City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  Malach had better wake up soon.

  And if he didn’t?

  She pressed a hand to her stomach. It was flat—hollow, actually—but how long before it started to swell? Nikola thought of the seven women who had come before her. With any luck, she’d miscarry, too. She didn’t care if it left her barren as long as she was free.

  Happily, the door had a working lock. Nikola bolted it, then lay down on the musty mattress, using one arm as a pillow. If they came for her, at least she’d hear them breaking in.

  She woke just before dawn to the cries of strange birds. Mist pressed against the windows. She used the chamber pot, then slipped into the corridor and made her way stealthily through the dark to the ground floor. No one seemed to be stirring, not even the servants. Once outside, she kept to the thickest patches of fog and made her way to the field. The sun was still behind the trees, but within an hour or so it would burn off the mist. She could feel the mercury rising already.

  For a minute, she considered running away. The nihilim didn’t seem to care much what happened to her. She was a light sleeper and she felt sure no one had come near her room in the night. Of course, there were the Perditae to worry about. And Beleth might send Dantarion or even the children to hunt her, in which case Nikola doubted she’d make it far.

  But the thing that stopped her is that she didn’t want to go without knowing if Malach was still alive. It was foolish, she knew. The chance might not come again. But she remembered the look in his eyes outside the Arx when he said that only death would keep him from returning to her. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Her life was invisible. If she slipped in the bathtub and broke her neck, it would be days before anyone found her. Most likely, it would be her bosses at the Arx who notified the Oprichniki when she didn’t show up for work. But when she was with Malach, narcissistic and volatile though he was, she felt like she mattered to someone. Just one person, but it was nice.

  He deserved a proper goodbye.

  The car was where she’d left it, keys dangling from the ignition, both doors wide open. The children had pulled all the paperwork from the glove compartment and gotten into the trunk, as well. Her suitcase sat open on the ground, clothes strewn around. Nikola was not surprised. It’s why she had hidden her valuables in a place not even Sydonie and Tristhus would think to look.

  Moving quickly, she took a screwdriver from beneath the footwell carpet and worked it around the rim of the front right tire. Her hands were stiff from the damp and it took several long minutes before the wheel cap finally popped off. A small drawstring bag nestled inside the cavity. She’d hidden it there after agreeing to go to Bal Kirith, assuming the mages would search her. They hadn’t even bothered, but there were a million places inside the palace she could stash it. Nikola wanted to keep her nest egg somewhere she could grab it in a hurry. She tucked the bag into her pocket and sealed the wheel cap again. Then she bent to gather her belongings from the dewy grass.

  “Hello, Nikola.”

  She looked up. Sydonie and Tristhus appeared out of the fog in their matching green jerkins. Caps of black hair gleamed in the soft dawn light.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Did you enjoy your drive?”

  “Yes, we went all the way to Bal Agnar,” Tristhus replied.

  “That sounds fun. You’re up very early.”

  “We don’t sleep much,” Sydonie said. “What’s in your pocket, Nikola?”

  Her pulse spiked, then smoothed out again. She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We saw you put something in your pocket.” She pointed to the wheel. “You took it from there.”

  “You’re mistaken. I just came for my things.”

  Sydonie smiled. “That’s a lie. Show us, Nikola.”

  Nikola felt a flash of anger. “It’s not your business.”

  The girl thrust her hand out. The edges of her mouth curled down.“Show us.”

  “No.”

  Quick as a snake, Sydonie grabbed her arm. “Give it to me, Nikola.”

  Her voice held a note of command and utter confidence that she would be obeyed. When Nikola just stared down at her, the girl’s face tightened to a furious glower. “How are you doing that? Give it to me now!”

  “No.” Nikola jerked her arm free. “Run off and play somewhere else, or I’ll tell Dantarion about this.”

  Both children fell silent. As she had the night before, Nikola sensed some wordless communion between them. Suddenly, the boy grabbed her shirt, trying to force a chubby hand into her pocket while his sister twisted Nikola’s arm behind her back. They were stronger than they looked—which shouldn’t be surprising since they were sent out to kill Perditae and Saints only knew what else.

  Nikola had dealt with bullies before. It was clear that Sydonie was the leader, Tristhus the follower. She kicked Sydonie hard in the shin, earning a cry of pain. The boy hesitated, looking to his sister, and Nikola seized the opportunity to run for the stela. She could hear the children behind, breathing heavily. A hand brushed the back of her shirt and then she was over the invisible line, the Wardstone a short distance ahead. Out of spite, she slowed and walked the last few meters. The whole thing felt like a twisted game of tag. Laughter bubbled up as she placed a hand on the stela. Home safe!

  “Nikola Thorn,” Sydonie howled. “Come back here this instant!”

  Nikola smiled. “Fog off,” she yelled back.

  The children stared at her for a long minute, then ran to the palace. She sat down and rested her back against the stela. Her knees ached. The doctor had recommended she cease the activity that caused the inflammation—kneeling for hours with a horsehair brush in hand—but if she heeded the advice she’d be out of a job and as much as she hated being a char, the thought of sitting home doing nothing was worse.

  “Well,” she remarked aloud. “Whatever happens, at least I’ll never scrub a fogging stone floor again.”

  The sun rose. The Morho stirred to life. Tiny white-faced monkeys with long ringed tails chattered in the trees and bright tropical birds darted overhead. The dew evaporated and the air grew hot and thick. She stood and paced. With little else to do, she spent some time examining the stela. It was slick and cool to the touch, much more so than the surrounding air. There were shallow pits all along the surface, almost like insects had been at it, which was impossible. Nothing ate stone. Nikola traced a fingertip along one of these needle-like depressions. Peculiar . . . . She knew the ley in the Morho was corrupted. Could it actually be rotting the stelae? It was an unpleasant thought.

  No one came out until twilight, when the birds fell silent and clouds of bloodthirsty mosquitoes took the stage. Then Dantarion appeared in her red cloak. Auburn hair fell in waves across her shoulders.

  “Nikola Thorn!” she called.

  Nikola stood up, knees cracking.

  “You are being foolish. Come away from the Wardstone.”

  “I want to see Malach,” she called back.

  “You have no right to ask for anything. You are only here at the pleasure of the Pontifex.”

  “Then my answer is no.”

  Dantarion shrugged. “Stay here if you prefer. We respect free will. And when I hear you screaming, I will choose to remain in my bed. So we will both do as we wish.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Nikola shouted.

  Dantarion left. Night fell. Nikola wrapped her arms around herself. Her breasts were swollen and tender. Not even her body was her own anymore. Hunger made her lightheaded, but part of her was glad because it meant the parasite inside her was starving, too.

  She took out the drawstring bag and shook the gems into her palm. One or two should cover her passage to Dur-Athaara. The rest could set her up for life—if she ever escaped Bal Kirith.

  “Wake up, Malach,” she muttered, watching the lights come on inside the palace.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Malach drifted in and out of consciousness. Needles pierced his arms. When the dr
ugs hit his system, he floated on a warm sea of tranquillity, but the moment they started to wear off, his heart raced and he couldn’t draw enough air.

  Voices came and went. Patterns of light moved across the vaulted ceiling. Sometimes he was aware of people standing at his bedside, sponging the wound. That didn’t hurt much, but his head ached like the devil.

  Fever raged. He shook until his teeth chattered and the sheets were soaked with cold sweat.

  He called for Nikola Thorn, but she didn’t come.

  Malach woke to a cloth pressing against his forehead. He felt weak but more fully aware than he had in . . . days? Weeks? Time was a blur. He knew he was in his own bedchamber at Bal Kirith because of the painted fresco on the ceiling, herons flying across a stormy sky.

  Beleth leaned over him. He smelled a hint of her favorite soap. “Do you know me, Malach?”

  “Reverend Mother,” he whispered.

  She smiled. Fine lines webbed her eyes and the corners of her wide mouth. “You’re lucky. The wound was shallow and the blade didn’t penetrate the abdominal wall. Tashtemir says you’re through the worst of it now. Another few days and you’ll be on your feet again.”

  He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Where’s Nikola Thorn?”

  “Oh, she’s around here somewhere,” Beleth said casually, though her gaze went flat.

  “Water,” he rasped.

  She held a cup to his lips and helped him drink.

  “I want to see her.”

  “After you tell me what happened to you.”

  “What did she say?”

  His aunt’s voice hardened. “No games.” She touched the fresh bandage around his wrist, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Who tried to sever you?”

  “No one. It’s a cut from a fight.”

  Beleth regarded him suspiciously. “Did you truly pass the Wards of the Arx as she claimed, Malach?”

  If any aspect of their stories didn’t match, Beleth would hone in on it. “Lezarius is no longer in Jalghuth,” he said, knowing this revelation would erase any interest she had in Nikola Thorn.

  “The Lion?” Beleth stared at him in disbelief. “He hasn’t left the north in thirty years.” She laid a hand on his forehead. “Are you sure you didn’t dream it? You were raving, Malach.”

  “It was no dream.” Malach drank a little more water. He eased himself up to sitting. “That’s what Falke told me. He had no reason to lie. He thought he’d won and wanted to rub salt in the wound.”

  “Won?” Her eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be pretending to collaborate. What happened?”

  Malach related the events as succinctly as possible, omitting any mention of Nikola’s pregnancy. He also didn’t tell Beleth that Falke tried to cut his hands off because she would have flown into a screaming rage and he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. The main thing was what Ferran Massot had discovered at the Batavia Institute.

  “Falke tried to kill Lezarius, but I think he failed. That was no natural surge of the ley. I’ve seen it flood before. The level wasn’t nearly high enough to shatter the Wards. And the timing fits.”

  She sat back, thinking. When the sun was up, Beleth wore her usual garb of a man’s trousers and shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing heavily Marked muscular forearms. She was in her mid-sixties, but there was nothing soft about his aunt. She had a long nose, thin lips and wide-set blue eyes that saw everything. Silver hair rippled down her back. “Where is the Lion now?”

  He shrugged. “If the Curia tried to assassinate me, I’d head for the Void before they caught me again.”

  “He could leave the city by sea.”

  “He’s Invertido. How would he pay for passage? He has no friends in Novostopol. If he did, they wouldn’t have left him to rot.”

  She nodded slowly. “What will Falke do next?”

  Beleth was asking if they needed to evacuate Bal Kirith.

  Malach recalled the cardinal’s words just after he spat in Falke’s face and just before the knights pinned him to the stone floor.

  The Cold Truce is over.

  “Given the choice, he would retaliate immediately, but Feizah has to approve military actions. She may not know about any of this. Falke’s playing his own game. Either way, it’ll take weeks for a decision to be made. Except for the outer forts, the knights are demobilized. Restarting the war machinery will take time.”

  “Then we’ll stay in Bal Kirith and make the search for Lezarius the priority. You’d be my first choice to lead it, but it will be weeks before you’re fit to ride.”

  “Send Dantarion.” His cousin was more than capable.

  “I mean to.” Beleth took a bowl from the bedside table. Except for the gold signet ring on her left hand, she looked like a farmwife. “I have my own exciting news to share, Malach. Open up.”

  He turned his head away but she poked a spoon at his lips until he had no choice but to open his mouth or have it spill down his chin. Some kind of meaty broth, not too bad, actually—

  “Dantarion is pregnant. It’s yours.”

  Malach choked on the soup. The spastic coughing sent spears through his abdomen. Beleth patted his chin with a napkin.

  “How do you know?” he managed. “She’s not exactly the faithful type.”

  “She says she’s sure. I’ll admit, I was surprised. I thought she was barren.”

  “When’s the baby due?” Malach desperately counted backwards to the last time they had sex. It was just before he left for Novostopol, which meant . . . .

  “Two months.” Beleth studied his face. “I know you don’t love her, but this is a blessing. Other than Sydonie and her brother, we haven’t had a child in far too long.” Her gaze sharpened. “It will be a pure-blooded light-bringer, not like those aborted bastards you promised Falke. Just as well the attempts failed. Half-bloods are dangerous. Unpredictable.” Her lip curled in contempt. “Human vessels are too fragile to contain our offspring. Dantarion is strong. She will give us a child to be reckoned with, Malach.”

  “Of course.” He forced a smile. “I’ll Mark it as soon as we have ley.”

  “If Dante lets you. The child is hers. Now, be a good boy.” She tried to feed him more soup and he pushed her hand away, forcefully this time. Beleth clucked her tongue and set the bowl down.

  “How long since I arrived?”

  “Four days.”

  “I want Nikola Thorn brought to me,” he said. “At once.”

  Beleth looked amused at the imperious tone. “You are not yet well enough to play with your toys, Malach.”

  “She can serve me until I’m better.”

  “You never had much use for servants before.” A narrowing of the eyes. “What is she to you?”

  “Nothing at all.” He summoned a lazy smile. “But she worked inside the Arx. She might know something about Lezarius.”

  Beleth snorted. “She was a char. What could she possibly know?”

  He wanted to ask where she was, what she’d been doing, and why Beleth was obviously playing games with him regarding Nikola’s welfare, but those questions would only bring unwanted scrutiny.

  “Nothing, I suppose.” He lay back against the pillow. The smell of the Morho drifted through the open window. Decaying leaves, damp earth, the sweetness of flower-laden vines and a hint of the river. The smell of home.

  Beleth studied his face. “How did it feel to enter the Arx?”

  “Not as bad as I expected.”

  “Liar.” She patted his cheek. “But I’m proud of you. If it’s true . . . .” Her eyes glittered. “The Lion. To have him here in my custody. It would not be long before he was begging to shatter the stelae.”

  “Are you certain he can’t work ley in the Void?”

  “I am certain of nothing. But he can always be drugged and broken in other ways.” The Broken Chain around her neck flared red for an instant. “You say he is mad. I wonder how that came to pass? Either way, it will make our task easier. How l
ong can one old man hide in the forest? Let us hope it doesn’t eat him up first.”

  “Find him quickly, Beleth.”

  A flash of rage crossed her face. “We will,” she said softly.

  Beleth strode out, bellowing for servants. Malach peeled the edge of the bandage back. Tashtemir had removed Ani’s stitches and drained the wound, then sewed it up again himself. It was already scabbing over. Time in which Nikola had been completely on her own. Time in which anything might have happened to her.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. When the first wave of dizziness passed, he tested his legs. A bit wobbly, but they bore his weight. Pants were out of the question, so he summoned a servant and ordered a plain red cassock of the sort novices wore. Malach studied himself in the standing mirror. His face was gaunt and wasted. A four-day beard covered his cheeks. He looked almost as bad as the laqueus.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  Malach turned at the dour, long-faced man in the doorway. “And you do your job too well, Tashtemir. I feel fit as a butcher’s dog.”

  “I doubt that,” came the dry response. “Mending you emptied my dispensary. I have just enough to finish the course of antibiotics.”

  Tashtemir Kelavan always dressed impeccably, as if he were a noble in the court of the Golden Imperator rather than a middle-aged animal doctor. Lace spilled from the sleeves of a dark frock coat. A silk cravat was knotted around his neck, pinned in place with a large ruby. Wiry black hair sprung up from a wide, sloping forehead.

  “Your aunt said you’d finally woken. She’s in quite a state. What did you tell her?”

  “That there’s a conspiracy to install a puppet in the north because the real Pontifex went mad,” Malach replied, testing a few steps from the bed to the window. “They tried to murder him but he got away and he’s running loose in the Morho.”