The colors around Jax are bright, especially as she walks in shadow. They’re more vivid than they’ve ever been. Surely she will be the one to release me from my prison. Or deliver me to the one who will. She’s restless. I can feel it inside her: the worry over her pursuers, the desire to return to her homeland, the sad and growing realization that she no longer can.
She reaches the center of the open space and stares up at the jagged gap where the dome has been sundered, a remnant of Goezhen’s presence here nearly two centuries ago. “My mother and father were murdered nearly one year ago in a temple not so different from this one.” Her voice is weak, subdued. “It honored the gods of the mountains, among them Nehiran and Urajaxan, after whom Nehir and I were named. It did little to save my parents, but Nehir still thought it a fortuitous sign that the two of us were able to escape. I believed him then—that our patron gods were watching over us—but I can see now it was only my fear speaking to me, words of hope whispered to a petrified girl.” She laughs a bitter laugh and stoops to pick up a stone. She turns it absently in her hand, continues to walk, taking in the grandness of this ruined place. “How foolish we were. The gods care nothing for our struggles. We soon found out from those still loyal to our family that all had been arranged beforehand. After my parents were murdered, our land was delivered to my father’s rival in exchange for a ruby mine our own lord had had his eye on for decades. We hoped to rally support to restore the power of our house, but when our few allies were also killed, we knew the time was upon us to flee.” She spins, flinging her arms wide like a mummer performing a play; the lights surrounding her dance along with her. “We came here to Sharakhai, but even this city wasn’t far enough. The lords who conspired to kill my parents will never allow Nehir and me to live. We are the final two who have a rightful claim to our barony. They cannot take the chance that we’ll reach our king and present our case. That’s why the assassins follow us, even here. That’s why they won’t stop until we’re dead.”
Brama sits on a large piece of rubble. He speaks, keeping an eye on the temple’s entrances. “Your troubles... Is that why Nehir took to smoking lotus?”
Without pulling her gaze from the mosaics, she nods. “That’s when he started selling as well. My father knew several smugglers of the black, and allowed them to pass through our lands—with a tax, of course. Nehir was being groomed to take on more responsibility from my father, and had learned their names. He made contact with them immediately after reaching Sharakhai, thinking he’d rebuild our wealth—some small amount of it, in any case, enough to return to Malasan to hire swords and spears to aid his cause. One hundred good soldiers, he told me. One hundred is all we need. If we get that many, a thousand more will rally to our side.”
“And would they?”
Jax laughs. “No. Our people did not hate our father, but neither did they love him. And with both dukes standing united, our cause is lost. Had we ten thousand, we would still fall beneath their combined might.”
“So what will you do? Kymbril won’t let this stand. He wants Nehir’s head, too.” He leaves unsaid that the drug lord likely wants Jax dead as well; he can see in her eyes she already knows.
“I’ll book passage on a caravan ship.”
“To where?”
She shrugs. “Kundhun. From there we’ll continue on, far enough that they’ll stop chasing us.”
“That may work,” Brama says into the cool breeze, “but I think it likely you’ll need to leave your brother behind.”
“I know.” She scrapes the dirt from under her fingernails. “He won’t want to go, but I have to convince him. He doesn’t know this city, and he has yet to accept the fact that we’ll never return home to Malasan.”
Disappointment emanates from Brama like heat from a hearth. He’s only just met Jax, but there’s something about her that entrances him. His old self might already have started to woo her, to get her by his side, to cajole her into bed—his old self would have tried harder precisely because she would soon be leaving the city—but this Brama, the changed Brama, simply wants a friend. I can feel the desire in him mixing imperfectly with the acceptance that her departure is necessary.
“Finding passage on a caravan won’t be difficult,” he says, “nor would it be expensive if you’re willing to work the ship. But buying their silence. That will be expensive. Now that we’ve beaten Maru senseless, Kymbril isn’t going to let this go, and I doubt your Dukes will either.”
She fixes her gaze on Brama at last. “That’s why I need you. I don’t know which caravan masters to trust.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Brama shakes his head. “I have to know what I’m dealing with. The more you can spend, the safer a caravan master I can find for you. Skimping here might cost you your life.”
I would laugh if I had form. She’s staring into Brama’s eyes, trying to weigh just how far she can trust him, but she’s in too deep to be questioning such things. Still, Brama remains silent, waiting patiently as she takes in the scars on his face, on his hands. “Who did this to you?”
“A vile creature.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No, but there are days when I wish I had.”
The power within her has been muted until this moment. Now it ignites, and I can see some of the upbringing of a Malasani noble. “There are days when I tell myself I should return to Malasan and avenge the death of my parents. But then I remember how narrowly we escaped, how close we’ve come to death since then.” She reaches down and pulls up one trouser leg. She rolls down her woolen sock all the way to the ankle, exposing three bracelets. Immediately Brama’s old instincts for assessing the value of goods return to him. Two of the bracelets are gold. They’re beautifully made though simple in design. Each would fetch a handsome price, but nothing like what she’d need to buy discrete, long-distance passage for two aboard a caravan ship. The third, however, is made of white gold, and is strung with small rubies and diamonds. “This is the last of what I smuggled away from Malasan, and the last of what I’ve managed to keep hidden from Nehir.” Of the three, she unclasps the one with the rubies and diamonds and hands it to Brama. “Will it be enough?”
“More than enough. It will ensure you get help to go wherever you wish and help when you arrive as well. But first we need to convince Nehir.”
The sounds of the city are distant and muted, but now Brama hears the sound of scraping, the subtle shift of leather on sand-dusted stone. Brama knows immediately it comes from somewhere in the temple. He turns toward it, waits, holding up a hand up to Jax for silence. He listens for the span of two breaths, then rushes silently toward her. Together they move toward the rear of the temple.
Brama whispers to her, “Where is your brother now?”
She hesitates, her eyes fearful as she glances over her shoulder for their pursuer. “In a room above the Dancing Mule.”
Brama nods. “I’ll find you there.” Then he points her toward the opposite side of the stone-walled courtyard. Beyond lay the Haddah, and a dozen paths of escape for Jax if she’s fast enough. Brama waits for her to leave and slips behind a tall marble statue of a woman cradling a lamb. From behind it he watches the shadowed doorways of the temple. I wish to reach out, to find the man who’s following him wherever he may hide, but Brama denies me.
Across the courtyard, a stone balustrade divides a patio from the sandy yard beyond. At the yard’s far end stands a grove of decorative trees, all nearly barren of leaves. It is there that Brama sees shadows shifting. A split second too late, he jerks back behind the statue. A dark line slices the air. A crack breaks the stillness as the leg of the statue is chipped by the streaking arrow. Brama feels a sharp pain along the outside of his knee. Sucking air through gritted teeth, he examines the wound.
But then, before I know what’s happening, he’s pulled Maru’s knife and is sp
rinting toward the trees. I plead with him to take the protection I can offer, but he refuses; his decision to help Nehir is an embarrassing moment of weakness for him. He can see the assassin clearly now—his bow is drawn, the string to his ear—but Brama doesn’t flinch.
He’s going to die, I realize. He’s moving with intent and pure abandon and little else. He’s touching that place where he hid while I tortured him. It is a place of fear and rage and dwindling hope. I never thought to find a place of commonality with a mortal, but I too was tortured. I too found a place like this. It makes me feel no sympathy for Brama—what is he but a tool I will use to win back my freedom?—but there, in that hidden place so tightly tied to us both, I realize I can feel him more strongly than at any time except when he used me to lift Nehir’s addiction.
I allow some of myself to filter through Brama, adding my rage to his. As the arrow is released, our combined power pours forth. The arrow flies, turns black as it nears us. The arrow’s point digs into Brama’s leather vest, bites his scar-riddled skin, but goes no further as the shaft of the arrow sprays outward from the point of impact in a brilliant fan of smoke and glowing red embers.
The assassin’s eyes go wide. He pauses for a moment, his indecision clear, and then he drops his bow, sprints toward the temple wall behind him, leaps against it, and clings to a lattice of dried vines. Then he clambers over the top. Brama tries to follow, sprinting to the wall, but the wound along his knee flares; the puncture wound in his chest burns as he pulls himself up along the vines. By the time he drops to the city street on the other side, the assassin is gone. It is in this moment, while Brama is staring along the empty street, that I wonder if Brama saw what I saw. I pray to Goezhen he hasn’t, for as the assassin leapt over the wall, a trace of light trailed in his wake, there and gone in a moment, a thing I’d not thought to see, but now that I have it’s making me reconsider all the events that had led us to this point.
Across the street, on the sill of an open window, sits a massive copper kettle. Brama walks toward it, pulling the necklace over his head as he goes. Gripping the leather cord tightly in one hand, he stares into the ruddy reflection of his face that grows the nearer he comes to it. The reflection transforms, becomes the distorted face of an ehrekh.
“How did you do it?” Brama asks.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know precisely what I mean. How did you ignite the arrow without my leave?”
“You willed it.”
“That’s a bloody lie.” His hand is gripped so tightly my prison, the sapphire, shakes. “You worked through me of your own free will.”
I pause, knowing that the wrong words here could make Brama do something rash. I’m consoled by the realization that he didn’t notice the light trailing the assassin, or perhaps he did and thought it some vestige of the power I unleashed. “You cannot expect the two of us to remain close for as long as we have without some effect. What I did, I did to protect you.”
“What you did, you did to protect you.” He lifts the necklace, stares at its cloudy facets. “You cannot do it again. I forbid it.”
“You are the master who holds the chains,” I say to him, an ancient proverb, one that was once used bitterly by the powerless but in recent centuries has come to mean simple deference. He can sense the way I’m chafing at my imprisonment, but I continue. “He may have heard Jax. He may be on the way to the tavern now.”
Brama stares uncertainly into the kettle, but when an elderly woman shuffles toward the window from inside, he slips the necklace back around his head and sprints headlong for the Haddah and the bridges that span it, his worry for Jax growing with each long stride he takes.
* * *
Brama reaches the Drunken Mule at a run. He takes the stairs at the back of the old, misshapen tavern to the balcony that leads to four rooms situated above the common room. Brama doesn’t know which one is Jax’s, but the door to the second room is open. He paces toward it, body tensed, and finds Jax standing just inside. She’s holding something in her hand. As Brama comes closer, he sees she’s holding a severed finger in a blood-stained kerchief.
“Kymbril,” Brama says.
Jax nods. Her hands are shaking.
Brama takes the kerchief from her and sees a small wooden chit, half hidden by Nehir’s severed digit. There’s a symbol on it—Kymbril’s own—a coiled viper. “It’s a message.”
“I know what it is!” Her eyes are saucers. She’s shaking so badly her lips are trembling. “I’m going to go there. I’m going to save him.”
“You don’t understand.” He holds up the chit, then wraps the finger in the kerchief and sets it on a simple ironwork table near the door. “This is a marker for those who buy large amounts of black lotus or whitefire or what have you. They get it after bringing the money to men like Maru, at which point they take it to another location to pick up their purchase. Kymbril wants you, but he also wants Nehir’s stash.”
She looks ready to argue, but then her resolve hardens and she holds out her hand. “Give me the bracelet.”
She means the one she gave him at the temple, the one bright with diamonds and rubies. “You can’t buy him off, Jax. Not anymore. He wants both of you dead.”
She flicks her fingers. “Give it to me! It’s mine!”
“It won’t work.”
Her face screws up in anger, and she begins pummeling him with her balled-up fists, striking him inexpertly around the shoulders and chest. Brama doesn’t try to stop her. He takes it all, her swings thudding into his chest, slapping against his face. Eventually she stops and simply holds herself. “I can’t let him go.”
“You don’t have to,” Brama says as he steps in and takes her into his arms. Surprisingly, she allows it, even softening as he continues to hold her. Brama speaks softly and strokes her hair, “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
* * *
In the heart of the Knot lies Kymbril’s manor, where he runs his operations. It stands drunkenly with its neighbors at the end of a cul-de-sac. Lying low as he is on the roof of the building next to Kymbril’s, Brama can see the full length of the street. He’s watching for Kymbril’s spotters, those who look for danger and call it out before it lands on his very doorstep. There are two boys sitting at the mouth of an alley halfway down the street. Seeing them crouched, preoccupied with a game of sticks, Brama picks up the fragrant calfskin sack by his side and moves smooth and low to the nearby roof of Kymbril’s building. With the buildings butting up against one another, it’s as simple as dropping a few feet down over the lip of the building. Once there, he sets the sack down, removes his necklace, and ties a length of string to the leather cord. Moving to the very front of Kymbril’s building, he feeds the string out, lowering the necklace until the sapphire is suspended in the corner of the topmost window below.
After securing the string to a nail, he lies flat and closes his eyes. Like the coming of dawn shedding light over a dangerous landscape, a vision of the room brightens in Brama’s mind. The drapes Brama spotted earlier while surveilling the building mask the sapphire’s presence, but the cloth’s material is thin enough that he can see the room within. Kymbril is there, leaning deeply into a couch along the far wall, staring through the window where the sapphire now hangs. Brama’s heart skips, but he realizes Kymbril’s eyes are closed. He’s asleep, his breath coming long and slow. He looks as though he fell onto the couch the night before and has yet to wake up.
On the roof, Brama opens his eyes and blinks. He stares at the blue sky, breathing deeply and yawning like a jackal to help clear the dizziness from his mind and body. The effects of the gem are disorienting, but he’s handling it well enough. Before Brama left for Kymbril’s manor, I offered more of my power to him—much more, in fact—but he’s still wary of me, enough that this facile spell is the one small concession to Jax’s desperate need he allows.
He closes his eyes again and studies the room, memorizing it. W
ith Kymbril so vulnerable, he considers slipping in through the window and driving a knife into his chest, but it would be too risky. He doesn’t know where Nehir is being kept, and he promised Jax he would do everything he could to see her brother safe, so he resolves to continue as planned.
I muse at how quickly mortals can fall for another soul; I suppose we’re not so different in this respect.
Soon, Jax appears at the far end of the street. She walks with a tightness, hands bunched at her sides. Even far away it’s easy to see how frightened she looks. A good amount of it is real, to be sure, but she’s playing her part well. They want Kymbril to see her as a scared little doe, ready to bolt at a sharp sound or sudden movement. A boy struts out to meet her, dust kicking up behind him into the hot air. He holds his hand out and says something, not quite loud enough for Brama to hear, but Jax shakes her head, demanding she be allowed to see her brother.
The boy shouts at her, “You were to have brought it here,” angry that she doesn’t have Nehir’s stash.
“Bring her,” calls a voice from the base of Kymbril’s manor.
Maru. Part of Brama regrets not drawing his knife across Maru’s throat in the tenement, but if it wasn’t Maru it would be someone else. It’s a simple truth in the Shallows: finding oneself with a shortage of those willing to do dark work for a bit of coin only means you haven’t looked hard enough.
As the boy leads Jax into Kymbril’s manor, Brama waits, hoping he hasn’t miscalculated. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if Kymbril meets her below, but he’s counting on Jax being brought to Kymbril’s private offices, where it will be easier to make their escape.
Brama takes up the bulky sack, which smells strongly of fermented lotus, and crawls to the trap door leading down into the building. He sets the sack down, closes his eyes, and waits breathlessly as the sounds of the city play around him. The clatter of hooves in the distance, the rattle of wheels. The sound of children playing, a man coughing so heavily and wetly Brama wonders if he already stands on the threshold of the farther fields. Maru’s voice calls up the stairs, and Kymbril wakes. The big man shakes his head, uses the heel of his hands to clear the sleep from his eyes, then opens the door to the room. Jax, guided by Maru, takes the last run of stairs to the topmost level and steps inside the room, where Maru pulls her to a stop.
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 30
