City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  “How hard is it?”

  “Not very. But you should practice. I’ll teach you, if you’ll only wait a little bit—”

  “How long, Malach?”

  “It’ll be at least two weeks before I’m riding,” he admitted. “But I could give you lessons in a day or two. I won’t stay in this bed every hour of the day. It would leave me weak. Even Tash will have to let me take walks. You can cover yourself with a cloak.”

  She submerged under the water for a long time. Malach was just starting to worry when she surfaced. “What about Dantarion? I think she’s angry at me, too.”

  “Dantarion is leaving, along with some of the others. We’ll have a reprieve.”

  “Three days,” she said, grudgingly. “Teach me how to ride and make me a map.” Nikola stood up from the tub and looked around. “No towels.”

  “Take one of my cloaks from the wardrobe.”

  She wrapped herself in crimson. “Your chamber is much nicer than mine.”

  “Most of them are shit.” He propped up on an elbow. “I’ve had three years to make mine decent. Come on, get under here. You look cold.”

  “Hang on.” She went to the chair where she’d piled her dress and shoes and took something from a pocket. “I need a good hiding place, Malach.”

  “Is that what the children tried to take from you?”

  She nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “Kaldurite.”

  His brows rose. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “May I see?”

  She came to the bed and gently tipped a velvet drawstring bag open on his lap. It held six gems shaped like teardrops. Malach picked one up. The gem appeared blue like a sapphire, but when he angled it to the candlelight, the color shifted to ruby red. Another facet sparkled violet like an amethyst.

  The gems were very rare, found only on the barren Plain of Kalduria. They repelled all three currents of the ley, though they wouldn’t have worked against the Wards at the Arx. The pain stelae induced was not inflicted through the ley because it worked even when there was no ley present. But Kaldurite could protect an individual from someone else using the ley against them, making it quite valuable in certain quarters.

  “I did my research,” Nikola said. “The witches practice lithomancy. They prize Kaldurite. I imagine it protects them against your sort, and the Curia, too. There’s a black market dealer in Ash Court who converted my fides. Those six little stones are ten years’ worth of scrubbing floors.” She lifted one to the light. “I wasn’t about to let two ill-mannered children steal my life savings.”

  “They wouldn’t want the Kaldurite anyway,” Malach said. “It not only blocks the ley from being used on you, it blocks you from using the ley. That’s why mages shun it.”

  “Well, good, because they’re mine.” She gathered the stones and tied them up in the velvet bag. “Does it bother you if I sleep with this under the pillow?”

  “Not in the least.” His eyes felt very heavy. “Kiss me, Nikola.”

  Warm lips pressed to his. It wasn’t anything like the brutal, violent kiss he’d gotten from Dante. Once he’d enjoyed being his cousin’s chew toy. It held a certain novel attraction. But he’d never felt anything for her beyond a sort of rough affection. If it had been Dantarion at the wheel and he’d begged her to take him somewhere very dangerous for her because it would save his life, she would laugh and take the other fork in the road.

  “If they do find Lezarius,” Nikola murmured, “I hope I’m gone before he breaks open the ley. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  He’d told her everything in the car between blackouts. And he would tell her about Dantarion’s child, too. No more secrets. But not now. Malach could see she was on her last legs.

  “It was good you didn’t tell Beleth,” he said. “The less you know, the less interested she’ll be.”

  “Um-hmmm.” Nikola curled on her side, wiry hair brushing his shoulder. He pulled the blanket over them both. “Promise me you won’t let our child end up like Sydonie and Tristhus. Raise it right, Malach.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

  Nikola fell into a deep slumber. Malach was a heartbeat from joining her when he heard the ring of hooves echoing in the courtyard. He dragged himself out of bed and watched through the window as Dantarion and a dozen other nihilim emerged from the palace. Servants waited with the bridles of laden horses. Dante looked up, sensing his presence, and he raised a hand in farewell. She gave him a mock salute, then sank to one knee. The others joined her, pressing their palms to the earth where a weak current still flowed. Malach watched it darken as they drew the abyssal ley to the surface. He didn’t need to be part of the circle to decipher the urgent message they were sending to the Morho.

  Find Lezarius. Twist the threads of chance and lead him to us.

  He looked out at the thick canopy, a green sea stretching to the horizon. The forest was a sentient thing, an extension of the mages’ psyche. Nothing would escape without their permission.

  Malach went back to bed. He touched Nikola’s cheek. Then he laid a hand on her belly. She was right. It was madness. Pure madness. Yet it could be no other way. He understood that now.

  “I won’t let you go, Nikola,” he vowed softly. “Not without me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  For the first time in recent memory, Novostopol enjoyed two successive days of blue skies and bright sunshine. Children played outside at recess, birds twittered in the trees, and raincoats were left at home. The only ones who complained were the cab drivers, who found themselves suddenly without fares.

  By Saturday morning, the skies grew dark again. The reprieve was over.

  Kasia and Natalya huddled under umbrellas for Falke’s first public audience as the Pontifex Dmitry. He stood on a balcony of the palace, waving at the cheering multitudes. From behind the barricade, she could hardly make out his face, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was focused on the white robe. How simple it would be to substitute someone who vaguely resembled Falke. If the cardinals and bishops played along, the masses would never know.

  Is that what had happened with Lezarius? But how on earth did the conspirators manage to alter his face to look like someone else? Surely not everyone at the Arx in Jalghuth was in on it, which meant the imposter must be very close to a twin or the ruse would have been discovered long before.

  Kasia’s eyes moved across the various Orders gathered in the plaza below. With a little squinting, she made out the trident of the Probatio, the Golden Bough of General Directorate, the knights of Saint Jule, many others.

  “Which is that one?” she asked.

  “The Sheaf of Wheat? That’s the Order of Saint Marcius. The ones who enforce the Meliora. Arch-conservatives. If they had their way, we’d be living like the Kvens.” Natalya jerked her chin. “Bishop Maria Karolo. Tessaria said she came within two votes of being Pontifex herself. Doesn’t look well pleased, does she?”

  Kasia studied the slender, dark-haired woman with a severe bob that just touched the corners of her unsmiling mouth. Her gaze swept the crowd like a teacher about to send the whole class off to detention.

  “Thank the Saints she didn’t win,” Kasia murmured. “I don’t fancy losing indoor plumbing.”

  It was as if she’d shouted the words at the top of her lungs. Bishop Karolo’s eyes caught on Kasia—and held for a long moment. There was a personal hostility in the bishop’s expression, though Kasia felt sure they’d never met. Then Falke blew a kiss and a scream went up among the women in the crowd. He was already insanely popular because of his rugged looks and, as Nashka had phrased it, badass war record. Bishop Karolo turned away, whispering in the ear of an aide.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kasia said, suddenly claustrophobic amid the tight press of bodies.

  Natalya’s brow notched. They’d both dressed to the nines for the occasion and arrived hours early so they could get as close as possible. N
atalya still adored Falke, insisting he was blameless in the Massot affair, and Kasia only knew she needed to be here. The cards had told her so.

  “What’s up, kitten? The chorus hasn’t even performed yet.”

  “Karolo just stared at us.” Kasia shot her a meaningful look. “In a way I didn’t much like.”

  Natalya knew Kasia had been in the Pontifex’s Palace the night Feizah was killed. She knew about the lost Six of Storms. She did not know any of the rest. Kasia had made it seem she never managed to gain an audience and simply snuck out the way she came when all hell broke loose. She didn’t like lying to her best friend, but she’d promised Alexei she would protect Mikhail Bryce. And Kasia kept her promises, whatever the cost. Tess had taught her that doing so was morally correct.

  “But if they thought you were a witness, wouldn’t they have come for you already?” Natalya asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. But I want to go home.”

  “Yeah, okay. My feet are killing me anyway. How on earth do you wear spiked heels every day?”

  “Glutton for punishment,” Kasia muttered.

  They were only two rows back from the first barricade facing the palace. She put on an apologetic smile and turned to the man behind her. “Excuse me, but there’s been an emergency and I’m afraid we have to get through. . . .”

  It took almost half an hour of squeezing, pushing, and incessant apologies to escape the plaza. Once they reached the Via Fortuna, the crowds thinned enough to walk at a normal pace. Kasia held her head down, hiding beneath her umbrella as she passed through the Dacian Gate, but none of the Oprichniki standing outside gave the women a second glance.

  It was the eve of Den Spasitelya, Saviors’ Day. On Sunday, people would visit each other’s homes, bringing sweets and cordials, to commemorate the building of the Arxes. But the night before had a wilder, grimmer theme. Young people donned masks and costumes evoking the evils of the Second Dark Age, while the Oprichniki deployed in force to fill up the drunk tanks. The fun was generally harmless. Kasia and Natalya went to a party or two, and perhaps a cafe for a nightcap, before staggering home singing old pop songs.

  “The kids start earlier every year,” Natalya observed as they cut through the lush, hilly north end of Arkadia Park, where a group of teens in sinister face paint lounged in the shelter of a gazebo with kicked-up skateboards. Pungent Keef smoke filled the air. “It won’t be dark for hours.”

  “Yeah, but can’t you feel it? There’s a weird energy, Nashka. I’m not going out tonight.”

  “What? Oh, no. You can’t make me go to Club Dumas alone.”

  “You’re staying home, too,” Kasia said firmly. “We’ll play board games and order in.”

  “Saints, is this what it’s like to get old? Soon you’ll be putting a second chain on the door.”

  “You’ll survive a single night at home.” Kasia’s gaze probed the scattered clumps of trees. She had the distinct feeling of being watched. “Besides, it’s unseemly to get drunk on the night of the Pontifex’s official inauguration.”

  Natalya laughed. “Unseemly? I think you’ve been spending too much time with Tessaria.”

  “Then here’s your opportunity to properly corrupt me again.”

  Her friend grinned. “When you put it like that. No curry though. I’m sick of curry. How about we buy some food and cook it over a . . . you know, what’s it called?”

  “Stove?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  Kasia nodded slowly. “Sounds dangerous. Count me in.”

  They topped a rise. Some way ahead, four figures approached along the brick pathway. They wore white masks with smooth, empty features and black eyeholes. Each carried a red umbrella.

  “Fogging creepy,” Natalya muttered. “You’re right. I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

  Kasia hooked her arm, steering her along another path. When she glanced back, the men were gone. “Let’s get a taxi.”

  A dozen occupied cabs passed them by in the financial district south of the Arx. The only vacant one was snagged by a well-dressed couple with their two equally well-dressed children.

  “I should have driven,” Kasia muttered.

  “And parked where, exactly?” Natalya gestured at the yellow cordons and NO STANDING signs. “I’d even consider taking a tram, but they must be running on a holiday schedule. I haven’t seen a single one.”

  The sidewalks grew emptier as they neared Ash Court, but the traffic evaporated, too. Natalya thought she saw an empty taxi four blocks away and waved her arms to flag it down, but the driver turned a corner.

  “Fog it,” she grumped. “These shoes are torture.”

  “Let’s try over by the river,” Kasia suggested. “There are some fancy houses and it’s on the way home anyway.”

  She glanced across the Boulevard of Saint Ruda, a wide commercial thoroughfare that divided the haves from the have-nots. The men in white masks were back. They weren’t laughing or singing like any of the other merrymakers in costume. They stood in a line waiting for the light to change, holding the red umbrellas. Kasia couldn’t see behind those blank eyeholes, but she sensed they were staring.

  “Oh, fog it,” she said, grabbing Natalya’s hand. They hurried down the boulevard and cut into the warren of narrow cobbled streets that signaled the edge of Ash Court. Kasia never came through the Unmarked district even if it meant walking kilometers out of the way. It reminded her of how close she was to anonymous poverty. No doubt she’d end up living here when she refused Kireyev’s demand to continue spying and he made her true status known. She eyed the trash littering the curbs, the peeling paint and lack of street lamps. Nikola Thorn lived in Ash Court. She said it was a neighborly place. Kasia supposed she’d get used to it. One could get used to anything if there was no choice—

  “Any idea where we are?” Natalya paused in a gloomy alley. Not a single lamp shone through the grimy windows of the buildings to either side.

  “Not a clue.”

  “If only the sun would come out—”

  “As well wish for a magic carpet or Dark Age aero-plane,” Kasia interrupted savagely. “Any sign of those ghouls?”

  The street was empty, but that didn’t mean the men were gone. They wore long cloaks, black gloves, and heavy boots. Could there be cassocks under the cloaks? It was impossible to tell.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a coincidence?” Natalya asked hopefully.

  “They were looking right at us.”

  “There’s no crime in this city. You know that. It’s probably just a prank.”

  “Let them prank someone else,” Kasia muttered.

  Natalya pulled off a pump and rubbed her toes. “You think everyone’s looking at you,” she murmured.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you seem a bit paranoid. First, a bishop is giving you the eye. Now we’re being tailed by strange men. I don’t blame you after the lunacy of the last week, but I think you might be seeing things that aren’t . . . .” Natalya trailed off, eyes widening.

  “They’re behind me, aren’t they?”

  “Shit!”

  The four men strode at a relaxed but steady pace down the alley. Two of them used the red umbrellas like walking sticks. One was whistling an upbeat tune. Kasia could see their identical masks clearly now. The nose was a shapeless nub, but the corners of the mouth curved upward in a faint smile.

  This time, it was Natalya who grabbed her hand. They broke into a run. Kasia heard the men’s footsteps just behind. “Help!” she screamed.

  But Ash Court, it seemed, was not a neighborly place—or at least not towards strangers. The curtains stayed closed, the doors securely locked. If anyone was about, she saw no sign of it. Then Nashka’s heel caught on a broken cobblestone and she stumbled, skinning her knee. She kicked off the pumps with a sailor’s oath that would have struck Tessaria Foy deaf and perhaps blind, as well.

  Kasia moved to stand between Nashka and their assailants. S
he slipped a hand into her pocket and gave the men a level stare. Fear would only incite them more. “What do you want?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

  The one in the middle of the pack stepped forward, head slightly tilted. His voice was a hoarse rasp. “The Black Sun rises again. We bathe in its radiance.”

  Natalya got to her feet, blood flowing from her shredded stocking. “You’ve had a few too many,” she said curtly. “But it’s not funny anymore. Leave us alone or you’ll end up in the dock.”

  The man twirled his red umbrella. The point on the end had been sharpened to a wicked spike. Kasia’s fingers closed around the cards in her pocket as she exchanged a worried look with Natalya. This sort of thing didn’t happen in Novostopol. People were friendly. Helpful and polite. Even on Saviors’ Day, they only dressed up for a lark. They certainly didn’t assault each other in alleys.

  The one who’d spoken drew a slow finger across his throat. “Caput corvi. The dragon consumes itself, dying to rise again. One must be at home in the darkness of suffering, Kasia.”

  She stiffened. “How do you know my name?”

  He held out a gloved hand. “Our master wants you. The suffering will be greater if you resist.”

  “And who is your master?”

  “He is the devouring black fire.”

  The sky above them darkened, as though a great wing had fallen across the tenements of Ash Court. Kasia knew she should be afraid, but tightly compressed fury made her temples pound.

  “Tell your master,” she said, “that I am the hunter, not the hunted.”

  She drew the top card from the deck in her pocket and threw it down between them. Four masks angled to follow its progress. The card landed in a dirty puddle and floated there. The Bridge. One of the Major Arcana, it spanned a raging river. One bank was lush and green, the other barren and rocky. A figure stood trapped at the center of the span, which had broken in half, leaving a wide gap.

  “That’s not right,” Natalya muttered, staring at the card. “I didn’t paint it that way.”

  The first man laughed softly. “Mortificatio is experienced as defeat and failure. It is the essence of hell. Now you writhe and twist in the purifying flames—”