Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  Of all the visible world from where the foreigner stood, only the walls, ugly and dark, remained unmoving.

  An old and battered wagon—driven by a burly fellow with the scattered burn scars of a blacksmith, and a curly-haired boy who might have been a nephew or an apprentice—finally made its way through gate inspection and trundled into the city. No surprise they’d been allowed through; the smell alone suggested they were hauling sacks of turnips or some other root vegetable, nothing to which even the most stringent sentinel would object. The entire line shifted forward several paces, the next entrant faced the guards, and the newcomer wondered if she would, in fact, still be young enough to walk unassisted by the time her turn came around.

  The gate, when she did finally reach it, was a tunnel through the wall, a veritable maw: portcullis of heavy steel teeth, and enormous wooden doors, bound in iron, ready to slam shut into an impassible gullet. Although she couldn’t spot them from here, she knew there must be dozens of murder holes, soldier-occupied alcoves, and additional layers of doors within. The soldiers who moved to bar her passage were hard of mien, cold of gaze; their mail and weapons well maintained, their tabards—black, sporting a tower of dusky hue only barely visible against the dark fabric—spotless.

  “Your papers, miss.”

  With a feigned nervousness—not too much; it wouldn’t do for him to think she had anything to hide—she passed across the sheaf of documents she had obtained, after careful questioning, at the border, and which had already been examined more than once.

  The Deliant soldier glanced over them, taking in the various marks and shorthand that filled the carefully inked forms. Ironic, in its way, that the gate guards of Ktho Delian cities had to be fully literate, when so many of those passing through probably couldn’t sign their own names.

  “Your name is Tamirra Vallenfir?”

  “Yes, sir. It is.” Her name was, of course, nothing of the sort, but that was what the document read.

  “Of Quindacra.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, sir. From the city of—”

  “This mark here,” he interrupted, “says that when you entered our nation, you passed through Tohl Khosar.”

  “Um, yes? I mean, is that—?”

  “Tohl Khosar,” the soldier continued, somewhere between instruction and accusation, “stands near the Kirresci border.”

  The woman calling herself Tamirra quailed. (Not too much, she reminded herself.) “I… I… Of course, sir. If I’d come through Suunim, I’d have had to cross the Aerugos. And the idea of coming up river, through Lake Orist…” She shuddered, hoping it looked as dainty—as weak—as it felt.

  And you already know all that, you arrogant, sanctimonious cockerel. You just want to see Tamirra squirm.

  “Hm. I suppose.” Again he studied the documents, which she knew damn well he’d already fully read. She listened to the various creaks and mutters of the long line winding behind her, as well as the sounds of the city ahead, and tried not to tap her foot.

  He can’t possibly engage in this nonsense with every traveler, or even every foreigner, who comes through. I’d have been waiting a week!

  “And why have you come to Tohl Delian?”

  It’s written right in front of you! Is it just my blinding golden luck that you picked me for this sideshow?

  “Oh, I’m looking for a new home, somewhere I can set up shop. I’m a potter. Big cities always need pottery, don’t they? And it’s ever so much safer here than in Quindacra!”

  That much, at least, was plausible. For all the downsides of life under the military cabal, petty crime was less common than in most other nations, particularly one struggling like Quindacra.

  Less common, but not remotely unheard of—a fact the woman was counting on to complete her assignment.

  Assuming this jackass ever lets me through the gods damned door!

  “I don’t see a wagon of pottery,” the guardsman challenged.

  “Well,” she said, smiling, all but batting her lashes, and squelching every urge she had to reach for his throat, “I’m going to send for my stock if I find a place. I’d hardly want to lug it all the way here before I know if I’m staying, would I?”

  That, at last, seemed to satisfy him. He pawed through the contents of her satchel, but she knew he would find nothing of interest there: several changes of clothes, some hemming and sewing tools for repairing said clothes, some basic toiletries, a smattering of coins. A few more idle questions, then, a few more marks on her documents, a reminder that foreigners could find themselves in substantial hot water if they violated curfew, gathered in large groups, or entered restricted areas, and finally, finally he waved her through.

  As she strode by, a quick sideways glance into the small gatehouse built beside the wall revealed another pair of soldiers. They sat at a circular table, throwing dice, which wasn’t remotely abnormal; but as the results came up, she saw one of them raise a finger, counting off the people still waiting in line.

  The hassle, the extra questioning, the irritation? Bored soldiers selecting random travelers to give a hard time. It really had been dumb luck they’d chosen her.

  Thank you so much, Donaris. I’ll have to remember to leave some stale crust or a handful of bird droppings on the altar next time I come across one of your shrines. Just one of the many, many reasons the Lady of Luck was not high on her list of most honored deities.

  She was, at last, inside the walls of Tohl Delian.

  The city was precisely what one might envision, based on its reputation and defenses. Squat buildings, mostly stone, stood at attention alongside broad avenues. The roofs were flat, providing countless archery platforms in case of invasion; the roads were wide, perfect for moving troops and engines, yet twisted and turned without apparent reason so anyone unfamiliar with the layout would swiftly become lost. Other than the wealthy, who bedecked themselves in deep reds and blues, the people dressed primarily in drab hues and furs, an effect that managed to be strangely formal and unremarkable both. Hair was either cut short or plaited; beards neatly trimmed. Even among the common folk, the fashion held an unmistakable martial edge.

  Conversation, even laughter, was ever so slightly subdued as compared to most other populations Tamirra knew. Few in Ktho Delios desired to stand out from their neighbors.

  The regular patrols of sentries sporting the black Deliant tabards, peace-keepers and law enforcers, were a constant reminder as to why. But then, it wasn’t really the uniformed soldiers, the guards one could see coming, that frightened everyone.

  Adopting a similar expression and posture, one that screamed “I’m minding my own business!” she made her way along the avenue. Nothing about her stood out here, which was just as she preferred; lots of the citizens around her bore hair as black as her own, and while she was paler than most—nearly enough to suggest pure-blood Elgarrad stock, if not for those inky locks—Ktho Delios was, like most modern nations, a mixture of ethnicities. She’d chosen a foreign cover identity because it came with fewer complications in terms of forging and records, not because she couldn’t pass if required.

  If everything went well, according to plan and schedule, it wouldn’t be required.

  And when was the last time that happened? she asked herself, then refused to offer herself the satisfaction of answering.

  Finding the place she searched for wasn’t difficult. The hostelers and innkeeps knew how confusing their city could be, and competed fiercely for spots near the main gates. It took only a few moments of wandering and backtracking, as well as asking directions from an only moderately suspicious and reticent couple, for her to find it.

  “Tiarmov’s Inn.” Creative and evocative, isn’t it?

  She picked her way through the common room, a cavernous wood-beamed chamber where men and women conversed, grumbled, occasionally guffawed, and kept to their own small groups, huddled over clear spirits so potent they made Tamirra’s eyes water from ten paces. Nobody stared at her, but she
felt any number of sharp, sidelong glances, and returned them in kind.

  They wonder if I’m what I seem. I wonder how many of them are…

  It would be far too easy to succumb to paranoia, a way of life in Ktho Delios, where any stranger might be an eye—or dagger—of the Deliant. It shouldn’t matter to her if any of them were; she had no intention of doing anything to draw their ire.

  Not where they could see, at any rate.

  Smiling, she approached the burly, bearded barkeep who may or may not have been the eponymous Tiarmov, and who showed little interest in returning her cheerful expression. He made a quick check of her papers, just enough to ensure he wasn’t about to harbor an unlicensed outsider, after which she secured herself a room, a small cup of wine—she wasn’t about to risk the spirits—and a bowl of some kind of mutton-and-tuber stew.

  Then she planted herself at a small table, refused to allow her expression to reveal what she actually thought of each bite of food, and waited.

  And waited.

  After which, there was more waiting.

  Something’s gone wrong. Even inside her own head, she couldn’t muster the slightest twinge of surprise. Of course it has.

  The barkeep cleared his throat and thumped a meaty fist on the counter. “Sun’s going down,” he announced in a vaguely bored, put-upon tone. “Don’t forget that foreigners can’t be out on the streets after dark without special dispensation.” Then, grunting, he turned his attention back to his cups.

  Was he legally required, as a hosteler, to offer the reminder? Or was he just trying to save himself the inconvenience of a visit from the authorities, if they had to back-check one of his guests? Either way, Tamirra hadn’t forgotten the curfew, but it chafed. If something was amiss with the plan, with her contact, she’d prefer to be about the business of learning what it was.

  Best not court trouble, though. Not yet. Grumbling internally, she finished off the drink she’d long been nursing and made her way to her room.

  ___

  The following day allowed her to acquire a better feel for the city’s ins and outs—or those of the nearby neighborhoods, at any rate—but proved equally useless as the first when it came to advancing her mission.

  After a breakfast of sausage and some sort of cheese dumpling, which she greatly preferred to the prior evening’s supper, and a couple more hours of waiting, Tamirra had decided to explore her surroundings. The morning streets were full of pedestrians, going about this business or that, and for a short time she could easily have been in any city, with only the fashions and accents separating it from one in Kirresc, Quindacra, or the other southern nations. People nodded to acquaintances, stopped to chat with friends, haggled with vendors, complained about the weather. She even received helpful if not always cheerful pointers when she asked, as her cover required, where she might best buy or rent a small property and set up shop.

  But the illusion never lasted, shattered again and again by the arrival of yet another patrol. Normally in small squads but occasionally full-fledged processions, the soldiers of Ktho Delios marched along the thoroughfares, making their presence known. Warriors and watchmen, peacekeepers and government enforcers, each appearance reminded her anew that this was a martial nation, intolerant and wary.

  Those soldiers rarely had to do much beyond letting themselves be seen—for they were also a reminder, to visitors and citizens alike, that the Deliant had many eyes and ears, and most were not so readily spotted as these.

  Trained to observe such distinctions, Tamirra noted that while most of the Deliant soldiers wore either leather laminar or chain hauberks beneath their tabards, a select few—high-ranking officers, she imagined—augmented their chain with breastplates and other reinforcement. Once she even spotted a knight, mounted atop a massive warhorse, clad in an entire suit of overlapping steel plates—a recent invention by Ktho Delian armorers of which she’d heard but never before seen. It had to be hideously expensive to craft, thank the gods. She shuddered at the thought of the Deliant fielding any great number of soldiers so armored. It was hard enough to keep the damned nation contained within its borders already…

  So she watched, and wandered; studied storefronts as though genuinely hoping to acquire one, and spoke to any number of citizens, most of whom were probably no more or less than they appeared. All the while she worked at memorizing twists, turns, and street names. Always she kept within a few blocks of the inn, checking back often, but nobody ever approached her, nor did she ever find any potential contact awaiting her return.

  As the sun lowered and the temperature fell, she chose to risk a little bit more. Still in the guise of the hopeful shopkeeper, she asked helpful passersby or vendors about local crime. She hoped to unearth some idea of where she might go searching for her ostensible allies, assuming they didn’t surprise her by finally showing up, though of course she couched her questions in general terms, inquiring as to which areas were safest, what sort of hassles a local merchant might expect, and so forth.

  What she learned was that the openness and helpfulness of the Ktho Delians had sharply delineated boundaries, and she had just stepped over them. Smiles turned to frowns or suspicious glares. Men and women who’d been happy to chat only seconds earlier suddenly had business elsewhere, or had to see to other customers. A few actually tried to claim, in unconvincing mutters, that Tohl Delian had no crime to speak of.

  It took until after the third such incident for Tamirra to understand. These people weren’t afraid of the criminals, and they certainly weren’t overly concerned what a foreign visitor thought of their city. No, it was that they couldn’t be certain who she really was, or who else in the nearby throng might be listening. Doubtless the Deliant had strict laws regarding what sort of impression the people were allowed to give outsiders, what information they were and weren’t permitted to offer. Just the sort of thing on which the nation’s secret police might occasionally test its citizens.

  If she was going to locate Tohl Delian’s criminal underworld, she would have to go about it much more directly.

  If I didn’t already despise this country, she grumbled internally, it would be remarkably easy to learn to despise this country.

  ___

  Now clad in a navy blouse and what appeared to be a black skirt, but was rather a pair of baggy trousers cut to resemble a skirt, the woman calling herself Tamirra prepared to face the many dangers of the Ktho Delian night.

  Assuming she could even make her way out of the damn hostel!

  Hours after sunset, the common room of Tiarmov’s remained half full. Between residents who weren’t permitted on the streets at night, and late-shift workers (with proper documentation, of course) who had come to drink, the place housed far too many observers for her to simply stroll out the door without attracting attention.

  Out the window? Her room was on the second story, an easy enough descent, but also uncomfortably near the main avenue. The chances of being spotted climbing or jumping down, before she had the opportunity to vanish into the shadowed depths of the side street, were unacceptably high.

  Well, who says the window I use need be mine? It might make getting back in a tad problematic, but she’d pay that toll when she came to it. After two nights, she couldn’t afford to sit around waiting any longer.

  She made her way down the hall, soft boots tapping almost silently against the uncarpeted floor, until she’d reached the far end. Slowing her pace only marginally, she listened as best she could at each door she passed. Conversation here; snoring there. And then, so far as she could determine, nothing.

  Which could mean an empty room, either because it was unlet or because its occupant currently inhabited the common area downstairs. Or it could simply mean a quiet sleeper, or someone reading or meditating or any other inaudible pastime.

  Her expertise lay in areas other than burglary, but Tamirra wasn’t unfamiliar with the use of a lockpick. Straightening a pair of copper lengths that she’d worn as part of a larger br
acelet, she reached down and began fiddling with the latch.

  She had a bare instant to wonder if she’d caused that loud click or not when the door swung open and she found herself facing an older, doughy faced fellow. He froze in the midst of a yawn, his whole face widening in shock.

  Tamirra looked up at him, gasped, and giggled. “This isn’t my room!” Tightening her stomach, she forced a loud belch as punctuation, giggled again, and staggered down the hallway, listing like a sinking galleon.

  The old merchant—not that she had the slightest evidence he was any such thing, he just looked to her like a merchant—grumbled something about drunkards, then slammed and audibly relocked his door.

  Shall I count the ways in which that might have gone better?

  She had to keep trying, unless some other plan came to mind, but the tipsy imbecile ploy would only work so many times. If she was caught a second time, she might wind up having to hurt someone—not an idea that bothered her to excess, but she’d prefer it be somebody who deserved it.

  Fortune finally turned in her favor. The next silent room she tried was indeed unoccupied. After longer fumbling at the latch than she would have liked, she slipped inside, locking the door again behind her. Then she was across the room, kneeling on the bed and peering out between closed but ill-fitting shutters.

  Here, back away from the larger byway, the street was poorly lit and currently unoccupied. Perfect.

  Tamirra pulled open the window and shutters, slid out until she was seated on the sill with legs dangling, and carefully felt for footholds in the brickwork. The wall was smoother than optimal, but she was able to hang on well enough to pull the shutters to—only careful study should reveal that they weren’t latched—and then she half slid, half dropped to the roadway.

  Now she just had to wander around and get herself found by the right sort of people, while avoiding being found by the wrong sort. Should she happen to be spotted and stopped by a patrol, she could probably play the drunk and stupid foreigner, and get off with a night in gaol and a fine—or perhaps just an expensive bribe—but she had no guarantee. If the wrong officer decided she was a threat, or simply took a dislike to her, she wouldn’t be the first person to disappear into the secret dungeons of the Deliant for the most minor of infractions.