by Alec Hutson
With some effort I pull my arm free. “Because Valyra was a weaver –”
“You brought a weaver with you?” he thunders, loud enough that I expect all the other muckers to wake. But a quick glance over my shoulder shows that no one has even stirred.
He steps back, rubbing at his temple. “Alesk, you fool,” he snaps. “You might have doomed us all. If they find her first . . .”
“Who? If who finds her first?” I cry, not caring now if I drag everyone else from this unnatural slumber.
The man who claims my name looks at me with weary disgust. “I came here to see if you were repentant. If you’d realized the error of what you’d done. But now I find that things are incalculably worse than we ever imagined.” He retreats further, drawing up his hood again. “I’m leaving you here, brother.”
Brother?
“At least in this place, without your memory, you’ll not cause any more problems. It seems like once again I have to clean up one of your messes.”
“You say you’re my brother?” I yell, straining at the iron bars.
But he ignores me as he turns away.
“Help me!” I cry. “Tell me what is going on!”
The stranger does not glance back as he leaves, the lanterns going dark as soon as the door closes behind him.
I slide to the floor, my back to the bars. A tingling sense of unreality envelops me. Did that really just happen? Am I dreaming? I smack the back of my head against the iron. No, I’m awake.
A fist of cold fear closes around my heart. Valyra. The man who claimed to be the real Talin had been shocked when he’d heard she’d come through the doorway. No, not just shocked – he had been frightened. Will he try and hurt her? Kill her? My hand drifts to the circlet around my ankle, and for the thousandth time I pull at it, hoping against all reason that this time it will break. I need to get out of here. I need to find Valyra and protect her from whoever that was. I close my eyes, a wave of frustration rising up in me.
What can I do?
10
“Ergh.”
I step back, holding my side where Bright Eyes’s wooden ax just thumped me. Tentatively, I explore my ribs, putting pressure on each to see if she’s managed to crack one of them. Bright Eyes watches me do this with a slight smile curving her lips – she looks immensely satisfied with herself.
“You’re getting better,” I say, saluting her with my own ax.
Her grin widens, and I think I even see a spot of color darken her olive complexion. Is that even possible? Did I really just make a kvah blush?
What I said is true, though. The kvah fighting style she had been familiar with was mostly just wild, powerful swings while charging straight ahead. This might appease their saints and demonstrate fearlessness to their kin, but since survival is more important than glory here, a more nuanced approach to fighting was necessary. And so I had spent the last few days since our foray into the undercity trying to demonstrate good technique. Tight, controlled swings. Improved footwork. Fighting – whether with a sword or an ax – is all about balance. Being able to recover and react faster than your opponent.
Bright Eyes, to her credit, is a willing pupil. I expected stubbornness, but she is surprisingly open to learning from me. And her improvement is obvious to others – Shalloch pulled me aside last night and thanked me for spending so much time training with her.
Bright Eyes lifts her ax again, her feet shifting into one of the stances I taught her, but I raise my hand to signal I need more time to catch my breath.
Her brow crinkles as the satisfaction in her face gives way to concern. “Are you all right, Talin?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I reply, waving her question away. “But I’m serious – three days ago you would never have made a feint like that.”
She runs a finger along the edge of her wooden ax-blade. “Perhaps. You are distracted, though, I can feel it. Something is troubling you.”
My reflex is to brush aside what she’s saying, but I stop myself.
“Yes,” I admit, nodding as I run a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “The last few weeks have passed in a blur. Found by the slavers, transported through the grass, bought by the exarch and finally brought here. It’s been so hectic . . . so chaotic that I couldn’t spare the time to remember the obligations that I have.”
Bright Eyes has lowered her ax now, her face serious.
“Before Ximachus put this damn circlet on me I was going to find someone who I promised to help and take care of. I swore an oath. And now . . . now she might be in trouble, but I’m stuck here, unable to go to her.” In frustration I toss my ax in the dirt, drawing several curious looks from the other muckers training nearby.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The injustice of my situation – abducted and made a slave, forced to fight monsters with the threat of being maimed constantly dangling over my head – is nearly overwhelming.
I start as Bright Eyes’s hand closes around my arm. The concern in her expression is real now, and she guides me away from the center of the courtyard, towards a few scraggly fruit trees in the shadow of the walls.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I’m fine,” I assure her.
She ignores my words and pulls me deeper into the shade. Then she turns me roughly to face her, and I’m surprised to see that she looks angry as well, her black eyes flashing and her mouth set in a thin line.
“I see what you’re thinking,” she says harshly. “I see the anger building in you.” Bright Eyes lowers her voice, glancing over at where Cassus and a few others are watching the training muckers. “You are a great warrior. I know warriors – my mate was one. Mighty and strong. When he was about to go to battle he would summon his anger, this battle-rage, and he would not feel any fear. Or pain. He would gladly throw himself at impossible odds to satisfy what this rage demanded.”
She looks away. When she finally speaks again her voice sounds more distant. “I do not feel the same anger. It does not control me, or drive me. It was why I could never be an ax-maiden – the fear-blotting rage refused to come, and my hands shook and my ax faltered when danger arrived. But I do feel something. Something that would have killed me, if it was not for you.” Her voice cracks, and she swallows. The anger I felt has almost completely dissipated, and I want to grab hold of Bright Eyes and give her what measure of comfort I can. “It was guilt,” she says, blinking back tears. “When the slavers ambushed my tribe, the fear froze me. I should have found an ax and stood with my mate, or thrown myself at the bastards with my teeth and claws. Yes, I would have been struck down, but I would not have seen my children die.”
She draws in a long, shuddering breath. “I would be wasting away in the mines if it were not for your kindness. Or executed here because I refused to fight. Your words – your actions – showed me a better path. Yes, we have to fight now. But there will be a time when we have the chance to be free.” She grabs my arm fiercely again, and I wince. “When it comes, we must seize it, and find our revenge against those who have wronged us! My children will have vengeance!” She lets go of me, perhaps seeing the pain in my face. “For now, though, we must bury our emotions. We must be patient.”
“Talin! Brighty!”
We turn to find Shalloch jogging towards us. The mucker slows when he sees our faces, and it looks for a moment like he might leave us alone, but then he steels himself and continues on.
“You two appear to be having a moment,” he says playfully when he arrives in the shadow of the wall.
“We’ll be back on the training field soon,” I assure him.
“Actually,” Shalloch says, leaning closer, “I think it would be best if you came now. You see that fellow there?” The mucker jerks his head towards where Cassus is talking with a tall robed stranger. “I have it on good authority that he’s from the office of the exarch. An investigator of sorts. He’s here to make sure there’s no signs of insubordination, rebellion . . .” Shalloch pauses dramatically. “And running off to
whisper with each other doesn’t look good at all.”
Bright Eyes glances at me. I can feel the question in her eyes, and I simply nod. I’m in control again. I will wait for my chance.
That night, in the dark of our cell, I examine the circlet around my ankle and consider escape. A hundred times I’ve traced the smooth, gleaming metal, searching for any flaw or imperfection. Again, I’m disappointed. It is so light, so insubstantial, that I can’t even notice the weight unless I concentrate. I’ve slipped bits of metal between the circle and my skin – a fork stolen from the eating hall, even the tip of the iron blade I sometimes train with – but I can’t even blemish the surface of the thing. It cannot be broken, as the others have told me again and again.
Yet it is only half of the chain that binds me. Without the sphere it is but a harmless hunk of metal. If I can claim the sphere, I control my life again. But the overseers in the department are careful. The exarch handed Cassus the spheres for the circlets of Bright Eyes and myself, and that was the last time I saw them. They could be in his pocket . . . or in the hands of another . . . or in a locked chest in his quarters. Unless I know where they are, I cannot do anything, because if I am wrong I will suffer a horrible, writhing death as my lifeblood flows out from what’s left of my leg.
But there must be a way to be free. There has to be.
11
With a chorus of aggrieved shrieks, the green birds lift from the sun-splashed stones of the square and spiral into the sky. The urchins who sent them fleeing laugh and clap their hands, then race off to harass another small flock that’s feeding on the detritus left behind by the lunch crowd. As the grimy children vacate the space the hovering birds begin to return, starting the cycle anew.
I’ve watched this drama play out a dozen times now from where we sit, and it seems neither the birds nor the urchins are going to tire anytime soon. I lift the remnants of my snack – once, it was a hollowed-out crust of bread filled with gravy and chunks of chicken, but I’ve devoured all but the burnt edges of its kiln-fired crust – and take a nibble. I have a feeling that when I finish, Cassus will insist we return to the compound, so I’m taking my time. Sitting here with a pleasantly full belly, enjoying the warm day as the market square swirls and eddies with colorfully dressed shoppers, is the closest I’ve come to feeling peace for quite some time.
Shalloch seems to be enjoying himself as well. He’s gotten up from our outdoor table, leaving the devastated remnants of a crisped capon behind him, and is angling to join a table where a dice game is underway. Vesivia is leaning back with her eyes closed, her hands laced across her chest. Bright Eyes is the only other Manticore picking at her food, an array of skewered meats and vegetables. She’s watching the laughing children with an intentness that is starting to unnerve me a bit.
“Hurry up, you louts,” Cassus growls, returning to our table after an extended time spent chatting with the matronly owner of this street food emporium. I make an exaggerated show of biting off an even smaller chunk of my bread. Bright Eyes doesn’t even appear to have heard the old sergeant’s words, continuing to watch the urchins as they flit among the crowd.
This is the last time he’ll take us anywhere, I suppose, and that makes me sad. But I also don’t want to let go of this moment.
The morning saw us clear out a vrow dam that was blocking the water flow in this district. We didn’t see any of the industrious little creatures, as the dam had been abandoned some time ago, and it only took a small amount of effort to collapse the thing and unstop the drain. We were surprised that Cassus had wanted to accompany us on such a simple task, but the reason became clear when he stopped at this establishment on the way back. From the closeness with which they conducted their conversation, I have to assume there’s a history between the old soldier and the owner, who is still attractive despite her plumpness and grey-threaded hair.
Ignoring Cassus’s grumblings, I make no move to get up, allowing my mind to wander as I watch the bustling market. Zimani favor brightly patterned clothes, and the resulting swirl of colors and shapes as the crowd shifts is both beautiful and soothing. A cluster of older women wearing white cloth wrapped around their heads are haggling with a merchant selling a pile of bulbous purple fruit out of the back of a cart. Beside them, an old man with a long forked beard has a half-dozen strings wrapped around his wrist, and above him float kites shaped into fantastical creatures. Some of the urchins from earlier are staring and gesturing at the ingeniously fashioned beasts of sticks and paper, and I can’t hold back a chuckle when I realize that the old kite-seller, busy entertaining the children in front of him, is unaware that one has crept behind him and is about to make off with one of the kites displayed at his booth.
My attention is drawn to a disturbance. A woman is stumbling through the crowd, utterly distraught. She is dressed in robes of fine make, though they look like servant garb and not something a mistress of her own house would wear. Had she been robbed? Or hurt? The other shoppers are drawing back from her, obviously unsettled. She doesn’t even seem to notice them as she pushes on, frantic, her head jerking back and forth, as if she’s desperately searching for something.
And then our eyes meet, and hope lights up her tear-streaked face. I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of it, but now she’s running awkwardly towards us, arms and legs flailing.
“Cassus,” I say warningly, sitting up straighter as the woman collides with a cloth merchant and sends bolts of fabric tumbling. She doesn’t even acknowledge his outraged cries as she continues on.
“What?” grunts the old sergeant, and then he sees her. “Oh, what in the tainted saints is this?”
My hand drifts to the hilt of my sword. Is she crazed? A dozen paces from our table she stumbles, and would have fallen if Shalloch hadn’t suddenly appeared to catch her.
“Whoa,” says the swashbuckler, holding her up as she struggles for a moment to be free. Then she sees who it is that’s holding her, and she clutches at his shoulders.
“You’re muckers!” she cries shrilly. “You’re from the department!”
“Aye,” Cassus says slowly, his fingers spread on the table in front of him as he leans forward. “What’s the matter, salan?”
The woman swallows, struggling for words. “He took him! Right from my arms! Oh, saints, you have to help me!”
Cassus holds up his hands. “Calm, calm. Who was taken?”
“The little master! He’s only three years old! I was holding him and then he just plucked him away!”
Vesivia and I share a quick glance. “Who took him?” asks the swordswoman.
“A man . . . no, I don’t know what he was. Oh, please, you have to go save him. He’s a good boy!” Her words dissolve into wrenching sobs.
Cassus comes around the table and gently takes her by the shoulders. Shalloch lets go of her as she collapses against the old sergeant.
“I’m just his . . . just his nursemaid . . . please, you have to find him, before . . . before . . .”
“What did this man look like? And where did he go?” Cassus asks soothingly.
“We were watching the ships come in, just down by the river. Then these fingers curled around him – saints, they were so long and so white – and he just took him. This . . . this man, this thing, he was so tall and thin and hairless, and white, like a worm . . .”
I can’t see Cassus from where I’m sitting, but Shalloch and Vesivia look like they’ve just seen a ghost. The blood has drained from their faces, and something unspoken passes between them.
Cassus gently deposits the hysterical woman into an empty chair. Then he turns to us, his face ashen. “You know what this must be?”
“The Pale Man,” whispers Shalloch.
Cassus gives a shaky nod. “He hasn’t come out during the day for many years. Must be hungry.”
The woman, who quieted her sobbing to listen to the old sergeant, lets out a keening wail at his words.
“What do we do?” I ask. Most of the m
uckers treat the Pale Man as a myth, something to scare the green-ears. A monster that creeps from the undercity to prey on innocents.
Cassus rubs his brow with a gnarled hand. “Saints. The exarch has given strict orders that no single squad should try and pursue the Pale Man. Too dangerous. We’ve lost entire squads chasing him.”
“So what do we do?” Bright Eyes repeats my question, her jaw clenched.
Cassus looks around, as if hoping for a better solution. “We return to the Department, gather as many squads as we can. Bring them back here and flood the tunnels, try to catch him before he goes deeper.”
The woman’s chest is heaving with silent, racking sobs. She looks like she’s going to slip into shock soon.
“We hurry,” Shalloch agrees. “I know Chimera and Basilisk and Naga are resting today. That’ll give us sixteen muckers –”
“No.”
We all turn to Bright Eyes. The kvah is standing now.
“We must follow him now, or the child is lost.”
The woman reaches out a trembling hand towards Bright Eyes, as if the kvah is a glimpse at salvation. Vesivia and Cassus and Shalloch glance at each other. They’re scared, I realize. Terrified by this legend of the undercity.
“I’m with you,” I say to Bright Eyes, coming to my feet as well.
“It’s not your decision,” Cassus grates, but there’s little anger in his voice.
Vesivia sighs. “No, Cassus, they are right. If we leave, we sacrifice the child. We have to pursue him now.” She looks at Shalloch, and at first the swashbuckler seems immune to what she’s asking of him. Then his shoulders slump.
“By all the shit-stained saints,” he mutters, putting his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. He looks utterly exhausted in this moment. Then he turns to the woman, who is watching all this with wide, hopeful eyes. “Where did the Pale Man take the child?”
The tunnels here seem older, more dilapidated. Instead of neatly cut canals with stone walkways on either side, the sewer is flooded, and we are forced to slosh through freezing-cold, ankle-deep water. The decorations are more elaborate, but the ornamental stone flourishes framing the entranceways between sections are cracked and broken. The mosaics spread across the walls have been nearly obliterated, entire chunks having sloughed away over the centuries.
