by Ari Marmell
A strained silence, as the smuggler pondered his options. Then he dismissed the others with a wave and leaned back in his chair.
“Fine. If I’d known whatever was going on was so important to somebody that they’d hire the Priory of Steel to carry it out, I’d have charged more from the start. But I won’t renege on a deal that involves you people. I’d rather be your friend.”
Hardly likely. But be glad you haven’t just made yourself our enemy. “As would I,” she lied blandly.
“This guy you’re smuggling out of here,” he said—in part, she was sure, to avoid letting her have the last word on the subject, though he did sound genuinely concerned—”he’s not a witch or a conjurer of any kind, is he? Because dealing with state security or even the Ninth Citadel is one thing, but Priory of Steel or no, I am not putting myself in a position to pull the Inquisition down on my head. Sure as hell not for anything near to what your employer’s paying me.”
Silbeth felt certain that the reputation of the infamous Ktho Delian witch-hunting—and witch-employing—Inquisition was exaggerated, as much propaganda as reality. Still, she couldn’t blame the man. “If he is,” she said, choosing at this juncture not to correct Koldan’s flawed assumption that the “package” was male, “it would be as much news to me as to you.”
That, for the moment, seemed to satisfy him. “All right. Let’s get down to details, then.”
And it’s about gods damned time! But at least she needn’t worry about sneaking back into her room; at this rate, it would be well after dawn before she was back out on the street.
Scooting her chair closer, she began to lay out what she expected to need.
___
The housekeeper was a slight, blonde woman nearly as pale as Silbeth herself, clad in a woolen gray dress that buttoned all the way up to her chin. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, though her tone suggested she was anything but. “The Lady Povyar isn’t available at this time. Perhaps you’d be so good as to try back another day.”
Silbeth found herself reduced, if only briefly, to standing in the doorway and blinking. “I’m… Perhaps you misunderstood,” she said finally, swallowing hard to melt the ice forming in the back of her throat. “My message is of the utmost importance, and Lady Povyar is expecting me.”
“I’m sure it is. Nevertheless, my mistress is unavailable.”
“I see.” Gods, what else has gone wrong? “Have you any idea of when she might be able to see me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, might I come in and wait?”
“I expect it could be some days. You’ll just have to come back. Now,” the servant concluded, “if that’s all…?” Her tone, her posture, everything about her made it absolutely clear that the only acceptable answer was yes.
Yet… Worry, too, swirled within her. She did an excellent job of hiding it, burying it beneath the superior impatience that only the best and highest ranking of servants mastered, but it was present all the same.
Silbeth glanced swiftly around her. Located near the center of Tohl Delian, where many of the wealthy and aristocratic dwelled, the Povyar manor was nearly as large as Tiarmov’s inn. A sizable lawn spread out before it, and the roofs of its several floors were tiered like a squashed wedding cake, but the home itself was made up primarily of the same drab stone as the city’s other structures. A faint gilded trim around the windows and doorways were its only concession to aesthetic luxury—a trait shared, Silbeth had noted on her walk here, by most of the other larger houses and estates. It was as if people feared that the colors and decorations of affluence, but not the size of the homes, their property, or their staff, might draw the suspicions of the military authorities.
Fortunately for the current visitor, the Povyar staff was smaller than many—understandable, given Ulia Povyar’s surreptitious activities—while the lawn, though not huge, was broad enough that none of the passersby on the street should immediately notice anything amiss in the doorway.
Silbeth began to turn away, then spun back toward the housekeeper before the shorter woman could shut the door. She closed the distance between them in a single pace, wrapping her left hand around the back of the servant’s neck. The dagger, clutched in her other fist, pressed tight to the woman’s wool-clad breast.
“Step back inside. I don’t take you for an idiot, so I assume I need not spell out what happens if you scream?”
Eyes wide and glistening with sudden unshed tears, the housekeeper nodded and retreated. Silbeth followed, kicking the door shut with one heel. She caught a glimpse of lush carpet, hanging chandeliers, a broad sweeping staircase in a large room at the end of the hall to her left, but kept focused on the woman before her.
“You may not believe this,” Silbeth continued, “and I’ve neither the time nor any particular interest in convincing you, but I’m on your mistress’s side. I’m here to help her. The problem is, I don’t know that you’re on her side. She should be here. She should have known someone was coming. Something’s very wrong, and you’re standing in the way of my finding out what.”
The dagger twitched by way of emphasis. The housekeeper sobbed once, and Silbeth couldn’t help but sigh.
“Look, I don’t want to hurt you, all right? Just tell me where Povyar is. For her sake.”
“I can’t!” If it had been any louder, it would have been a wail; as it was, it came out more as a whine.
Again the dagger twitched. “I said I don’t want to hurt you. I didn’t say I won’t.”
“She’s been arrested,” the housekeeper whispered, slumping. “Oh, please don’t tell anybody! If this got out to Lady Povyar’s circles, she’d be ruined! Please…”
The frost that had been clinging to the back of Silbeth’s throat spread instantly through her veins, wrapping itself about her heart. Arrested? Gods, had all this been for nothing? Was she too late?
She left the housekeeper in the coat closet, bound with her own sleeves. The other servants would find her soon enough, but a few minutes was all she’d need to be long gone, on the off chance the woman actually chose to summon the authorities.
Maybe slightly more than a few minutes. She was dazed when she reached the street, her feet turning to carry her back toward the inn of their own accord, her mind racing and yet slipping, sliding, falling over itself on that inner layer of ice.
Leaving aside the political repercussions if and when the Deliant learned the full extent of Povyar’s espionage, Silbeth’s own mission was almost certainly a failure. So far as she was aware, nobody had ever broken out of—or into—a Ktho Delian military prison. Even assuming it could be done at all, it would require a massive team of experts, the best of the best, and months of preparation. There was absolutely nothing she could do on her own, no way she could—
“Good afternoon, m’lady. Lovely afternoon for a stroll, isn’t it? Get the blood pumping, ward off the chill?”
Silbeth halted and turned, pasting “Tamirra” back over her features. “Why, yes. Yes, it is.”
The pair behind her were a veritable portrait of the perfect Ktho Delian couple. He was clad in shades of gray and whites, formal without ostentation, his hair and beard neatly trimmed. Her dress was a bit more colorful, accented in crimson and gold, her own hair wound in ornate braids. She wore a cloak against the autumn breeze, while he sported a long overcoat, a relatively new product of Ktho Delian fashion.
Both of which, Silbeth observed, were more than capable of hiding an array of blades or other weapons that ordinary citizens of Ktho Delios wouldn’t be permitted to carry. But then, she’d known from the instant they spoke to her that, appearances notwithstanding, this couple was by no means ordinary.
They must have had the Povyar household under surveillance. And I missed it. I have seashells and grape seeds in my damn skull.
The pair said nothing, just continued to smile. “Is… Is there something I can do for you?” she inquired with deliberate unease.
“Documents, ple
ase,” the woman said.
“Oh! Oh, um, of course, just…” She fumbled at her satchel, eventually producing Tamirra’s paperwork. “I think you’ll find, that is, I’m sure it’s all in order.”
They barely glanced at the forms before the woman passed them on to the man, who stuck them in a coat pocket rather than returning them. Well, that’s not a good sign.
“Is there a problem?” she squeaked. Internally, she was counting paces, first to that corner there, then past that second house down there…
“What is your business with Ulia Povyar?”
“I… I’m sorry, who are you, exactly? Why is my business your business?”
The couple offered her perfectly matching sinister smiles as they produced a pair of icons: tiny towers, smelted of copper.
Ninth Citadel. Not a surprise—she’d already figured as much—but still disturbing.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Povyar,” the man prompted.
“I’m… looking for clients, for my pottery. I’ve heard Lady Povyar is kind and generous, someone it would be good to work for if—”
The woman scoffed. Her partner just shook his head, scowling.
“My dear,” he said, “we’re being as friendly about this as we can, but if you’re going to lie to us, we’d be happy to take you somewhere we can have a more… private conversation.”
“Oh, no. Oh, please don’t do that!”
“The truth, then, and all of it. Your business with Lady Povyar. What you know about her. What she’s involved in. Where we can find her. Everything!”
Find her? Silbeth’s entire view shifted so sharply she almost stumbled. Why would they have to…?
Of course! Had the Deliant learned the woman was a spy, she’d have been tossed immediately in the deepest, blackest, dungeon they had, subject to all manner of dreadful interrogations. From the word “arrest,” Silbeth had just assumed… But what if that wasn’t what had happened at all? The Ktho Delian military might serve to enforce all the nation’s laws, great and small, but they would not—could not—punish tiny infractions the same as major crimes. Local watchmen tossed petty troublemakers in local gaols, simple cells as different from Deliant prisons as a child’s sling from a wall-shattering trebuchet. And in a bureaucracy as massive as this one, it was entirely possible, even probable, that the records of such minor violations—and their perpetrators—took ages to reach the higher authorities, if they ever did.
And that changed everything.
Silbeth ran.
They pursued, as she’d known they would. Their shouted commands to halt were almost perfunctory, though growing every angrier with each pounding step. She was a foolish, panicked foreigner in their minds, this chase an irritation. She was making their day more annoying, but hardly any more difficult, let alone dangerous.
Just what she needed them to think.
Pedestrians stared as she passed, their attention drawn either by her mad dash or by the shouts of her pursuers, though none moved to interfere. Nobody wanted anything to do with a stranger’s troubles, particularly where the Citadel was concerned. Had she any choice in the matter, Silbeth would have happily skipped it, too.
Still she ran, her breath steady and even, searching, praying for a spot clear of those damned onlookers, just the briefest veil of privacy…
There! The manor at the end of the block boasted a fenced-in stretch of yard, probably a garden. That surrounding fence wasn’t especially tall, more decorative than functional—unless meant to keep out stray animals—but it would hide what had to happen from public view.
Silbeth hit shoulder first rather than pausing to work the latch. Wood split and the gate flew open before her, rebounding hard and making the entire length of fencing shudder. She ducked to one side rather than continuing on as any truly panicked fugitive would have done, hands raised and ready…
Perhaps, under other circumstances, these agents of the secret police would have been more cautious, would have paused to clear the entryway before charging through it. She had their blood up, though, and their thoughts fixated on the notion of a terrified but harmless stranger who’d simply gotten into something over her head.
By the time either could have realized there was no sign of their fleeing target ahead of them, their steps had already carried them through the gate, and past the mercenary lurking in ambush.
Silbeth grabbed the nearest handhold, the hem of the woman’s cloak, and yanked. The Ninth Citadel agent crashed to the soil with a gurgling gasp, landing hard on her back. Silbeth stomped down and felt something give. She wasn’t certain what and didn’t have time to look, for the woman’s partner had already spun to face the surprise attack, whipping a wicked single-edged blade—built like a knife but the length of a short sword—from beneath his coat.
Just as swiftly she produced her own weapon, but the tiny dagger felt awfully lacking in comparison. Retreating a step, she took an extra second to unfasten her own thin cloak and set it slowly spinning in her left fist.
They circled, watching one another, late-season tubers crunching beneath their boots along the garden’s edge. He stepped in, lunged in a quick feint, retreated. Testing, she knew, trying to determine how badly they’d underestimated the threat she posed—as well, perhaps, as buying time for his partner to recover.
Drawing this whole mess out, precisely what Silbeth couldn’t permit.
She flipped the dagger around her thumb so she held it by the blade, cocked her hand back to her shoulder, and flicked the end of her cloak at her opponent’s face even as she made to throw.
It was a desperate move, a foolish one, to release her only weapon against an armed foe. All he had to do was flinch aside or parry and she would be that much more at his mercy. The hem of the cloak blinded and bewildered him for only a split second, but not nearly enough to keep him from stepping from the dagger’s path.
Except it had also hidden from him the fact that she’d never released the blade. The throw was another feint; she had, instead, reversed her grip once more, stepping in as he dodged a missile that had never flown.
Closing with one long pace, she smacked the dagger hard against the man’s heavier blade, the speed and surprise of the strike more than sufficient to knock the sword, and the arm holding it, out of line. Another vicious slash, another quick step, and she was past him, leaving him to fall to his knees, blade tumbling to the earth as he clutched at his newly opened throat.
The woman staggered back to her feet, an impressive effort given how her right arm hung limp from an obviously broken and malformed collarbone. Despite her pallor and harsh panting, she’d reached back with her left hand to draw her own short sword, and glared at Silbeth with murderous fury.
Silbeth threw her dagger—actually letting fly this time—straight at that dangling right arm.
The operative twisted aside, barely avoiding the weapon, hissing with a new flare of pain, and that was more than enough time for Silbeth to scoop up the dying man’s fallen blade. Now armed with a weapon capable of matching her opponent’s, she advanced.
The Ninth Citadel trained their people well, but Silbeth was Priory of Steel. The contest would have been uneven even if the woman had been at her best. Injured and in hideous pain as she was, it ended in seconds.
It took Silbeth only a moment to scavenge the bodies, availing herself of a belt and sheath in which to carry her newly acquired short sword. She retrieved her dagger, and took both copper badges. She lifted the identification papers that went with them, though—as she didn’t resemble either of the agents overmuch—they’d be useless if anyone of authority demanded to see them. She also reclaimed her own documents, of course.
After a moment’s thought she took all other coin, jewelry or other valuables on them, in the hopes—slim as they were—that this might appear a robbery rather than a targeted assault. Finally, she stripped the man of his coat and slung it over her shoulders to hide the sword; it was a bit large for her, but not awkwardly
so, and unlike the woman’s cloak, dark enough to hide the stain of blood.
Another few moments, and she’d dragged both bodies behind a small shed that, she assumed, held the gardener’s tools. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, and she couldn’t begin to conceal the upturned dirt and trampled vegetables, but if the owner didn’t happen to examine the garden in any detail, it might buy her an extra few hours—maybe even a day or two, if Donaris truly smiled at her.
Right, because she’s been so generous this far, Silbeth grumbled internally.
Well, whatever time she had was what she had. She crept through the garden gate and marched grimly down the avenue, praying she could locate Ulia Povyar before someone else unearthed her own crime and this entire gods-damned city went straight to hell.
Chapter Seven
It proved a simple matter for Silbeth to learn where the local gaol could be found, and how to get there. The badge of the Ninth Citadel, and an imperious attitude to match, inspired a repulsive eagerness in anyone and everyone to cooperate. In her years with the Priory of Steel, never had she seen a more odious amalgamation of fawning, fearfulness, and barely concealed loathing.
She’d known the gaol itself wouldn’t be much to look at, that it was little more than a holding cell for petty criminals the system could scarcely bother with, and a duty station for the sorts of soldiers assigned to watch over said petty criminals. Still she could only stare at it for a time, struggling to convince herself she’d come to the right place.
Proper Deliant installations, prisons included, were fortresses, towers and keeps and deep dungeons hunkered behind defensive ramparts. This? This was a brick of a building at an intersection amidst a number of warehouses and workshops, differentiated from its neighbors only by the bars on its windows and the tabard-clad soldiers at its doors.
Even if Silbeth could pull this off, she had no guarantee that Ulia Povyar was actually here. This was only one of a half dozen similar facilities across the city. It was, however, the nearest to the Povyar estate, and thus the best place to begin.
