Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  “Give me time,” Mia said. “I’ll touch him. None too gently, either.”

  “O, aye, what could possibly go wrong there?”

  “Scaeva needs to die, Mercurio.”

  “You just mind your lessons,” Mercurio growled. “You’re a damn sight shy of initiation. The Church is only going to test you harder, and there’s plenty of ways to get buried between here and the finish line. Worry about Scaeva when you’re a Blade, not a moment before. Because it’s only going to be a full-fledged Blade that gets to him now.”

  Mia lowered her eyes. Nodded. “I will. I promise.”

  Mercurio looked at her, those born-to-scowl eyes softening around the edges.

  “How you holding up in there?”

  “Well enough.” She shrugged. “Apart from the dismemberment.”

  “They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”

  “I’ve blood on my hands already.”

  “I’m not talking about killing those who deserve it, little Crow. You ended their executioner, true. But he was the man who hung your father. That’d be easy for the softest of us.” The old man sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. Bringing you in. Teaching you all this.”

  “You said it yourself,” Mia hissed. “Scaeva is a fucking tyrant. He needs to die. Not just for me. For the Republic. For the people.”

  “The people, eh? That’s what this is about?”

  She reached out across the table, squeezed the old man’s hand.

  “I can do this, Mercurio.”

  “… Aye.” He nodded, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I know it, lass.”

  He looked wearier than she’d ever seen him. The weight of it of all, piling up turn by turn. His skin was like paper. His eyes bloodshot.

  He looks so old.

  Mercurio cleared his throat, drained the last of his wine. “I’ll leave first. Give me ten minutes.”

  “Aye.”

  The old assassin smiled, hovered uncertainly. It was all Mia could do to stop herself from rising to hug him. But she held herself still, and he gathered up his walking stick, gave her a brief nod. Turning, he took a step toward the door, stopped short.

  “’Byss and blood, I almost forgot.”

  He reached into his greatcoat, proffered a small wooden box, sealed with tallow. Mia recognized the sigil scorched into the wood. Recalled the little store where the old man used to buy his cigarillos. Remembering the night he first let her smoke one. Sitting on the battlements above the forum. Dark all around. Hands shaking. Fingers stained with blood. Fourteen years old.

  Don’t look.

  “Black Dorian’s,” she smiled.

  “Paper. Tobacco. Wood. It’ll all make the Walk. I remember that time you tried to quit. Figured it best you don’t run out in there.”

  “Best not,” Mia took the box from his hand, her eyes stinging. “My thanks.”

  “Watch your back. And your front.” He waved vaguely. “And the rest of it, too.”

  “Always.”

  The old man pulled his tricorn down, his collar up. And without another word, he limped from the taverna and out into the street. Mia watched him go, counting the minutes down in her head. Eyes on the old man’s back as he limped into the distance.

  “They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”

  Mia rested her chin in her hands, lost in thought.

  A rowdy pack of bucks was coming in from the street, dressed in the white armor and red cloaks of the Luminatii. The girl glanced up at the sound of their laughter, young faces and handsome smiles. Stationed this close to the Palazzo, they were probably all marrowborn sons. Pulling a few years in the legion to further their familia’s political ends. If things had gone different, she’d be betrothed to a boy like that, most like. Living a life of privilege and never stopping a moment to—

  “Pardon me,” said a voice.

  Mia looked up, blinking. One of the Luminatii was standing above her. Ladykiller smile and a rich boy’s teeth.

  “Forgive me, Mi Dona,” he bowed. “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting alone, and I thought it a crime against the Light itself. Might you permit me to join you?”

  Mia’s hackles rippled, her fingers twitched. But realizing she appeared nothing more than a marrowborn girl out drinking alone, and remembering Aalea’s many and hard-learned lessons in charm, Mia smoothed her feathers and gave her best smile.

  “O, that sounds lovely,” she said. “I’m honored, sir, but I’m afraid my mother is expecting me abed. Perhaps another time?”

  “I trust your mother can spare you for one drink?” The boy raised a hopeful eyebrow. “I’ve not seen you in here before.”

  “Apologies, sir.” Mia rose from the table. “But I really must be going.”

  “Hold, now.” The boy blocked her way out of the booth. Eyes darkening.

  Mia tried to quash her rising anger. Kept her voice steady. Stare downcast.

  “Excuse me, sir, you’re in my way.”

  “I’m just being friendly, girl.”

  “Is that what you call it, sir?” Mia’s eyes flashed as her temper finally came out to play. “Others might say you’re being an arse.”

  Anger blotched the boy’s face—the quick fury of a lad too used to getting his own way. He reached out with one gauntleted hand, seized Mia’s wrist, holding tight.

  She could’ve broken his jaw, then. Buried her knee in his bollocks. Sat on his chest and wailed on his face until he learned not all girls were his sport. But that’d mark her as someone who knew the Song, and she was in a pub with half a dozen of his fellows, after all. And so she settled for twisting her arm as Mercurio had taught her, putting the boy off balance and tearing free of his iron-shod grip.

  The buttons at her cuff popped. Cloth tore. The sheathe at her wrist twisted and with the sound of snapping leather, Mia’s gravebone stiletto clattered to the floor.

  A heavy hand clapped the back of the boy’s neck, a smoker’s voice growling.

  “Leave the girl alone, Andio. We’re here to drink, not chase doves.”

  The boy and Mia glanced over his shoulder, saw an older man in centurion’s armor looming behind the young soldier. He was a big man, his face scarred and grim.

  “Forgive me, Centu—”

  With a loud clunk, the centurion kicked the younger man in the backside and sent him on his way, folding his arms and scowling until the boy rejoined his comrades. The man was obviously a veteran, one eye covered by a dark leather patch. Satisfied, the centurion tapped the brim of his plumed helm, gave Mia an apologetic nod.

  “Forgiveness for my man’s impertinence, Dona. No harm done, I hope?”

  “No, sir,” Mia smiled, heart beating easier. “My thanks, Centurion.”

  The man nodded, stooped and lifted Mia’s stiletto off the floor. With a small bow, he proffered it on his forearm. The girl smiled wider, curtseyed with invisible skirts and took the dagger from his hand. But as she slipped it back up her sleeve, the man’s eyes followed the blade, the crow carved on the hilt. A slow frown took seed on his brow.

  Mia’s face paled.

  O, Daughters …

  She recognized him now. It’d been six years, but she’d not forgotten him. Leaning over the barrel she’d been stowed inside, with his pretty blue eyes and the smile of a fellow who choked puppies for sport.

  “Maw’s teeth,” breathed the first. “She can’t be more than ten.”

  “Never to see eleven.” A sigh. “Hold still, girl. This won’t hurt long.”

  The centurion wasn’t smiling now.

  Mia shuffled around the table, knocking over her empty cup. She tried another hasty curtsey and a quick walk to the door, but like the soldier before him, the centurion now blocked her way from the booth. Fingers creeping to the patch of leather, covering the eye she’d skewered with her gravebone stiletto all those years ago. Disbelief etched in his features.

  “Can’t be�
��”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Mia tried to muscle past, but the centurion grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. Mia held her temper—barely—thinking she might still bluff her way through. Bolting like a frightened deer would cause attention. But the man twisted her arm, looked at the stiletto once more sheathed at her wrist. The crow on the hilt with its tiny amber eyes.

  “Name of the Light…,” he breathed.

  “Centurion Alberius?” called Mia’s scorned soldierboy. “Is all well?”

  The centurion fixed Mia in his stare. Puppy-killer smile finally coming out to play.

  “O, everything is well, all right,” he said.

  Mia’s knee collided with the man’s groin, her elbow with his chin. The centurion cried out, helmet flying off his head as he toppled backward, and Mia was vaulting over his body on her way to the door. The legionaries took a moment to react, watching their commander drop like a whimpering sack of potatoes, but soon enough they barreled out into the street behind the fleeing girl. Mia heard whistles blowing behind her, furious shouts, running feet.

  “Of all the pubs in Godsgrave,” she gasped. “What are the fucking odds?”

  “… you did pick one right next to the palazzo…”

  She threw her hood over her head, skidded off the main drag and down a twisting sidealley, bolting over the refuse and drunks, the sugargirls and sweetboys. More footsteps behind her, more whistles, more men. Buckled cobbles under her feet, narrow walls closing in about her. She bolted into a tiny piazza, barely ten feet at a side, an old bubbling fountain at its heart. The goddess Trelene stood atop it, her gown made of crashing waves, surrounded by candles and bloody offerings. Pushing herself back into a little doorway, Mia dragged her cloak of shadows about her shoulders, all the world dropping into gloom and darkness.

  Footsteps coming. Heavy boots. Through her cloak, she caught the dim impression of a dozen Luminatii, sunsteel blades drawn and blazing, dashing into the piazza. Seeing no sign of her, they split up and thundered off in all directions. Mia stayed still, Mister Kindly at her feet, the pair just a smudge in the doorway. She waited as another group of soldiers rushed past, shouting and shoving.

  Finally, silence.

  She stole away slowly, feeling her way along the wall beneath her cloak. At a time like this, it was hard to fault the Mother for marking her—if, indeed, that’s what she’d done. But as far as magik went, being able to stumble about near blind and almost invisible seemed a far cry from Adonai or Marielle’s brand of sorcery. Everyone paid a price, she supposed. Adonai thirsted for what he controlled. Marielle wove the flesh of others and corrupted her own. And Mia could remain unseen, but hardly see while doing it …

  She pawed her way through the maze of back streets, but she didn’t know Shield Arm as well as Little Liis. Even with Mister Kindly roaming ahead, it’d take hours to find her way back to the Porkery at this rate. So finally, she threw aside her shadows and made for the nearest thoroughfare. Out onto the main drag, crossing three bridges to the Heart, then down to the Nethers, dodging any Luminatii who came within a block. Running into the puppy-choker had unnerved her. Filled her mind with memories. Her mother in chains. Her baby brother crying. The turn her whole world came apart. She needed to get back to the Mountain, away from these bastard sun-botherers.

  A moment to think.

  A moment to breathe.

  If she weren’t so intent on spotting large groups of men in gleaming white armor waving burning swords, she might have noticed a slender figure dressed all in mortar gray, picking up her trail as she entered the harbor district. She might have noticed the gang of young bucks trudging down the boardwalk toward her, nodding to the figure shadowing behind. She might’ve noticed they wore soldiers’ boots. That they had rather suspicious truncheon-shaped lumps beneath their cloaks.

  She might have noticed all this before it was too late.

  But then it was too late.

  1. Spiderkiller tried to poison her class twice more in the intervening weeks—the first, with a contact toxin known as “shiver,” which she dumped in the bathhouse water early one morn, and the second, where in concert with Mouser, every lock on every acolyte’s bedchamber was replaced with a Liisian needletrap tipped with enough allbane to kill a horse.

  Two acolytes died from the allbane traps; an Itreyan boy named Angio, whom Mia hardly knew, and a mild-mannered girl named Larissa, who’d been one of the better students in Mouser’s class. A quiet mass was said for them in the Hall of Eulogies, attended by the novices and Ministry. The bodies were interred with the other servants of the Mother, each placed within a tomb on the walls, no names to mark their stones. Mia watched Spiderkiller through the service, looking for some hint of remorse. The woman met her eyes only once, just as the requiem was sung.

  And then she shrugged.

  2. The material that comprises the Ribs and Spine in Godsgrave is referred to as “gravebone,” though in truth, its tensile strength is stronger than steel. The secrets of working it were lost in time, though two high arkemists of the Iron Collegium are rumored to still possess them.

  Though hollowed during the building of Godsgrave, the Ribs and Spine are now considered Itreyan treasures, and to deface them in any way is a crime punishable by crucifixion. Much of the gravebone acquired at the city’s dawn has been lost over centuries, and the material is considered a near priceless commodity. That said, the elite cohorts of the Luminatii legion wear gravebone armor, and most wealthy and powerful familia are in possession of a few gravebone relics, usually blades and, in rare cases, jewelry. The kings of Itreya wore a gravebone crown, though it is now kept on a marble plinth in the senate house, engraved with the words Nonquis Itarem.

  “Never again.”

  If you look closely, gentlefriend, you can see it is still stained with the blood of the last man to wear it.

  3. I must specify, there are actually very few of these. The Luminatii are, for the most part, intent only upon crimes that upset the people who pay their wages—the Senate of Godsgrave. So long as the criminal elements of the city keep to killing themselves and staying below the Hips, the Senate could give less than a tinker’s cuss about the murder of an inkfiend who crossed the wrong people, or a pimp who bet the wrong gladiator in the arena. The Luminatii aren’t a tool of law and order in the Itreyan capital, gentlefriend. They are a tool of the status quo.

  Still, accidents happen. And in those cases, you want to know someone who works at the Porkery.

  4. Though you’ve no doubt heard stories about pigs eating wagon wheels or wooden legs and the owners they were attached to, tales about the legendary appetites of hogs are, for the most part, gross exaggerations. However, pigs shipped to the Porkery from the mainland are often starved for more than a week by the time they’re offloaded, and after seven turns with naught but air to eat, the sight of a chopped-up Vaanian who owed a little too much money to the Wrong Sort of Chaps would look like a five-course meal to you too, gentlefriend.

  There’s a famous yarn among Itreyan sailors about the Beatrice—a pork ship bound for Godsgrave—blown off course during a storm-washed truedark, and wrecked on an isle in the Sea of Silence. Twelve sailors survived the ruin, and yet, over the course of the next few weeks, the sailors mysteriously disappeared, one by one. Only a single mariner was rescued when the suns eventually rose. He was a cabin boy named Benio, who, when recovered by a passing Dweymeri trawler, swore that the rest of his fellows had been eaten by another of the wreck’s survivors—a ferocious sow who stalked the nights, devouring the hapless sailors one by one.

  The mariners had apparently dubbed this pitiless porcine “Pinky.”

  Upon his return to civilization, poor Benio lost his mind over a mornmeal of bacon and fried pork rolls, and spent the rest of his turns in Godsgrave Asylum. It’s said Pinky still roams the island, feasting on stranded sailors and baying at the sky when truedark falls.

  Whether any of this is true, of course, remains a matter of dr
unken speculation on the decks of various pig ships. What is true, is that after learning from Mercurio what exactly went on at the Porkery at age thirteen, a young Mia Corvere swore off eating ham for the rest of her life.

  5. Apothecaries theorize the imbalance of light and dark in Itreya is the cause of many public health issues, such as the increasing numbers of “dreamsick” sufferers cramming Godsgrave Asylum, and rising addiction levels to sedatives such as Swoon. Azurite spectacles are one of the few accepted remedies. The lenses are glass, tinted blue or green by arkemical processes, offsetting the glow of the dominant sun in the sky and sparing well-to-do citizens the worst of Aa’s fury.

  There have been several state-sponsored commissions into broader-reaching health initiatives, but since it is almighty Aa’s will that his wife be banned from his sky for years at a stretch, even acknowledging the issue of light-related maladies can be construed as heresy. Thus, efforts to combat the issue are continually stymied by church loyalists in the Senate, not to mention lobbyists in the employ of the extraordinarily powerful Guild of Itreyan Curtainmakers.

  Ah, democracy.

  6. The tallest bridge in Godsgrave, originally known as the Bridge of Towers. Its new name and popularity as a suicide spot arose in 39PR, when the mistress of Grand Cardinal Bartolemew Albari—Francesca Delphi—leapt to her death from it during truedark Carnivalé. She was clad in full Carnivalé regalia, including a jewel-encrusted golden domino worth more than a small estate in upper Valentia.

  Once news of her suicide spread, the search for her body, and more important, the mask she was wearing, led to several drownings, at least four stabbings and a minor riot. The rumor mill whispered that Albari had promised to abandon his position within the church and wed his paramour before the truedark of 39 fell. When Albari failed to live up to his promise, the girl had dressed in the jewels he’d given her, written a note to her parents explaining the sordid affair, then leapt to her death.

  Unfortunately for Cardinal Albari, Francesca’s father, Marcinus Delphi, was at that time a consul of the Republic. The scandal led to Albari being defrocked and publically scourged, and the former cardinal ended up leaping from the very same bridge his mistress had died beneath. Over time, the story evolved into a tale of tragedy—two lovers, torn apart by society and consumed by their forbidden passions. Lovesick teenagers have been flinging themselves off the bridge ever since, and control of the riverbanks around the Bridge of Broken Promises (and thus, first right to loot their lovesick corpses) has been the cause of more than one gang war between local braavi.