by Jay Kristoff
The man twitched, toppling face-first from the tray. Luminatii cried warning as the body tumbled beneath the wagon’s belly and was pulped under the wheels. The middle wagon jolted hard as the men inside it bellowed. Falling over each other and throwing off gravity’s center, the wagon lurched sideways with the bright snap of breaking timbers and tore itself loose from its partner.
Dust and men flying. Axels and bones breaking. Mia reached into the bag at her belt, fished out a handful of shiny red globes. And as a half-dozen blurry shapes peered over the wagon’s tail to see what in the Daughters’ names was happening at the hitch, she let them fly, up and over the railing, and into the wagon’s tray.
Crackling booms sounded across the Whisperwastes, explosions unfurling in the wagon’s confines and tearing the cover and the men inside to pieces. And throwing aside her cloak of shadows, Mia slung herself into the carnage.
Blades drawn. Teeth bared. Moving among blinded and stumbling men like a serpent through water. Steel flashing, soldiers falling, crying out and swinging their cudgels at the blur in their midst; a bloodstained smudge moving through the smoke, wicked-sharp blades flashing. A few thought her some thing from the abyss, some daemonic servant of Niah set on their trail. Others mistook her for a horror from the Whisperwastes, a monstrosity spat into being by twisted magiks. But as she wove and swayed among them, blades whistling, breath hissing, the swiftest among them realized she wasn’t a daemon. Nor a horror. But a girl. Just a girl. And that thought terrified them more than any daemon or horror they could name.
She could feel them. Even the ones she couldn’t see. The brighter the light, the deeper the shadows. And she felt them, just as she’d felt the shadows of the strawmen targets in the Hall of Songs. Lashing out with all the skill Naev had gifted her, all the fury of that fourteen-year-old girl on the steps of the Basilica Grande. No cardinals or blazing Trinities to help them now. No sunsteel burning in their hands or white, polished armor at their breasts. Just leather on their skin and dust in their eyes, the blackened corpses of their comrades on the deck around them, the echo of the explosions ringing in their ears. And she, armed with all the hatred of all the years, daughter of murdered parents, sister to a murdered brother, marked of a darkest mother.
And one by one, each and all, she fed them to the Maw.
The camels pulling the wagon galloped on, still terrified enough of the kraken to keep running without a driver to whip them. With her foes inside the wagon dead, Mia slung the crossbow off her back. Fell to one knee and took aim at the nearest camel rider. She put a quarrel through his heart, loaded another and put it through a second’s throat. A few Luminatii veered out of range, but to their credit, most roared challenge and whipped their beasts harder, bearing down on the wagon and the girl inside. These were men of the First and Second Centuries, after all—the finest troops Godsgrave had to offer. They’d not be bested by some heretic child.
But her crossbow sang and the wyrdglass flew, men tumbling from their saddles or simply blasted free. A grizzled giant of a man made it to the wagon’s railing, but a throwing knife in his larynx silenced him forever. Another leaped from his camel onto the wagon’s tail, but as he clawed his way up, she shoved a globe of ruby wyrdglass into his mouth and kicked him free, the resulting explosion taking out another camel’s legs and sending its rider flying, despite all lack of wings.
Scanning the wastes, Mia saw the kraken had given up the chase—between silencing her calls to the dark and the feast she’d left behind, the behemoths seemed well content, rolling and tumbling as they chased screaming Luminatii across the sands. Sheathing her blades, Mia leapt into the driver’s chair, intent now on the wagons ahead.
In all the carnage, Remus’s train had gained a solid lead. But with the weight of her unneeded companions shed, Mia’s camels traveled all the swifter, spitting and snorting and making whatever noise it is that camels make as they ran.1 Her wagon bounced over rocky dunes, weaving through gardens of broken Ashkahi monoliths, slowly closing the gap. She could see Remus in the lead carriage, but only because the man was so huge—everyone else was simply a blur through the dust and grit. And yet, she was acutely aware that at least sixty well-trained and fanatical thugs awaited her ahead, should her wagon ever catch up. Weighing the less-than-favorable odds, she wondered what exactly she was going to do when she got there.
Fortunately, she never had to learn the answer.
The Luminatii in Remus’s train had just watched her murder over sixty of their fellows, after all, and while it’s noteworthy that none of them actually stopped to help, Itreya’s finest were inclined to bear a grudge. As Mia’s wagon bore down on them, the soldiers manning the crossbows opened fire. Mia couldn’t exactly hide beneath her shadow cloak; firstly, she’d be unable to see, and thus, steer, but more important, it wouldn’t take the finest scholar of the Grand Collegium to figure out where the driver of a wagon was sitting, invisible or not. But Justicus Remus, more than a little impressed that this slip of a girl had just managed to single-handedly murder half a century of his finest men, seemed more concerned with escape than revenge. And so, instead of ordering his men to shoot at the lunatic flogging her poor camels into a lather, he ordered his men to shoot the poor camels instead.
And shoot them they did.
The first bolt struck the lead camel in the chest, felled it like a tree. The beast stumbled to its knees, snarled up in its harness and tripping the beast behind it. Another bolt sailed out of the dust, followed by a third, and amid the sickening crunch of bones and the bellows of camels in agony, Mia’s wagon crashed into the wretched tangle that had been hauling it, flipped end over end, and skidded to a bloody, screaming halt.
Mia was flung free, sailing a good twenty feet through the air before plunging face-first at the sand. She managed to tuck her shoulder as she hit, the wind knocked out of her as she tumbled, sand hissing, one boot flying free, finally rolling to a cursing, breathless rest some forty feet from the ruins of her ride.
She tried to rise, ears ringing, head swimming. Stumbling to her knees as a few more quarrels sailed out of the dust, watching as Remus’s wagon and Lord Cassius and the Ministry and her revenge all galloped further and further away.
She collapsed to all fours. Retched. Her ribs felt cracked, her mouth full of dust and bile. Thumping down on her belly, clawing at the sand.
Unable, at the last, even to crawl.
She’d got so close.
So close.
But again, at the final hurdle, she’d stumbled. And she’d fallen.
“Story of my life,” she muttered.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
She sighed.
And darkness fell.
1. It occurs to me there is no word to describe the noise a camel makes. Dogs bark, lions roar, drunkards mumble.
What the ’byss do camels do?
CHAPTER 35
KARMA
Nudge.
Mia groaned, not daring to open her eyes.
Her head was ringing, ribs aching, every breath a battle.
She’d no idea how long she’d lain there.
Minutes?
Hours?
She could feel the suns above her, burning just outside her eyelids.
She knew what awaited her if she dared open them.
Failure.
Her wagon wrecked. Her camels slaughtered. The Quiet Mountain lay a turn back to the east, but hurt as she was, she’d be lucky to make it in two—presuming she didn’t get eaten by kraken or dust wraiths in the meantime. Getting to Last Hope on foot from here was impossible, but sti—
Nudge.
Something soft and wet and whiskered. Smearing her lips with thick and warm. A tiny part of her brain screamed very loudly the Something was quite big and very obviously alive and was now snuffling at her, potentially as a prelude to eating her.
Her eyes fluttered open, pain waiting just beyond. She hissed, squinting up into a pair of wide nostrils, nudging her again and smearing her lips w
ith—O, joy of joys—more snot. An enormous pink tongue smacked at huge yellow teeth and Mia came fully awake, scrambling away in a cloud of fine red dust until she realized exactly what had been trying to eat her.
It was a horse.
Black and glossy and twenty hands high.
A horse she’d been pleased to see the back end of months ago, truth be told.
But still, she found herself grinning. Dragging herself to her feet and wobbling to his side, running her hand across his flank as he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
She put her arms around his neck.
Kissed his cheek.
“Hello, Bastard,” she said.
CHAPTER 36
SUNSSET
Fat Daniio was beginning to think the Everseeing hated him.
When Lem had walked into the Old Imperial and declared a laden wagon train was trundling into Last Hope, Daniio figured mebbe those idiot Kephians had returned from their fool quest without getting et. But then Scupps had wandered in, scratching his bollocks and blinking the dust from his eyes, declaring there were too many of the buggers to be them Kephians. In Scupps’s learned opinion, they looked more like soldier boys. Waddling out into Last Hope’s thoroughfare with the lads in tow, Fat Daniio peered the battered wagon train up and down.
“Soldiers,” Scupps had declared. “Soldiers or I’m a two-beggar whoreson.”
Lem scowled. “Kephians, I’m telling yers.”
“Yer both wrong.” A grin had split Daniio’s chubby face. “They’re customers.”
The garrison house wasn’t near big enough to house seventy bodies, and sure enough, that marrowborn wanker Garibaldi (who was still heartbroke about his bloody horse getting pinched—you’d think it were his bride the way he went on about it) mooched up to the Old Imperial about an hour after the train hit Last Hope, booked every spare room in the place, quick as spit. It was at least a week ’til Wolfeater would be back to ship the newcomers to civilization, and Daniio began dreaming about the small fortune he’d make in the meantime.
Until he found out the bastards had no money, of course.
Not a pair of rusty beggars to rub between them.
He’d marched right over to the garrison house, pounded on the door and demanded to speak to the tosser in charge. A scarred man the size of a small pub had rumbled slowly into view, and declared himself the justicus—justicus, mind you—of the entire Luminatii Legion. He told Daniio that the Old Imperial and all provisions therein were being requisitioned for the “safety and security of the Itreyan Republic.” Centurion Horse-Lover had given Daniio a smug smile, some little blond piece who looked young enough to be this Remus prick’s daughter shrugged apologetically, and Daniio had the door slammed right in his face.
And so, he’d become a fucking charity master. Fingers worked to the bone. His common room and every bedchamber packed with grumbling, farting, ungrateful Luminatii bastards. They ate like inkfiends on a bender. Drank like starving fish. Stank like an outhouse in truelight. And poor Daniio was getting paid for none of it.
Now, it was three turns since the dogs had arrived in Last Hope. Trelene’s Beau was still four nevernights away, winds being kind, and the way Daniio’s luck was running, he’d not have been surprised to learn Wolfeater and the whole crew had got shipwrecked on the mythical Isle of Wine and Whores and decided to stay a spell.
The Imperial’s larder was gutted from feeding all those soldiers three squares for four turns straight, and Daniio had been reduced to serving mostly soups and stews. Chow this eve was a broth made from the bones of the deeptuna he’d served the turn before, and he’d left it boiling on the burner while he went out into the common room to serve another round of drinks. Every soldier staying in the pub was clustered into booths or crammed eight apiece to his tables. No amount of talk about the “safety and security of the Itreyan Republic” could convince Dona Amile and the dancers at the Seven Flavors to give free ones, so the bastards had nothing to do all turn except drink, mooch about, and intimidate Daniio’s regulars.
After serving drinks, Daniio walked into the kitchen and kicked the back door shut with a snarl. Shuffling over to his stovetop, he gave the broth a good whiff. It smelled a little odd; maybe he’d left the bits out too long. But fuck it all, these dogs were eating free, and if any felt like complaining, he’d had just about enough to spit it right back in their faces.
He served dinner, answered shouts for more wine. After being run off his feet for a half-hour, he managed to get a few minutes to duck out the back alley for a smoke.
“Bastards,” he muttered. “God-bothering bastards and beggars, all.”
Daniio leaned against the alley wall, cursing. He got his smokes from Wolfeater, imported right from the ’Grave. Proper fancy they were, sugar-paper and all. Propping a cigarillo on his lips, he cupped his flintbox with his palm and sparked the flame.
“You’re supposed to be at the garrison tower, Daniio,” a voice said.
“Aa’s cock,” he cursed.
The flintbox fell from his hands, clattered on the alley floor. A girl dressed all in black stepped from the shadows, soft as whispers. Storm winds blew in off the bay, blowing a long fringe around dark, hard eyes. Leaning down slowly, she picked up the flintbox. Tossed it into the air and caught it in one dirty fist.
“’Byss and blood, you near took me out of my skin, girl,” the publican swore. “What the blue fuck ya doin’ creepin’ ’round…”
He blinked at her, his left eye traveling up her body a little slower than his right.
“’Ere, do I know you? You look … familiarish.”
The girl leaned forward with a smile and plucked the cigarillo right from his lips. Placing it on her own, she leaned against the wall opposite and sighed, drawing on the smoke as if her life depended on it. She looked more than a little grubby, truth be told, hair crusted and skin filthy. But her curves were a rare treat, and her lips the kind you’d sell your mother to get a taste of.
“You’re supposed to be at the garrison tower, Daniio,” she repeated.
“… What for?”
“You serve evemeals there, if I recall.”
Daniio frowned the girl up and down. She was just a slip of thing. Half his age. But there was something in the look of her. In the eyes mebbe. Something that made him more than a little nervous without quite knowing why …
“Don’t serve ’em no more,” he said. “Garibaldi threw a fit after he and his boys got a taste of the roaring shits. Same nevernight as his horse got nicked. They cook their own grub over there now. Centurion’s orders.”
The girl sighed gray.
“Serves me right, I suppose. But that leaves us with a problem.”
Daniio looked up and down the alley, acutely aware he was alone with this girl. That she was armed heavier than most anyone outside a gladiatorii arena had a right to be. That she was watching him the way he imagined a viper might watch a mouse.
That she hadn’t blinked yet.
“What problem would that be?” he managed.
“What do you hear, Daniio?” the girl asked.
“… Eh?”
“Listen,” she whispered. “What do you hear?”
Thinking it an odd game but now decidedly ill-at-ease, Daniio cocked his head, listening as she bid. Last Hope was death-quiet, but that was usually the case of a nevernight. Most folk would’ve retired by now, sitting at the hearth with a drink in hand. He heard camels grumbling in the garrison stables. A dog bark in the distance. The roar of the evewind and the crash of surf.
He shrugged. “Not much.”
“You’ve sixty men in your commonroom, Daniio. Devout servants of the Everseeing they might be, but shouldn’t they be a little rowdier?”
Daniio frowned. Now she mentioned it, the pub was a damn sight quieter than it should’ve been. He’d not heard one bellowed drinks order or a single shouted complaint since he stepped outside for his smoke …
Well, her smoke.
The girl sucked the last life from the cigarillo, dropped it at her feet and crushed it underheel. And reaching into her sleeve, she drew out a long stiletto, carved of what might’ve been gravebone. Daniio’s hackles went up along with his hands, and he slipped from nervous to downright terrified. The girl stepped closer as he shrank back against the wall. And reaching into her belt, she pulled out a single glass ball, smooth and small and perfectly white.
“What’s that?” Daniio asked.
“Swoon. I had a bag half-full of these, yesterturn. Now I’ve got one left.”
“W-where’s the rest of them?”
“I dissolved them in the broth you cooked for evemeal.”
Daniio risked a look over his shoulder, back at the pub. Quiet as tombs.
“Now, here’s our problem,” the girl said. “You were supposed to serve evemeal to the garrison tower right after you served it here. And after that, you were supposed to wander back here and find every soldier under your roof face down in their broth.”
“… You put them to sleep?”
The girl looked to her knife. Back to Daniio’s eyes.
“Not for long.”
Daniio tried to speak and found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“But since you don’t serve evemeal over there anymore, I’m going to need a distraction,” the girl said. “So you may want to head upstairs and grab anything of value you might keep in your … no doubt fine establishment.”
Daniio pried his tongue loose.
“Why?” he managed.
She held out his flintbox on an open palm. Daniio’s slow eye caught on before the rest of him did, growing considerably wider. His words emerged as a croak.
“O, no…”
“If I live, I’ll see the Red Church compensates you for your losses. If not…” The girl shrugged, gifted him a wry smile. “Well, you’ve got my apologies.”
She stared at Daniio, sparking the flintbox in her hand.
“Best hurry, now. Seconds won’t be the only thing burning in a moment.”
