Midnight was not far off as Issa and her patrol finally reached the Slave’s Tier. They marched at a steady pace, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of threat or attack. Issa’s sword hand remained by her side, yet her muscles were coiled like a tense spring, ready to draw her flammard at the first hint of danger.
Yet the real danger was the anger simmering in the eyes of the Mahjuri and Kabili they passed. Low-caste Shalandrans resented the Indomitables—people that had once lived among them, yet now wore Alqati blue, exchanged their muddy Mahjuri rags for armor and fine clothing, and had full bellies while everyone on the Slave’s Tier went hungry. Issa heard the word “traitor” spat at Nysin, Viddan, and the other Mahjuri Indomitables.
They encountered their first patrol coming in the opposite direction just past Auctioneer’s Square. To Issa’s disappointment, the men could offer no information on Kellas’ patrol from the previous night.
“Watch your backs,” the Dictator in command warned. “Tensions are running high tonight.”
Issa shot a glance over her shoulder at her Indomitables. Viddan’s usually bright eyes were dark, his brow furrowed. Nysin hadn’t said a single snarky thing all night; he was too busy trying not to leap at shadows or draw his sword to ward off threats only he could see.
“Thanks.” With a nod to the Dictator, Issa set her patrol in motion.
The farther west they traveled along the Way of Chains, the more patrols they encountered. None had any information on Kellas’ movements, but all gave the same warning.
Issa could feel it the moment they left the Kabili section of the Slave’s Tier and entered the area reserved for the Mahjuri. The streets were empty save for a few black-armored Indomitables standing on the corners, watching everything with stern faces and drawn khopeshes.
Yet away from the Way of Chains, down the side streets and back lanes, the Slave’s Tier was awash with tumult and violence. Issa glanced down one street in time to see an Indomitable kicking down the door to a crumbling hovel. He disappeared within, and a moment later shouts and cries of pain echoed up the street. Two of the man’s comrades did likewise with the next door.
Up another alley, Issa found a patrol of Indomitables surrounding a young Mahjuri man. The youth looked too frail to even lift his head, yet the Indomitables held their clubs to his throat, their mailed fists poised to strike. When the Mahjuri answered a snarled question, something he said set off one Indomitable, who punched him in the gut. As Issa marched past, the thumps of wood striking flesh echoed dully from the alleyway, accompanied by quiet groans.
Icy fear clenched in her gut. It’s worse than I feared.
The Blades had lost one of their own, but there was no sign of the Indomitables that accompanied Kellas. The Alqati searched for their comrades—slain or captured, they couldn’t know—and they would do whatever it took to find them, even if it meant breaking down doors and rousting the populace.
Issa wanted to deviate from her path, to try and reason with the Indomitables. Yet a sense of helplessness kept her moving westward at a steady pace. She couldn’t stop every company rampaging through the Slave’s Tier. Talking to the infuriated soldiers would only add to the flames. Her best hope right now was to do her job and find the Gatherers responsible. Once she had located them, the Indomitables’ rage would be channeled into eliminating the cultists.
“Double time!” she called. Her Indomitables needed no encouragement; they picked up the pace and hustled along behind her.
A sense of urgency hummed within her. If I don’t figure this out quickly and find those responsible, things could go from bad to worse in a matter of minutes. Every Mahjuri and Kabili they passed shot furious glares, their eyes filled with hate. The resentment that had simmered beneath the surface for so long had risen to a boil.
Her mind raced as she approached Trader’s Way. Murder Square, the public execution grounds where they’d found Kellas’ crucified body, stood just beyond the broad avenue. The square was fifty paces wide and thirty long, with a huge wooden execution platform occupying the center. Here, the guilty of Shalandra were served their fates—for thieves, the severing of a hand; for murderers, beheading; for traitors and any unfortunate enough to truly anger the Keeper’s Council, executions tended to be grisly, drawn-out affairs that ended with the accused’s head on one of the many bloodstained wooden spikes on the southern side of the square.
“Company, halt!”
The patrol ground smoothly to a stop, with barely a clank of armor. Issa’s gaze traveled beyond the open-air plaza, to the houses that faced the execution platform. Acid surged in her gut at the memory, but she forced herself to relive the moment she’d first seen Kellas’ body. The wooden chopping block on the eastern side of Murder Square was the final stop for most condemned to die. Crucifixion wasn’t a common method of execution in Shalandra, reserved only for those the Necroseti wished to see suffer. Which meant Kellas’ cross had to have been dragged into Murder Square, along with the young man’s body.
Someone had to have seen or heard something, she reasoned.
She counted the houses with doors and windows facing Murder Square. Nearly a hundred dwellings had a clear view of the platform. Anyone within those stone shacks or hovels could have witnessed the Gatherers’ crime.
Issa turned to her patrol. “Go, talk to the people in any house with a door or window facing the square,” she ordered. “Someone has to have seen the Gatherers hauling the cross and the dead body here. Someone has to have overheard the sound of nails being driven into wood.”
The cross had stood ten feet tall, made of wood solid enough to hold up Kellas’ weight. There was nowhere nearby to obtain the beam used for the cross. It would have taken at least two or three strong men to haul the lumber in silence. The sound of a tapping hammer would echo among the stone walls and debris-covered streets.
Nysin glared at her. “Talk? Is that what you’re calling it?” Anger lined his face, worry casting a shadow in his eyes. He, too, had witnessed the Indomitables’ cruelty.
Issa fixed her ten-man patrol with a stern glare. “Any one of you raises a hand in violence, you’ll answer to me.” She thrust a finger at the sickle-shaped swords hanging on their hips. “Only draw your weapons if your life is threatened. Understood?”
Nysin’s face relaxed. “Yes, sir!”
“There are too many houses for us to search alone,” Enyera responded.
“I’ll make sure you have help.” Issa nodded. “But the more we do now, the less chance some ham-fisted, pissed off bastard will hurt the wrong person. We want people to talk, but not out of fear that we’re going to hurt them if they don’t.”
The ten Indomitable trainees saluted, and Nysin—the Neophyte of their company—divided them into two-person sweep teams. Issa watched her small company go, worry roiling in her gut. Enyera was right; they could never do it alone. They needed more Indomitables to join the search—more Indomitables angry and in a mood to crack skulls.
The tromp, tromp of heavy boots signaled the approach of a patrol from the west. Issa hurried toward the sound. The ten-man patrol was led by a hulking Dictator with a heavy scowl, broad shoulders, and a permanent snarl on her lips.
Worry thrummed within Issa. She had to keep a tight rein on the situation, which meant taking direct control of all the Indomitables.
“Dictator,” Issa called out. “By order of Lady Callista Vinaus, I am requisitioning your company to aid me in my search.”
The woman glowered at Issa, studying her from head to toe. Though Issa wore the black armor of a Keeper’s Blade, she knew her youthful features could cause the officer to hesitate to accept her command. Issa hardened her face in her best imitation of Tannard and spoke in a growl. “At once, Dictator!”
Though Blades had no position in the Indomitable chain of command, their status as Shalandra’s elite gave them authority, especially over the low-ranking Alqati. The weight of Lady Callista’s name would give Issa all the credibility she
needed.
After a moment’s delay, the woman seemed to reach a decision. “Yes, sir! What are your orders?”
Issa’s stomach unclenched as the Dictator and her patrol saluted, but she hid her relief beneath a stony mask of authority. “First, do any of you know anything about where the Keeper’s Blade and his Indomitables were patrolling last night?”
All eleven Indomitables answered in the negative.
Issa growled a curse. Jaw clenched, she swept a hand toward the surrounding buildings. “Sweep these houses for any witnesses. Find someone who saw the Gatherers hauling the cross and corpse into Murder Square last night.”
“Yes, sir!” An almost eager light shone in the Dictator’s eyes as she turned to address her men. “Hear that, lads? The Blade’s given us a job to do.”
Cruel grins split the Indomitables’ faces and a ruthlessness shone in their eyes as they drew their clubs. Issa had no doubt they wanted to crack heads and limbs to get the answers she sought.
“Indomitables!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “I expect the men under my command to show proper restraint and respect for the citizens we have sworn to protect.” She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “Your zeal is appreciated, but temper it with self-control. Do not make me show you what happens if you raise a hand against the innocent.”
The Dictator’s face hardened to an expressionless mask. Issa saw the grim determination in the woman’s eyes; she wanted to do whatever it took to find the answers about the missing Indomitables and the slain Blade, no matter who suffered for it.
Yet despite her resentment at Issa, the woman was an officer of the Indomitables. Discipline asserted itself. “Go,” the woman snapped. “You have your orders.”
The Indomitables cast spiteful glares at Issa, but held their tongues as they set off to join the search for the Gatherers. The Dictator turned to join them.
“What is your name?” Issa demanded of the woman.
The Dictator froze in place. “Quen,” she finally said, through clenched teeth.
Issa stepped toward the woman. She stood a hand taller than Quen, though the Dictator was broader in the shoulders. “I will hold you personally responsible for your men’s actions,” she said in a low voice. “Is that clear?”
The woman’s lip curled ever so slightly, a half-sneer, half-snarl. Once again, anger and indignation flared bright in her eyes, but she managed a nod. “Yes, sir.”
Issa stepped back, a silent dismissal. The Dictator cast one last burning glance at her before hurrying off to join her men.
Another patrol arrived five minutes later. Issa’s question about Kellas’ whereabouts the previous night led to the same negative reply. Her command to join in the search for witnesses was met with the same vehemence. When she repeated her warning to the Indomitables, they reacted the same as Dictator Quen’s company. They were out for blood and resented her order for restraint.
The Dictator, a greying man with battle scars covering his hands and arms, was the worst of them. “You’re asking us to go into their homes, yet not to fight back if we’re threatened?” His face turned an angry red and he bared his teeth in a growl. “I won’t let my men be killed because you’re afraid of ruffling a few Mahjuri feathers.”
“Neither will I,” Issa snapped. “If they are in danger, they have full license to defend themselves.” She stepped closer to the Dictator, looming over him, her face inches from his. “But you know as well as I that the Mahjuri will not raise a hand to an Indomitable unless their lives or families are threatened first. They respond to your actions.”
The man glared up at her, his jaw set in stubborn defiance. “You don’t know these scum, sir.” He spat the word. “They’re like starving animals that will attack at the first—”
“That’s because they’re starving, for the Keeper’s sake!” Issa’s roar drowned out the man’s words. She jabbed a finger into his black breastplate. “And because men like you have treated them like animals their entire lives. They are men and women, not dogs. Maybe if you remembered that, you wouldn’t be so afraid of them.”
“Afraid?” The Dictator pressed back against her, refusing to back down. “Easy for you to say, with your fancy Blade’s armor and your Dhukari title. You’re not down here in the muck and mire with the rest of us. You don’t know what it’s like to face them every day, to know that every one of them wants to slit your throat and pick your corpse clean. That knowledge is enough to make any half-intelligent man afraid.”
“Maybe if you stopped thinking about them that way, you’d realize they’re just men like you,” Issa snarled. “Men who are sick and tired of being pushed around.” Her temper snapped, and she seized the Indomitable’s armor and pulled him close until she growled right into his face. “So keep your soldiers in line, Dictator, or I will.”
A sneer curled the man’s lips and his eyes blazed. For a heartbeat, Issa felt certain he’d strike out at her. He had years of experience and training, and he looked a match for Dictator Quen’s strength. But when it came to the lives of the innocent, Issa wouldn’t back down. She’d take on this fight every time.
After long seconds, the Dictator managed to wrestle himself under control. “Yes, sir,” he spat.
Issa released his armor hard enough to send him staggering. Anger flared within her as she stalked away. She hadn’t made a friend out of this Dictator. Yet at that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care about the enmity of one Alqati officer. She’d spent her entire life in fear of the Indomitables, afraid that they would hurt her, Saba, or Savta simply because they could. The Dictator was far from the worst of the soldiers, men and women that chose violence for violence’s sake. They simply used their positions to justify and excuse their actions.
Issa clenched her fists to still the furious trembling of her hands. She wouldn’t hesitate to ruffle a few Indomitable feathers if it saved a few of the wretched Mahjuri that deserved none of the suffering heaped on their heads.
“Issa!” Enyera’s voice echoed behind her.
Issa whirled to find the Earaqi Indomitable racing toward her.
“Come quick!” Enyera called, slowing and beckoning for Issa to follow. “We’ve found a witness.”
Issa’s heart leapt and she raced after the Indomitable trainee. Enyera led her toward a two-story house on the eastern side of Murder Square. Inside, Nysin stood guard over a woman who looked older than the stone of her house. The woman sat in what might have once been a plush armchair, a ratty blanket draped across her lap. Her robes were ragged and threadbare and she wore a headband of rope that had long since lost its black dye. She hummed quietly to herself as the knitting needles in her hands clacked against each other at a speed any weaver would envy.
The upper floor room was a mess, with balls of colorful yarn strewn across every surface. A musty smell like damp wool hung thick in the air, edged by the pungent aroma of joint balms and some sort of herbal tea gone cold in the woman’s cup hours ago.
To Issa’s surprise, Nysin seemed to hover protectively around the woman. He straightened when Issa entered and snapped a salute. “Issa, this is Villasa, my great-aunt.”
Issa’s heart clenched. No wonder he was so worried. Likely he had come here directly to ensure none of the other Indomitables were too overzealous with the ancient woman.
“Hello, Villasa.” Issa smiled and held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The woman said nothing, simply continued humming and knitting.
“She’s blind.” A tight smile tugged at Nysin’s lips.
“Oh.” Issa’s hand dropped and she shot a glance at Enyera. “If she’s blind, how could she see anything?”
“She can’t!” Villasa spoke in a sharp, shrill voice that held not a trace of quaver. “But she’s not deaf. Quite the contrary, in fact. And she can certainly hear when impolite young people are speaking about her as if she’s not in the room.”
Issa’s face reddened, and she was suddenly glad the woman was b
lind.
“Tell her what you told me, Dodah,” Nysin urged. “About what you heard last night.”
“I’m blind, not a forgetful idiot!” Villasa snapped at her great-nephew. She turned her face in Issa’s direction and fixed milk-white eyes on her. “There was a cart, with a squeaky wheel. Rear wheel, I think. Clunky, too. Broken rear axle, if I don’t miss my guess.”
Issa’s eyes widened and she shot a questioning glance at Nysin. The Indomitable trainee shrugged and smiled, as if to say, “Wait for it.”
The old woman stretched out a gaunt arm and she pointed eastward, away from Murder Square. “It came from that direction, about two hours before dawn. Three, maybe four men, trying to be quiet, but breathing louder than a pack of hyenas. Then there was that damned rattling sound. Wood on wood, it was, no doubt about it.”
“The cross,” Nysin offered.
“All that damned tapping made it impossible for an old woman to get even a moment’s rest.” Villasa plowed on as if Nysin hadn’t spoken. “I hope you find those bastards! If nothing else, to stop them from raising such a ruckus when honest folk are trying to sleep.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Issa asked, her mind racing. “Which way did they go after they were finished? Did you hear any of their voices? Did they say anything?”
“You expect me to do your job for you?” The woman’s voice took on a shrill note of irritation. “Maybe you’d like me to tell you how to find the lost continent of Aegeos or guide you to a hippogriff’s nest?”
Issa scowled. Now I know where Nysin gets that sharp tongue of his. She swallowed a sharp retort. “Thank you, Villasa.”
The old Mahjuri woman gave a dismissive wave. “Get off with you, and see if you can’t do something about those heavy-booted clodheads breaking down my neighbors’ doors and raising such a fuss. Keeper knows it’s hard enough to sleep as is. And keep them away from my garden. It’s taken me five years to get those irises to grow properly. You’d think the Pharus would provide more water for his people, given…”
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