bade her to come alone and unguarded to the dark part of the Souk, in a quest for an answer to a question that had been gnawing at the back of her skull for weeks now. And of all those words, one stood out in a neat, businesslike signature at the bottom of the page.
Rezca.
She knew the letter was genuine. It had said things that only he would know. Not that this soothed her. Meeting with the head of the Jackals would have been idiocy even if they weren’t desperate. With their war against the Khovura having gone bad, they were little more than starving, frightened dogs backed into a corner. And Rezca was the one with the sharpest teeth.
She had deliberated on it. She had even considered praying on it. But she knew what answer heaven would give—after all, she spoke for it these days—and would not blaspheme by disobeying it.
She had to know. Even if it meant coming out here alone.
Well, she corrected herself again, not really alone.
Like a cat hearing the wounded cry of something small, weak, and helpless, something stirred at the back of her thoughts.
You rang? Amoch-Tethr’s chuckle was black smoke on a stiff breeze. Oh my. I look away for just a few moments and you go and take us into the nasty part of town.
She didn’t respond. She tried her best not to listen. She didn’t need the thing within her to be active, merely awake. Just in case he was needed.
Come, come. Amoch-Tethr chided her. At the very least, you can make conversation. It’s not as though we’ve anyone else to talk to.
The darkened houses that rose around her as she went deeper into the Souk were relatively undamaged. They hadn’t seen much business even before the war had started. The tenants had fled regardless, but relatively few of the shops were burned out or torn apart by fighting.
Yet their good repair only unnerved Asper more. Windows still held j
ars of sweets and toys that stared at her with black button eyes. Signs creaked on their posts in a stale breeze. If she didn’t look too hard, she could almost trick herself into believing life here was still normal.
And something about that lie caused a pain fiercer than any wound.
“Fuck.”
Almost any wound, anyway.
The stab of pain in her chest became an explosion. Breath fled her as her lungs felt like they had just caught ablaze and poured smoke into her throat. She doubled over, clutching her belly. Shards of bone raked something tender inside her. She could feel something wet filling her lungs. Her breath came out in sopping, gurgling gasps.
Had she had breath, she would have screamed. Had she had tears, she would have wept. Had she not been certain it would give Amoch-Tethr so much pleasure, she would have keeled over and died right there.
My, my. Amoch-Tethr made a soft chiding noise. Are we not feeling well?
“Shut up,” she hissed.
You really don’t know how bad it is in here, do you? His laughter was brief and cruel. Should I tell you of the blood dripping? The splinters of bone? Of all the soft and precious things that are turning black inside you? She felt his grin twisting in her flesh. That scaly friend of yours really can hit, can’t he? A pity we didn’t end him.
She would have retorted if not for a sudden spike of pain that shot up through her gut. She let out a wet, sopping sob. She shut her eyes and whispered a few harsh words to herself. Her sole retort was her drawing in a sharp breath, biting back the pain, and hauling herself to her feet.
It took much longer than it did two days ago.
She couldn’t keep doing this, she knew, as she forced herself deeper into the Souk. Amoch-Tethr was right; things were getting worse. It would have been difficult to recover from these injuries even if she hadn’t been assembling an army.
But that was all fine, she told herself. If she died, that was fine, so long as everything got done. If she could protect Cier’Djaal, if she could unite the armies, if she could hang on just long enough to see Gariath die …
Well, that’d be a pleasant way to go out, wouldn’t it?
“Priestess.”
A voice like tepid water. But she whirled around, defensive, all the same.
It wasn’t the sight of Rezca that made her freeze up—his burly build was overwhelmed by his bookish demeanor—but the fact that he had appeared behind her without her even noticing.
Moonlight reflected off his spectacles, made his eyes look like discs of pure white as he regarded her. Dressed in a neat outfit, scalp and face clean-shaven, he looked more like an accountant than the leader of the most dangerous gang in Cier’Djaal.
Formerly most dangerous. She corrected herself. But it seemed unwise to point that out.
“You don’t look particularly well.” Rezca stared at her thoughtfully. “Pardon my bluntness.”
She said nothing. Everything she had in her was focused on standing up tall and proud, as a leader should, and trying to ignore the pain stabbing away inside her.
“I heard about the events at Jalaang.” Rezca finally broke the silence. “I heard about how you faced down a monster and narrowly survived.” His eyes drifted to her broken arm in its sling. “I hadn’t heard about how bad the damage was, though.”
Inside her flesh, Amoch-Tethr chuckled. She ignored that. She ignored Rezca’s comment.
Prophets don’t respond to such pettiness, she reminded herself. A surge of pain welled up in her bowels. And Prophets damn well don’t shit themselves in front of the enemy, so keep it together.
“The tulwar could march upon Cier’Djaal any day now.” Rezca took a few steps forward, regarding her coolly. “Their armies are thousands strong and the forges of Jalaang are working day and night, belching out swords. Things are grim.”
He came to a halt a few feet away from her. A smile, uneven and unnerving, crossed his lips.
“But you’ve been conducting yourself admirably in Cier’Djaal’s defense, haven’t you? Uniting the Karnerians and Sainites is no mean feat. Incredible what a few tricks from the couthi can do.”
Her pulse quickened. She hid her surprise beneath a scowl. She couldn’t show him shock, couldn’t give him that advantage.
“Please.” He held up his hands in placation. “That’s not meant to sound like a threat. I have no intention of telling anyone about your tactics. I admire them.” His smile curled a little more upward. “After all, it’s not like we’re in a position where we can start turning down favors, am I—”
“Stop.”
Asper’s voice came so forceful it all but slapped the mirth from Rezca’s face. His smile faded. His hands fell. In the reflection of his spectacles, she saw her own authoritative glare looking back at her.
“Whatever you think you know, I don’t give a shit,” she said. “Whatever you’re hoping to extort from me, you’re not going to get it. I’m not here to play games with you. I’m here for answers.”
The pain, as tender and close as a knife in the dark, welled up in her chest again. She spoke through clenched teeth.
“Where is Denaos?”
He held her gaze for a moment longer before turning away from her, as if he were simply going to walk away. A surge of dark anger coursed from her heart into her broken arm. Amoch-Tethr felt it and giggled giddily inside her as she moved toward Rezca.
“Do you know why he took that name?” Rezca spoke suddenly, causing her to stop. “Do you know why he doesn’t call himself Ramaniel anymore?”
She stared at his neck, considerate. “I’ve heard stories.”
“Which?”
“The ones he told me.”
“Then you heard lies,” he said. “Or, at the very least, you didn’t hear the best parts. Ramaniel was an excellent liar. He had a storyteller’s flair. He knew what ending he had to give people so that they’d be content and never ask questions of him.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Which ending did he give you? The one where he settles down and marries an honest woman? Or maybe the one where he finally finds redemption for past crimes. He always liked that one.”
Asper’s eyes widened at that. The pain inside her chest twisted tenderly.
Careful, darling. Amoch-Tethr hissed inside her. He’s trying to get in your head. There’s precious little room for him in here.
“I told you …” Asper spit her doubts out in a blood-tinged glob on the cobblestones. “I’m not here to play—”
“And I heard you, Prophet,” he replied, voice thick with spite. “I’d hardly waste your time. But you are a leader of armies and I am just a humble thief. I don’t play games. I make deals. I name prices. And mine, right now, is for me to speak and you to listen.”
He wasn’t lying. He was a thief, and thieves did name prices. But she had known more than a few thieves over the years, some very well. And she knew enough to know that the price they named was never the price they charged.
“You won’t believe it,” Rezca said softly, “but you found Cier’Djaal in a relatively peaceful time.” He glanced at his feet. “Armies are like lovers. They come and go. But thieves are family. You’re born with them and you’re stuck with them until you die.
“This city used to crawl with them. It was so thick with thieves that you couldn’t even call it a profession. It was in the fucking water. Every woman was a murderer. Every man a rapist. Every child a thief. They just didn’t all know it yet.”
He looked up toward the sky. Sentimental was not the right word to describe the expression that crept across his face. Whatever emotion he wore, it was what pulled sentimentality into a dark alley and strangled it.
“This was the world Ramaniel and I found ourselves thrown into.”
“Your glory days,” Asper remarked, snide.
“I haven’t met a poet skilled enough to convince me that such a thing as glory exists. Nor a priest convincing enough to make me believe sin exists, either. Deeds aren’t glorious or sinful. They’re just s
cars.” He looked down at his hands. “Long, painful things you collect and carry the rest of your life.
“And I have plenty, priestess. Me and every other Jackal. We hung men from bridges and cut their throats over the river. We beat women so badly with wine bottles that their husbands didn’t recognize them. We were wicked people. We did wicked things.”
“So what?” she asked. “You want absolution?”
“Absolution is poor wine for a man with no taste for sin.” He chuckled bitterly. “When my time comes, I’ll face the gods with my cock out and fall backward into hell.”
“You want me to be intimidated, then,” she said. “I’ve seen worse than you, Rezca. I’ve killed worse than you.”
“I don’t want you to be intimidated. I want you to understand.” He whirled on her, a scowl knitting his brows. “The Jackals. Ramaniel, Anielle, Fenshi, and Yerk. The Candle and the Scarecrow. Ramaniel and I. Do you know why we did it? Why we never apologized for it?”
“Money. Thrill. Violence.” Asper sneered. “Wickedness isn’t as unique as you think.”
“Mine was, priestess.” He held his hands out. “Mine built this city. When we took over, the other gangs fled like roaches. We made rules. We made the game. Those who didn’t play weren’t welcome here. Murders, thievery, everything played by the rules. Our rules. We gave this city order.”
“You gave it a gang,” she snapped back. “Just a bigger one than they were used to.”
“If you’ve got a better way to describe a government, I’d love to hear it.” At her stony silence, he sneered. “The fashas fell into line, too. We set the terms. We made our peace. No one who played by the rules needed to suffer. And things were good, until …”
He hesitated. He wore a shameful look, a blasphemer on hallowed ground. She finished for him.
“The Khovura?”
He shook his head. “Nothing so fancy. Just a girl. A spoiled little fasha’s daughter whose dumb bitch of a wet nurse read her too many stories about brave knights before bed.”
Asper’s eyes went wide. “The Houndmistress.”
