by Ari Marmell
She steeled herself, forced her mind to stop counting the many disastrous ways the next few moments could go wrong, and stalked across the road.
One of the bored door sentries moved to bar her path. “Your business here?” he all but yawned at her.
Silbeth turned her best glower on him, an expression hammered into her through endless drills and practice bouts by the weaponmaster-monks of the Priory. Only then, when her sneer alone had brought him up short and snagged his full attention, did she present the copper icon.
“Your commanding officer,” she snapped. “Now!”
He saluted and darted into the building. After a quick check to make sure the other sentries had all seen her badge and were properly cowed, she followed.
Passing through squared and narrow halls of stone, letting other soldiers—and sometimes their prisoners—step aside for her and her guide, Silbeth kept the mask of arrogance plastered to her face. She wanted no one to suspect just how nervous she truly was. The guards at the door were one thing, soldiers of low promise assigned an unimportant post. Could she assume the same of the man or woman in charge? Might someone demand identification beyond the badge, documentation that would instantly give her deception away?
And where did the Ninth Citadel stand in relation to officers of rank? That the common folk and the average soldier acknowledged her authority was no guarantee she had any genuine weight to throw around in this sort of place. What if—?
The broad-shouldered, slightly portly old officer—definitely not one of the Deliant’s finest—rose from behind her desk as Silbeth and her guide burst into the office. Rather than waiting for an introduction, the fake agent again produced the icon of the Ninth Citadel, and while the commandant’s nod of acknowledgement was composed enough, Silbeth missed neither the initial widening nor the subsequent tensing around the woman’s eyes.
Still, best to test her authority rather than assume. “You,” Silbeth said to the man who’d led her here. “Leave.”
He glanced at his commandant, true, but obeyed without waiting for her to confirm the order. Although a brief frown indicated her displeasure, the officer made no objection to Silbeth barking orders.
Excellent.
“Welcome,” the officer began. “Is there something I can—?”
“Ledger.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Silbeth exhaled the most irritated, and irritating, sigh she could manage. “Your ledger. You do actually record the names of the people you lock up here?”
“Of course! It’s standard procedure to—”
“Then figure out your procedure for handing me the damn ledger!”
Biting back a snarl, the other woman rang a small bell and yelled at the first functionary to respond. A few more moments of fuming and glaring later, a young soldier delivered to them a heavy leatherbound tome.
Silbeth opened up and began flipping to the last several days’-worth of entries. The pages smelled of cheap ink and oily fingers.
“If you could tell me what it is you’re looking for—” the officer tried again.
“Quiet.”
The woman’s teeth snapped shut sounding like the clash of a headsman’s axe.
There! It was right there. She was here! Thank the gods for that much, at least.
“All right.” Silbeth finally looked up. “I need every prisoner recorded on the lower half of this page…” She stabbed the paper with one gloved finger. “…to be released.”
“What?! Are you insane? I can’t just—”
“Immediately, Commandant!”
A fist crashed down on the desk, making a number of quills and a few stacks of forms, but not the massive ledger, jump. “I can’t just let a dozen or so prisoners go at your word, dammit! I need to know what’s going on!”
Was the woman just being stubborn? Prideful? Was this actually the limit of Silbeth’s stolen influence?
A moment of study, then she turned and carefully closed the door to the office. “You understand that what I’m about to tell you is a state secret, Commandant?”
The officer puffed up like a mating peahen. “Of course.”
Silbeth had to struggle not to laugh in her face. “One of your prisoners is Ninth Citadel. On a secret assignment. This arrest and incarceration is interfering.”
“Oh. I… But… Why didn’t he… or is it ‘she’?”
The only answer Silbeth offered was to cross her arms.
“Well, why didn’t she identify herself when she was arrested?” the woman asked, apparently choosing a gender at random.
“Do I need to explain ‘secret assignment’ to you?”
“Fine.” The officer flushed, angry and embarrassed. “So why do you want the others released?”
“Because nobody—including you—can know who our operative is.”
“But—”
“Commandant, these people are here for, what? Being raucous drunks? Brawling? Curfew violations? Petty theft? Please, by all means, tell me how punishing such hardened criminals and threats to society is more important than an ongoing Citadel operation against a genuine seditionist. I’m listening.”
Another moment of pride, flaring almost brightly enough to blind, but the officer finally acquiesced. “I’ll have them out before the afternoon shift is over.”
“See that you do, Commandant.” Silbeth was already at the door, flinging it open and determined to be gone before anything could go wrong, any suspicions could rise. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
Even from the hall, over the conversation of other nearby soldiers, she could hear the other woman’s disdainful snort.
___
Again she lurked across the avenue, loitering in the doorway of what, to judge by the scent and the coating of powder, was some sort of granary. After long and anxious minutes, a slow stream of un-uniformed men and women emerged from the gaol. She had a general description of the woman, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too hard to spot—
Ulia Povyar stepped from the squat stone building and Silbeth’s heart lodged in her throat.
The aristocrat and spy was the sort of beautiful more common to fairy tales than the real world. Skin of almost golden hue was accented by deep blue eyes and hair of a dark red normally seen only alongside far paler complexion. Her dress of emerald and gold, worn and wrinkled as it was by her days of incarceration, was a perfect complement, so that the overall effect was more sylvan or fey than merely mortal.
Silbeth felt her cheeks flushing, her pulse pounding, and actually slammed her hand into the edge of the nearby doorway, focusing intently on the pain.
Knock it off, you idiot! Remember how badly everything went wrong in Mahdresh when you got involved with Ruval in the middle of that job, how badly that mistake cost you, cost him…
Swearing at herself, the mercenary moved into the street, following a dozen paces behind Ulia until she was sure they were far enough from the gaol that none of the soldiers would spot them speaking.
“Ulia Povyar?” she asked, a formality more than anything else, as she fell into step alongside.
The other woman turned, and Silbeth ferociously ordered herself not to stare at her eyes. Her distraction wasn’t so bad, though, that she missed the tightening in Ulia’s lips, the tension radiating from her shoulders. “Yes, I am. And you?”
Her tone sounded almost… Resigned?
“The salmon are coming to Lake Orist awfully late this year,” Silbeth observed.
Ulia stumbled at the code phrase, would have fallen if Silbeth hadn’t caught her arm and steadied her. When she recovered and resumed her pace, those eyes glistened with unshed tears and her voice shook like the last fading reverberations of a church bell.
“Oh, God. Oh, thank… I thought you were one of them. I thought something must have happened, it’d been so long since I was told someone was coming…”
Silbeth squeezed reassuringly. “No, it just took a while for Kirresc to get everything in order. They started as s
oon as they got word that your cover was in danger, but…”
The aristocrat seemed more than a touch confused by the choice of words. “I’m not Kirresci myself,” Silbeth clarified. “His Majesty couldn’t send one of his own. Too politically dangerous if he were caught, yeah? So—”
Ulia looked almost ready to run. “You knew the pass phrase, but I can’t believe they would trust—”
“A mercenary?”
“Well, yes.”
“Priory of Steel.”
“Oh!” Then, “I can see how that might have taken some time to arrange, yes. Um, how did you get me out of there, if I may ask?”
“You thought I was one of them?”
“As I said…”
Silbeth flashed the copper badge. “So did they.”
Ulia swallowed hard and said nothing for perhaps half a block. Finally, she said, “You were almost too late. Getting to Tohl Delian at all, I mean.”
“I can see that. You were right that you needed to get out of here. They were watching your house. If you hadn’t been in gaol for whatever little…” Silbeth trailed off, her jaw dropping. “You got yourself arrested on purpose!”
Ulia smiled broadly. “I got ‘drunk’ and slapped an off-duty soldier. I figured they’d keep me for a few days. I’d have time to think, out of the way, and be out before word of my arrest reached anyone important. Maybe if I got truly fortunate, once it did, whoever suspected me would assume that no spy would be that careless and look elsewhere.”
Silbeth smirked, though her heart abruptly wasn’t in it. The patterns of foot traffic around them were changing; nothing dramatic, nothing overt, but enough to raise her hackles. “Maybe you’re a lot luckier than I,” she said, trying to study the avenue around her in every direction without a single obvious motion, “but in my experience, Donaris rarely grants anyone that much good fortune.”
“Oh, I… don’t believe the Empyrean Choir. I’m Deiumulin.”
“Huh. I’ve never understood that. Only one god? Doesn’t seem feasible to me. I mean, what if—?”
“Are you… Do you really want to have a theological discussion now?”
“I’m just trying to keep up the conversation,” Silbeth admitted, “so we look nice and casual. Don’t be conspicuous about it, but look around.”
By now, she was certain, it must be obvious to even the untrained observer. (And she had no idea how much training Ulia, as a spy for Kirresc, actually had.) The street was more crowded than it should be, and many of the pedestrians were grim, nervous, in a shuffling hurry. Much of the throng was desperate to get somewhere—or away from something—and all were moving back in the direction Ulia and Silbeth had come.
“No panic,” the aristocrat noted. “It’s not a fire or any sort of disaster. Just something they’d rather avoid.”
The women looked at one another. “Soldiers,” Silbeth said.
“A lot of them.” Ulia absently chewed on a loose lock of hair. “A simple patrol wouldn’t be driving people to flee in these numbers. Do you think it’s me? Did someone learn about—”
“No. You just got out. Word couldn’t have reached them fast enough to have mobilized a large force. And why? Better to send out smaller parties to blend, figure out where you’d gone. No, this is something… Shit. Someone must have found the bodies. I thought I’d have more time.”
“Bodies? What bod…” Ulia’s face seemed almost to tarnish as the blood drained from it. “That badge isn’t a forgery, is it?” she whispered.
“Afraid not.” Then, at the woman’s abject horror, “I didn’t have a choice! They were about to take me in!”
“What do we do?”
“I have a way out of here, but it’s going to be hard to reach at the moment. We need to get off the street, somewhere they won’t find us. Let the first wave of soldiers move past, try to sneak through before the whole city’s locked down in their wake. You know anywhere we can go?”
“I… I do, but…”
“Don’t have a lot of time for ‘but’ just now, Ulia.”
“We’ll be putting other people in danger,” she fretted.
“And how many people are in danger if you don’t get whatever intelligence you’ve learned to Kirresc? To say nothing of what’s going to happen to us if they catch us.”
Ulia nodded, unhappy but steady, and made a beeline for the nearest side street.
___
“You’re certain these people can be trusted?” Sibeth turned from the window, and the shutters through which she studied the busy street below.
Across the room—a private study, judging by the furnishings and the bookshelves—sat a small table with a pair of chairs. Over the back of one draped the long coat and swordbelt she’d acquired from the dead Ninth Citadel operative. In the other sat Ulia, idly swirling a glass of wine in one hand and picking at a plate of cheese and fruits with the other. The owners of the large house had invited the pair of women to join them at the dinner table, and Silbeth knew Ulia had been inclined to accept, but she’d insisted on privacy. Some time to rest, and to think.
And possibly to get away from the household’s two children, whose presence made her gut twist with guilt over potentially putting them in harm’s way, despite her earlier protestations to Ulia.
“Lady Salko is a friend,” Ulia said after swallowing a mouthful of cheese. “Yes, I trust her. Besides, she and her husband are… sympathizers.”
“Symp… They know you’re a Kirresci spy?!”
“No! No, nothing like that.” She paused, sipping from her crystal goblet. “A great many Ktho Delians,” she explained, “dislike living under the Deliant regime.”
“I would expect so!”
“A few are brave enough—or perhaps foolish enough—to engage in open sedition.”
Silbeth grunted, wandered over to the table for a drink of her own. “I’d heard rumors, but nothing more.”
“I’d be surprised if you had. The government spends a lot of effort suppressing word of such things—from its own citizens and outsiders both.”
The mercenary pulled out her chair, sat, then nervously stood again and returned to the window. “And the Salkos are…?”
“Not seditionists, no. Sympathizers. People who support the resistance but lack the means, or the will, to act.” Ulia shrugged. “I can’t blame them. It’s a hopeless cause. I just told them that I thought someone had accused me of financing the seditionists, and I—we—needed a place to stay for a few days until I could work out what to do next.”
“I was there for that part,” Silbeth reminded her.
“My point is, they won’t turn us in.”
“Mm.” Silbeth wasn’t entirely convinced, but she decided to let it lie. It wasn’t as though she had any better idea where to hide. Again she returned to the table, forcing herself to sit and stay seated, at least long enough to eat a few bites.
“Anyway,” Ulia said after then, “it’s probably true.”
“Eh? What is?”
“What I told them about the authorities suspecting me of sedition. I know they’re on to me about something, but that doesn’t mean they think I’m a spy. Probably they just think I’m a seditionist.” She bared her teeth in what could only in the loosest of terms be considered a smile. “Not that it’ll make any real difference if they catch me.”
“Are the methods of Deliant torturers as nasty as I’ve heard?”
“I’ve not seen them myself, but I’ve never heard anything to make me doubt the stories.” Ulia shuddered faintly, and Silbeth couldn’t blame her.
“Well, then, let’s not get you captured.”
“Good plan.” Ulia’s smile this time was genuine. Silbeth stood and began to pace, forcing herself to think about things other than that glowing expression.
“Would the Salkos or any other sympathizers you know be more inclined to actively help us if they did know you were Kirresci?” she asked. “I realize you can’t just go about telling people, but—”
<
br /> “No, I can’t. But even if I could, it would make our situation worse. They still wouldn’t turn us in, I don’t think, but… Kirresc isn’t well regarded by the seditionists, for the most part. Quindacra, Wenslir… None of the southern nations, really, save maybe Suunim.”
Silbeth frowned, pivoted at the bookcase and paced back the other way. “I don’t understand. I figured any enemy of the Deliant…”
“The pact,” Ulia explained, referring to the treaty of mutual defense signed by most of the nearby lands, “may keep Ktho Delios largely confined to its current borders, but it doesn’t do much to help the people here. Many of the resistance and sympathizers feel that the other nations don’t really give a damn what happens to Ktho Delios’s own citizens so long as the Deliant doesn’t try expanding again.”
“And they’re probably right,” Silbeth agreed with a sigh. “I hate politics.”
“You and most sane people.”
The mercenary chuckled. “Don’t make assumptions about my san—” She froze as she reached the shutters, peering out between the narrow slats. “Ulia, there are soldiers on the street!”
Indeed, the avenue beyond was crawling with them, advancing slowly down the block, the evening sun casting their shadows out ahead as advance scouts. They approached slowly, pausing at each house. There the man at the front of the column would halt, hands held before him. Each time he would shake his head, and the soldiers would advance a few paces until they stood between two new houses, whereupon the process repeated.
Nor was it only this peculiar behavior that marked their leader as something other than a normal officer. His chain hauberk and breastplate were black, but what he wore over them…
“Ulia?” Silbeth had to ask, though she feared she already knew the answer. “What does a blue tabard signify?”
From the table behind her, she heard the clatter of a wine goblet dropped from shaking fingers. The answer reached her ears was a hiss, barely above a whisper. “Inquisitor!”
That’s what I was afraid of.
“I don’t understand. They’ve no reason to suspect sorcery in anything that’s happened, so why…?”
