City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  “You have mage blood,” Alexei said flatly.

  “Yes. So did the Pontifex Feizah.”

  “Yet the Wards don’t react to you.”

  “Genetics don’t matter.” Falke’s voice held a touch of impatience. “Blood doesn’t matter.” He tapped his forehead. “It is the mind that matters. The Wards reject those fully given over to the abyssal ley. I, obviously, am not in that category, nor was my predecessor.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “I’m getting to that, Bryce.” The cardinal turned away from the courtyard and walked slowly back to the study, Alexei at his side. “I imagine you have other questions first. Let’s hear them.”

  Only a thousand. “How can you be certain there aren’t any more children? Have you tested every single one in Novostopol?”

  “We always have. When a Mark is given, there’s a resonance in the ley. You must know the process intimately since you have even more than I do. The Mark is always tested afterward. The child pulls first at the surface ley, then the liminal ley.”

  Alexei nodded.

  “If they have nihilim blood, they will reach for the abyss without even being aware of it. The Mark will flare red for an instant. The one who bestowed the Mark feels an echo, a backwash.” They reached the study. Falke resumed his seat behind the desk. “Civil Marks will not permit an individual to use the abyssal ley, and even if a child has the innate ability, they will never touch it again. But in the moment of transference, we know.”

  “And Holy Marks?”

  “Make it extremely unpleasant to touch the abyssal ley but not impossible. However, touching it does not equal the ability to Mark another. Do you see the difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ferran Massot had a theory that Invertido might be able to access the abyssal ley in the way we needed. I agreed to let him conduct experiments, all within the guidelines of accepted medical practice. The intention was to gain insights into the mechanism.” Falke’s face darkened. “But his ideas proved to be unfounded, as was my trust in him. I cannot tell you how sorely I regret our association.”

  “I am relieved to hear that, Reverend Father.”

  “Your absolution is a salve to my conscience, Bryce,” Falke said dryly. “In any event, I’m a man who learns from his mistakes. There will be no more outside actors. This is the Church’s predicament and we will solve it ourselves.”

  Here it comes, Alexei thought.

  “Some years ago, when I first grasped the nature of the threat, I founded an Order called the Praesidia ex Divina Sanguis.”

  “Protectors of the Divine Blood,” he murmured, thinking of the coraxes Kasia had shown him.

  “Just so. Our mission is nothing less than the preservation of the Via Sancta through any means necessary. We need lucifers, Fra Bryce. As distasteful as it may be, that requires nihilim blood. And we must at least consider the idea that their race can be returned to a state of innocence. Properly raised, I believe they can be redeemed.”

  The words, coming from a man who was the mages’ most implacable enemy, sounded utterly surreal. Rage quietly built inside Alexei. Was the last ten years all for nothing? He might be alive, but he wasn’t the same. He never would be. And he was one of the lucky ones.

  “The Beatus Laqueo will be reformed and deployed to the Void. I would promote you to captain. We’ll capture Malach together. Get justice for your brother.”

  “He was Praesidia, wasn’t he?” Alexei managed to keep his voice neutral, though his thoughts spun like tires in the mud.

  “One of my first recruits.” Falke studied him. “I’ve lost six men in the last week, every one of them irreplaceable. The Order is weakened at the very moment we need it most.” He leaned forward. “Your war record is outstanding. You’re smart and persistent. Perhaps not quite as strategically minded as your brother, but that will come in time. This is a chance to save the Church and redeem your family name. Think carefully, Bryce.”

  Alexei held his gaze. “Did you have a deal with Malach? Is that what the meeting Kvengard was about? Is that why he came here now?”

  “Saints, no. I’m not under the illusion that any of the ones who fought against us can be saved. That meeting was another dead end. Feizah wouldn’t permit further negotiations.” His gloved fist clenched. “But I will not allow everything our faith has built over the last millennia to be destroyed in a single generation.”

  Alexei nodded in agreement, his eyes unfocused.

  Natalya Anderle?

  It had never stopped nagging at him.

  Why did Malach mistake Kasia for her flatmate? Where did he get the name in the first place?

  There were various possibilities. Kireyev. The orderly who found the card in Massot’s pocket. Even Spassov himself, though Alexei didn’t believe it for a moment. But the most likely was the man who had arranged the liaison with Massot in the first place.

  The confession comes first, laqueus. Let’s start with your first tour of duty in Bal Agnar.

  Again, how did Malach know it was Alexei’s first tour of duty? They hadn’t met yet, and wouldn’t for five more years. Could Misha have told him? Or was the truth far worse?

  I didn’t want to Turn your brother that day. I wanted to kill him. Call it a favor for an enemy.

  “How are you feeling, Bryce?”

  He raised his head and met Falke’s mild gaze. “Fine.”

  “It’s been two days since the Reverend Mother died. Mark sickness is different for everyone, but it often begins quite innocuously. You might even feel better than usual, da? But this will not last.”

  “I’m aware, Reverend Father.”

  “I’ll take over your Marks, Bryce. All of them. I’ve already done it for the others Feizah Marked.” Falke looked unspeakably weary and Alexei understood it wasn’t just the Conclave that had drained him. “The early symptoms are mild compared to the end stage, but with so many Marks, it would be suicide to refuse my offer. A pointless sacrifice, and for what? A grudge that I interfered in your attempt to capture Malach? I’m offering you the chance to do exactly that, with the blessing of the Pontifex and a cadre of knights at your command. Bring me Malach. When your brother is found, we will restore him to sanity.”

  Another win-win for the Pontifex.

  If I kill Malach, he wins, Alexei thought. If Malach kills me, he wins.

  A favor for an enemy.

  “What about Domina Novak?”

  Falke arched an eyebrow.

  “Will you expose her?”

  “She is in no danger from me.” Falke touched the Raven on his neck. “Does that set your mind at ease?”

  Not at all. “Is she in danger from someone else? Archbishop Kireyev, perhaps?”

  “Always thinking like a lawyer. I did not intend for the statement to imply loopholes. Kasia Novak is under my protection. I’m not interested in ruining a young woman’s life.” He leaned back. “She may have shortcomings, but her patron is a friend of mine. And Natalya Anderle is practically a daughter. You needn’t fear for either of them.” He smiled. “I am not a mindless zealot. The Via Sancta must allow for latitude regarding the Unmarked when they have led blameless lives.”

  “That is wise of you, Reverend Father.” Alexei bowed his head. When he looked up, Falke was staring at him.

  “Flattery and false humility do not serve you, Bryce,” he said gruffly. “When you’re a captain, I expect the unvarnished truth, not what you think I wish to hear. My ego is not so fragile. If you believe I’m making a mistake, I want to hear your arguments why. I might overrule you, but you are to speak freely, always.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” Falke rose. “However, tradition demands certain rituals.” He extended a gloved hand across the desk. “I’m delighted to have you on board, son.”

  Redeployment to the Void. Even with the knowledge of Falke’s lies and treachery, he was close to accepting. Part of him, the part he hated, would do anything to find his brot
her. Torture and kill. Get down in the mud, as Malach put it. And who would he be when it was done?

  Alexei touched his lips to the gold signet ring.

  As he stood erect, his elbow struck Falke’s war souvenir, knocking it to the floor. Falke bent to retrieve the glass cube and Alexei grabbed one of the courier cylinders, stuffing it into his robe just as Falke stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, raising a hand to his forehead. “I am feeling a little peculiar.”

  The Pontifex eyed him with concern. “We ought to transfer your Marks right away.”

  “Would you permit me to pay my respects to the Reverend Mother first? It’s something I need to do.”

  Falke could hardly refuse. He nodded brusquely. “Return within the hour. I’ll make time on my schedule.”

  Alexei bowed his head and withdrew, leaving the new Pontifex to resume his correspondence. How soon would he notice the cylinder was gone? With luck, not before the hour was up.

  An aide escorted him to a rear door of the palace. The mourning crowds were contained within the plaza and along the Via Fortuna. Except for the lines of black cars, half with plates from Nantwich and Kvengard, the rest of the Arx was almost unnaturally quiet. Alexei went to the Tower of Saint Dima and found Spassov at his desk wearing a pair of half-moon glasses, pecking at the typewriter. The room was a wreck, books strewn everywhere, sheets torn from the bed. OGD had displayed their usual enthusiasm when they tossed the place.

  “Alyosha!” He looked up, an expression of wonderment on his bluff face. An instant later, huge arms swallowed Alexei in an embrace that lifted his feet from the ground. Spassov had been drinking, but he didn’t seem drunk. Or not excessively drunk.

  “No one would tell me anything,” he grumbled. “I figured they’d arrested you again. I finally told Kireyev I’d quit if they didn’t let me see you.” He glanced at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, which Alexei saw was a poorly spelled letter of resignation. “I don’t think he cared, but it was something.”

  Alexei’s chest tightened as he regarded this bleary-eyed mountain of a man. “They’ve dropped the charges for lack of evidence.”

  Patryk gazed at him shrewdly. “Why?”

  “Oto Valek disappeared. He was their chief witness.” Alexei smiled. “I understand you retracted your statement.”

  A rumble as Patryk cleared his throat. “They must have written it down wrong. We both know you never touched a hair on Massot’s ugly head. Did Kasia Novak have anything to do with this remarkable reversal of fortune?”

  Alexei hesitated. “I think so, yes.”

  “I wasn’t sure about her, but I’m glad. Listen, you can help me finish the Massot report now.” He started rummaging through the papers on Alexei’s desk. “It’ll be a load of horseshit, but we have to file something.”

  “I’m leaving, Patryk.”

  “What?”

  “My brother is missing. I have to find him.”

  “What about your Marks? None of mine are from the Reverend Mother, I’ll be fine, but she was your patron.” He looked worried. “You can’t put this off.”

  “Falke offered to take them, but I can’t do it.”

  Spassov pushed the glasses to his forehead. “Tell me why, Alyosha.”

  “He wants to send me back to the Void. I think we’re going to war again.”

  Spassov didn’t appear as shocked as he would have been a week before. “What will you do?”

  “Go to Kvengard.”

  Patryk nodded slowly. His face was bleak. “Then I’ll finish this letter of resignation after all. I’m too old for a new partner.”

  “You’re forty-five,” Alexei pointed out gently.

  “I can’t do it without you.”

  “Yes, you can.” His voice was urgent. “You must. The others are . . . you know how they are.”

  Spassov sighed. He picked up a pint bottle of cheap Grodsky vodka and regarded it, but didn’t drink. “I’m sad, Alyosha. I’ll miss you.”

  “I don’t even know if they’ll take me in Kvengard.” Alexei dug an exorason from the mess and threw it across his shoulders. The outer cloak would conceal the inverted trident of the Interfectorum on his cassock. “I’ve never dealt with matters of extradition. So I might be back.”

  Spassov regarded him steadily. They both knew that if Kvengard didn’t take him, he wouldn’t live long enough to return. “How do you plan to get through the checkpoints?”

  Alexei showed him the Raven-marked cylinder. “With this.”

  “You’ll still need courier plates.” He sighed. “Saints, you’re trouble, Alyosha. Come on, there’s a screwdriver in the trunk.”

  They went down the winding stairs. Alexei had spent most of his time as a priest either deployed or holed up in the Tower of Saint Dima. While not especially large, the Arx contained hundreds of buildings from the very grand to the highly obscure, and Patryk knew them all. The Order of Couriers turned out to be not far off. It was a nondescript brick heap next to the Tomb of the Martyrs, with just a few cars in the lot. Alexei stood watch while Spassov removed one of the license plates.

  “I finally slept,” he said.

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “For a day and a half.”

  Patryk glanced up at him. “That’s all?”

  “So what’s the word? How did Kvengard react to everything?”

  “Luk withdrew his nuncio after the Reverend Mother was murdered.” Spassov handed him the plate and replaced it with one from the Interfectorem. “He’s expressed condolences, of course, but it’s hard to tell which way the political winds are blowing, Alyosha. Luk is close to the Conservative faction. I don’t think he’s pleased that Falke took the ring.”

  “That’s good,” Alexei said. “Shit, someone’s coming.”

  Spassov dropped the last screw and they scrambled into the bushes, jogging back to the Tower of Saint Dima until Spassov ran out of breath and insisted on lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. Alexei attached the courier plate to their car. The men embraced.

  “What time is it, Patryk?”

  Spassov took out his father’s watch. “Two-forty. You taking anything with you?”

  Alexei looked up at the moss-covered tower. He’d buried his own corax in the dirt outside the basilica at Bal Kirith. Whatever happened, this chapter of his life was irrevocably closed. “No.”

  “Write me a letter, Alyosha.” Patryk held out the car keys.

  “I’ll do better than that. Expect a shipment of Kvengard whiskey.”

  Spassov grinned, but he looked heartbroken.

  “And listen, keep an eye on Domina Novak, will you? If she ever needs your help . . . .”

  “Of course.” Spassov looked away, his eyes watery. “I’d better go. Take care, old friend.”

  Alexei watched him climb heavily up the stairs and vanish into the darkness. He almost called out, but what would he say? Not the truth. Alexei half wished he didn’t know, either. And if Spassov lost his faith, Alexei wasn’t sure what would become of him.

  No, he did know. Patryk would drown himself in a bottle within five years.

  The kennels were cool and musky. The Markhounds greeted him with desultory sniffs, but only Alice stuck around, leaning against his leg. Alexei scratched her ears. “Watch over Patryk, da? He needs you even more than I did.”

  She looked up at him alertly. Alexei gave her a pat and went back outside. He started the car and looked up to find the hound standing in the middle of the road. Alexei rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

  “Ire!” he commanded. Go!

  Alice didn’t budge.

  Alexei sighed and got out of the car. He walked toward her. Alice danced away, a gleam in her eyes.

  “Ire!” he said again, pointing firmly at the kennels.

  She yawned.

  He picked up a pebble and threw it. Alice flinched and backed up a little. The hot lump in his throat grew tighter as he picked up another and pretended to throw
it. “Ire!”

  Alice shot him an inscrutable look and turned tail, her body blurring into dark motes that dissipated like a handful of dust.

  “Fogging dog,” he muttered savagely, slamming the car door.

  He joined the line leaving the Arx, two fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel. Traffic moved at a crawl. The faces beyond the barriers scrutinized each car, hoping for a glimpse of someone famous, and Alexei was glad for the tinted glass.

  His hour was almost up. Even if Falke hadn’t noticed the missing cylinder, he would put two and two together when Alexei didn’t return to pledge allegiance.

  “Suka blyat,” he muttered, his front bumper practically nudging the next car. “Hurry it up.”

  Bells tolled the hour as he reached the Dacian Gate. The guards barely glanced at him before waving the car through. Once out of the gridlock, he floored the pedal, taking the shortest route to the river. The mood was either somber or exuberant depending on the political leanings of the neighborhood. Falke was a liberal, Feizah a conservative. In the younger, hipper areas, block parties were in full swing. In others, including Ash Court, every shop was shuttered and old women in black headscarves gathered on the fire escapes, wailing over cheap lithos of the Reverend Mother.

  The skies had darkened to pitch by the time he reached the checkpoint on the west bank. Four Oprichniki in yellow slickers manned the glass guardhouse. Their lieutenant approached before the car had even stopped. He was about Alexei’s age, with calm gray eyes and an aura of competence.

  “You are not permitted to leave the city, Fra Bryce,” he said firmly.

  The road to Kvengard began just beyond the iron gates. Stelae lined the route, but the inscriptions were dark. No ley was being released into the Void.

  “By whose authority?” Alexei stalled.

  “The Reverend Father.” The Oprichnik’s voice hardened. “Get out of the car.”

  He lifted his hands from the wheel, moving slowly. “I think you’re mistaken—”

  “Get out!”

  The lieutenant backed up a step and aimed a crossbow through the open window.

  “Easy,” Alexei said, raising his hands. “I’m just lifting the handle, da?”