Rossi squinted. “How do you know?”
A good question. “I just do.” What had he seen? A Faze signature?
Rossi frowned. “Let me look.” He took the eyeglass. “Can’t make it out,” he muttered.
The Talon circled. No other targets flew close by. Guyen blew the whistle—one short, sharp trill. The raptor changed course, latching onto the new bird. Behind him, Rossi blew his higher pitch whistle. His Goshawk joined the hunt.
The two birds raced to intercept, diving, gathering speed, the Blackcap unaware of its impending fate. Guyen let Toulesh free again and touched the clamour with the edge of his mind, trying to control his connection to Faze. Toulesh watched on, disapproving as ever. There it was again, a bronze streak highlighting the Blackcap’s path in a dark sky. His fingertips tingled like a power coursed through him trying to escape. Thoughts clouded.
Resisting the urge to summon Toulesh, he tried letting go of the feeling instead. The streak disappeared, and the sky lightened back to blue once more. There, he’d done it, controlled the hallucinations on his own. Was he actually getting better at this?
Rossi swore, following the chase in the eyeglass. “What’s that thing doing?” he grunted. Another bird appeared out of the sun, a fast-moving black dot on an intercept course for the Goshawk. Seconds later, the two birds tangled in the sky and both plummeted from view into the smog line to the west. Meanwhile, the Red Talon had a free run. It scooped up the Blackcap. Guyen blew the whistle for it to return and it dived towards them, landing just outside the fence. They rushed over to find it pecking its prey. After a little persuasion, it fluttered aside.
A bronze capsule glinted on the Blackcap’s leg. Animosity forgotten, the Ordinates knelt excitedly over the mangled bird.
“You must have good eyes,” Rossi grunted.
Guyen pulled his knife and sliced the dead bird’s leg off. The delicate capsule fell into his hands. He unscrewed the lid and withdrew a rolled piece of parchment.
“Can you read that?” Rossi asked.
Guyen studied it for a moment. The short message written on it was unintelligible, almost. “That’s Damorian glyph,” he murmured, “I’ve seen similar on coins. The words don’t normally look like that though.”
“In what way?” Rossi asked.
“The vowels are in the wrong places.”
“Maybe it’s code?”
“Really, you think,” Guyen offered sarcastically. A five-year-old could have thought of that.
Rossi narrowed his eyes. “Well, we’ve done our bit, thanks to me.” He tapped the eyeglass. “I’ll get the message to Bayers.”
“Fine, one second.” Guyen picked a blade of grass, touching it to his lips as a prompt while he committed the script to memory. He’d write it out when he returned to the Gate. The light was dying fast, dark clouds gathering. He threw the Blackcap in the barrel. “Looks like I win the bet, four to three.” He allowed himself a smug grin.
Rossi scowled. “If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t have caught anything.” They traipsed back to the hawkery and Guyen returned the Red Talon to its cage.
“What was that thing that attacked my bird?” Rossi groused.
Guyen hung up the gauntlet. “Don’t know. An eagle? You think it was trained to attack other raptors? Maybe it was escorting that Blackcap.”
“You can’t train birds like that, halfbound. Bayers will not be happy with us losing that Goshawk though.”
“Us?”
Rossi frowned. “You’ll tell him the truth if he asks? That it wasn’t my fault?”
“Maybe,” Guyen replied, wondering how he might spin things to get the bastard into the most trouble possible. They closed the hut door. He pulled out the fake silver, it was irresistible. “Double or quits?”
Rossi grunted a laugh. “Fine,” he said, “harps.”
Excellent, the coin was already set to heads. Guyen flicked it up in the air. He revealed it as expected on the back of his hand. Still working, he thought. Rossi grudgingly handed over two silvers. How safe would it be to try the coin trick in the taverns of Carmain? Probably not very if you wanted to stay healthy. Still, the winnings today would buy some much needed supplies on the way home.
For once, it had been a good day.
22
Blindfold of the Gods
Up ahead, the Arch of Culture loomed into view over Six Sisters, a grey stripe across an agitated purple sky. Guyen kept up a fast pace, keen to reach it as quickly as possible—the detour from Garrison had taken longer than he’d hoped. The gathering, warm winds and an energy in the air signalled an approaching storm, and it would soon be dark. It wouldn’t do to be stuck outside Devotions grounds after curfew tonight. Despite the ghostly calm projected by the grand government buildings, this area of the city felt distinctly unsafe, the streets so wide your enemies could see you coming a mile off.
A crack of thunder announced his arrival to the four guards at Six Sisters’ main gate. After checking his Pledge and city pass, they waved him through. He stopped to refill his flask at a white-marble fountain. Like everything else around Six Sisters, the sculpture spoke of solemnity, decorum and culture. Six robed statuettes processed around its crest, arms resting on the shoulder of the woman in front. Which sister was which? They looked like they might come to life. Water sloshed down the sides of his flask.
“Hey, Greens.”
Guyen jumped, almost losing his hat in the pool. Mist stood over him. He fixed her with a withering look. “Do you have to creep up on people like that?”
She stared innocently back. “It’s good for a lady to be light on her feet. What are you doing here?”
“Passing through.”
“You didn’t come to see me?”
“Amazingly, no.” He got up, stoppering the flask.
She put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here then?” she asked.
“Delivering a package to your Prime Wield.”
“I didn’t have you down as a delivery boy.”
He offered a wry smile. “It’s one of my more glamorous Talents.”
“Really.” She frowned. “You know where you’re going?”
“Not exactly. Devere’s office, wherever that is.”
“Chapel House. I can show you, if you like.”
“Directions will suffice,” Guyen said. “I’m sure you have better things to be getting on with.”
“I don’t mind.” She waited expectantly.
To refuse would be unfriendly. “Very well,” he relented, “you may accompany me.”
“May I indeed?” She tutted. “Why do I bother, eh?” She winked. “This way then.”
They strolled up the tree-lined avenue connecting the entrance to the main campus, emerging into the wide-open space of the central plaza. The Arch of Culture snaked through the darkening sky above. Mist pointed ahead at an imposing, utilitarian building on four floors, each lined with a dozen extravagant, arched windows. Thick metal bars secured the ground floor openings. Spikes protruded from the first floor brickwork like a collar, discouraging assassins of the climbing persuasion.
“Chapel House,” Mist murmured. “Well done, you’re about to enter the dark heart of Sendali government.”
They approached the entrance. Two guards stepped out in front of them. “State your business,” one said.
“Delivery for the Culture Prime,” Guyen said.
“What is it?” The guard looked him over, eyes resting on the parcel.
“That would be a question for Lord Devere, would it not?” Mist said.
The guard tightened. “Passes, please.”
“Certainly,” Mist said. She pulled the maroon booklet from inside her leather jacket and handed it across. “Good guarding, by the way,” she added. “Well done.”
He scanned it with a frown and handed it back. Guyen dug his out. The guard inspected it. “You don’t look like a Devotee,” he observed, “if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I think I
do mind you saying,” Guyen returned.
The guard growled. “Show me your Pledge.”
“You didn’t ask her!”
The guard put a hand on his sword. “You’re not giving me trouble, are you, Maker?”
Not yet. “Not at all, my good man,” Guyen replied evenly. He pulled the stone out from under his shirt, holding it up for inspection.
The guard snorted. “Standards are slipping around here.” He waved them through. Was security slipping too? They’d let him in here? Into the viper’s nest? And not taken his knife? This was where the bastards hatched all their despicable plans. Maybe he should take his revenge now, kill one of them. Sendalis were an occupying force in Krell, it would be an act of war. But who would he kill? And why? Revenge is a poor mistress when she’s senseless, and you’re not a cold-blooded killer.
They emerged into a deserted lobby. A majestic chandelier focussed unearthly sodalight at the centre of a domed ceiling high as the building, the Faze-generated, orange glow painting the white walls in flat ochre. A grand staircase looped upwards around the four walls like a corkscrew. Mist headed for it.
“This place makes me sick,” she said. “It’s just so—”
“Full of politicians?” Guyen offered, removing his hat.
She grunted agreement.
They headed upwards, past paintings of battle scenes and great leaders of Sendal throughout the Ages. An imposing grandfather clock sat halfway up, replete with two spinning, metallic orbs on top. A host of circling hands decorated its face, devouring time at different intervals amidst a click-clack whirring. Toulesh hazed as they passed, and Guyen let his focus slip. Swirls of red and orange Faze vapour danced around the orbs. He blinked the effect away, but the clock’s oppressive presence lingered well out of earshot.
They took a corridor off the second-floor landing and came to yet another guard post. However, despite a burning lamp, it was deserted.
“It’s just up here,” Mist said.
“Shouldn’t we wait to be announced?” Guyen suggested.
“I don’t do waiting,” she said. “We’ll announce ourselves.” She strolled on through. He hurried after her. A loud boom sounded outside, and a burst of energy radiated through the musty air. Two steps ahead, Toulesh distorted, flickering in and out of being. He glanced back with a disturbed expression as a draft blew, elongating the oil-lit shadows. The storm was closer, and if the tingling sensations were anything to go by, it was one of those unusual ones. They climbed a short staircase and came to a landing. This had to be the top of the building. Several ornate vases adorned plinths and a large planter housed a giant red cactus the size of a calf. Ahead, a single door lay ajar. Raised voices emanated from within.
Mist motioned to be quiet. Rain pattered on the skylight above. Back down the stairs, nothing moved.
“Veto it?” screeched a vexed-sounding man. That had to be Devere.
“Wilhelm says there are insufficient funds for retesting,” Jal Belana replied. Devere produced a tirade of disgruntled expletives. “Calm down, Arik,” she admonished. “you’ll do yourself a mischief.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he ranted. “Tax receipts are up by thirty percent. Can he not count?”
“He claims the surplus is already allocated to War for fleet repairs,” Jal said.
Devere roared. “There won’t be any damn fleet if we don’t stamp out the infestation! The man is an imbecile!” Glass smashed.
Guyen glanced at Mist. She held up a hand, still keen to listen.
Jal spoke again. “He fears rebellion amongst the commons, Arik.”
“It should be me he fears,” Devere raged. “Why can’t the fool see things for what they are?”
“Ignorance, my love.”
Indecipherable mumblings.
“I shall convince the Council he is succumbed to the maddenings.” Devere again. “Something public. The chemist will know a way.” A pause. “Fetch more wine from the steward, woman.”
“Why don’t you get one of your diseased whores to do it?” Jal said.
“Because they’ll just bring back more of his piss. Put your shapely wiles to use. Extract a decent bottle from him for a change.”
Jal let out some choice expletives of her own. Footsteps approached. Guyen jumped back as the door swung open.
“You?” Jal frowned, glancing around the landing. Mist was already hidden behind the planter with Toulesh. “What are you doing up here?” she demanded.
Guyen composed himself. “Good evening, Mistress. I have a package for the Prime Wield.” A sense of power surged again as a flash of red light in the room beyond silhouetted Jal’s slender figure. A rumble of thunder rattled the skylight. He held the package out.
She took it. “What is this?”
“Rialto sent it. Tinctures, I believe, Mistress.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Come here, Sark.” The halfbound slave who’d been standing beside her at Congress shuffled into view. The small man’s hair was shaved to the scalp, his skin pitted and scarred. Jal pushed the parcel into his hands. “Give this to your master. Do not drop it now.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Sark mumbled. He glanced up, the whites of his eyes mustard yellow.
She waved him away, turning back with a drunk, crooked smile. “Was there a message, Guyen?”
“No, Mistress. I was just told to deliver it personally to the Prime Wield.”
“I see. Consider it delivered then.” She paused. “We should become better acquainted. Perhaps you would accompany me to the cellars?”
That didn’t sound a good idea. “I’m expected somewhere,” he said apologetically, “and I’m running late.”
She shrank back. “No, of course not. Silly me. I’m sure you have better things to be getting on with. A sweetheart to woo, perhaps.”
“No, Mistress, I—”
“Please, you must call me Jal. I insist.”
“As you wish, Mistress—sorry, Jal.”
She let out a single, breathy laugh, and pulled the door shut behind her. “Very well, until next time, Guyen.” She whipped round, skirt slapping her ankles, and hurried downstairs.
Mist slipped out from behind the cactus. “Stupid bitch,” she spat.
Globes! That venom was hot. “Don’t you feel sorry for her at all?” Guyen breathed, one eye on the door. “I mean, being married to that bastard’s got to test anyone’s sanity, right?”
Mist huffed. “Feel sorry for her? You must be kidding.” They headed back down. “I wonder what all that was about,” she said. “What do you think retesting is?”
Guyen hesitated, considering the options. “If I had to guess, I’d say it had something to do with the Unbound. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like Devere and the Grande Prime see eye to eye on it.” This sounded like something to pass on to Dasuza the next time he visited the hexium. It might be the kind of gossip to keep Dalrik happy. And keeping Dalrik happy was fast becoming an overriding priority.
They retraced their steps, but by the time they reached the main lobby, the rain outside was falling in vertical, inky blue-black sheets. Crashes of thunder shook the ground and forked red lightning tore scars in the dark sky. Guyen clenched his jaw as the clamour rang louder, Toulesh flitting nervously to and fro. He nodded up at the sky. “You have any idea what these storms are all about?” he asked.
Mist reached a hand out beyond the covered portico, catching the strange precipitation in her palm, watching it clear. “Can’t say I’ve given it much thought,” she murmured.
“Don’t they worry you?” Guyen said.
“Can’t do anything about the weather, can you?”
“I suppose not. I’d like to know what it means though.”
“You ain’t alone there, Greens.” She buttoned her jacket. “One thing I do know—you can’t go back to the Makers in this. My room’s not far. I have a couch.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
Guyen flinched as a large chunk of blue-black ice smas
hed on the paving in front of them, exploding in a cloud of splintering fragments and blue steam. He wouldn’t be breaking curfew so long as he remained within Devotions grounds, and it would be insane to head out in this. “Your couch, comfortable is it?” he probed.
“As a hug.”
“And you won’t cut my throat while I’m sleeping?”
“I promise. Come on.” She ran out into the downpour.
Guyen followed, dashing for the palatial residence on the opposite side of the plaza, the great arch overhead offering minimal protection against black rain attacking from every angle. Crystals peppered his hat, as torrents of inky-blue water gushed around his feet, coating the limestone paving like it would be stained forever. But the unnatural water merely morphed into clear pools around the overflowing drains. They skidded into the residence’s entrance hall a minute later, kicking warm, black sleet from their boots. Two young women peering out at the extraordinary weather regarded them with deliberate disapproval. Disdain was as good as a currency in this place.
Mist’s rooms up on the third floor of the five storey building were in keeping with the rest of Six Sisters—refined, elegant and lavish, ceilings high, the furniture antique. An imposing, red-marble fireplace dominated the large living room, and purple velvet curtains hung at the tall window. A separate bedchamber lay through a connecting door. The decor was surprisingly feminine. Perhaps the girl had hidden depths.
“There, take the weight,” she said, adjusting the lamp wick.
He sat on the leather recliner, balancing his hat on a jolly pig carving.
“What would you like to drink?” she enquired.
“Anything cold,” Guyen said.
She pulled a bell cord, then lit some incense. The room’s contents confirmed the suspicion Mist wasn’t short of coin. Dresses and skirts draped the furniture, and an expensive-looking ball gown swung from a hanger balanced on the frame of the bedroom door. A host of interesting knickknacks lay about the room—an antique globe of the world on the dresser, an oil painting of a cat in a sailor’s suit in a gilded frame above the mantelpiece. Several pairs of fashionable, polished leather boots lined up behind the door. Still, such luxuries were to be expected. She was one of them, born of the same privilege as everyone else at the hallowed Devotions.
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