The guard hesitates, as if he thinks Mercy is going to bolt then and there. She’s not, of course, even though the sight of the three priestesses whispering in the corner sends chills crawling up and down her spine. The guard glances at them uneasily, then walks out the door.
“Alyss, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
“Course I am. Don’t be an idiot.” She scowls. “It’s just those three. I don’t like ‘em whisperin like that. Gives me the creeps.”
“I know what you mean.”
Alyss waves Mercy over to the desk. She seems conflicted, drumming her fingernails on the table, but at last, she comes to a decision and lifts a wooden box for Mercy to see, a sheer fabric bag full of dried black mushrooms inside. “Listen here,” Alyss says in a low voice. “These mushrooms are the most poisonous in the world. Ye have no idea how many connections I had to use and how much money it cost me to have these few sent here so quickly. If anyone realizes I have these, I’ll get the hangman’s noose. They’ve been outlawed since His Majesty’s great-grandfather’s youngest son accidentally ingested some while playin in the fields. Anyway, I want ye to use them. On me.”
“What? Alyss, are you insane?”
“Shhh! Look, you’re right—I haven’t been feelin quite a hundred percent lately. If it turns out I have the disease—this Fieldings’ Plague—I want ye to grind ‘em up nice and fine and mix ‘em into my food. Will ye do that for me?”
“You can’t just give up. You have a duty to these people. You’re their healer—”
“I’m not givin up. I don’t want to end up some husk of a person. I want to die while I’m still sane, while I’m still me! I’ll give everythin I have to these people for as long as I can, but the minute I outlast my usefulness, put me out of my misery.” She stares sadly at Pilar, Owl, and Gwynn. “Ye don’t like me, and that’s fine. I don’t care. But don’t leave me to waste away. If I’m to die, I want it to be on my terms.”
“You really want this?”
She nods.
Mercy sighs. “Then I will. I give you my word.”
The relief is plain on Alyss’s face, and the tension leaves her body in one massive wave as she exhales slowly. “Well, I don’t know what to say except thank ye. It’s not worth much, but ye have my gratitude. In the mornin, you’ll be free to go. Just remember what you’ve agreed to do. Sometimes ye high-and-mighties forget about the little people. Remember yer promise.”
“Of course,” Mercy says. “I will.”
35
Elvira is angry.
Not just angry—she’s fuming.
Mercy lounges on the couch in Blackbriar’s study, listening to Elvira slam the doors and drawers upstairs as she cleans. After two days spent in the dark infirmary, Blackbriar’s white stone walls and airy design make Mercy feel small and exposed. The windows are closed in accordance with an order from the guards, but not the shutters, and Mercy basks in the warmth of the sunbeam which shines on her half of the couch. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the sun.
“You could’ve killed him that night.”
Elvira’s voice startles Mercy, and she cranes her neck to see her standing in the doorway, scowling. They’ve hardly spoken since Elvira had met her at the front steps of the castle when she’d been discharged two hours ago.
“He was standing right next to you. How hard would it have been?”
“Should I have killed him before or after the dying woman crashed the celebration?”
“Don’t joke. You two snuck away from the party, and only you were supposed to return.”
“Plans change. I’m working on it. I’m looking for the right opportunity to strike.”
“Look harder.”
“What’s your problem?” Mercy sits upright and turns to her, her patience wearing thin. “What do you want?”
“I want you to do your job!” she shouts. It’s so uncharacteristic of her, Mercy flinches. “I want you to do what you’d planned to do three nights ago.”
“You don’t think I want the same? If I’d had the chance, I’d have taken it.” Only . . . she’d had the chance, hadn’t she? The night of the Solari festival, when she’d held her dagger over Tamriel’s jugular, that strange voice had come out of nowhere. She doesn’t explain it to Elvira, though, because she doesn’t have an explanation for it herself. Instead, she pushes the memory out of her mind. “Why are you taking it so personally?”
After a long pause, something in Elvira shatters. She sinks onto the corner of the couch, staring at nothing. “Kier and I had planned to sneak away that night. We were finally going to make a run for it. You were supposed to complete the contract, and then you wouldn’t need me anymore. I’d have been free to go.” She fingers the hem of her shirt as she speaks. “But you didn’t, and now I’m terrified Kier is going to fall ill before we can escape.” She closes her hands into fists, and when she opens them again, her fingernails have imprinted little half-moons into her palms. She stands. “I’d appreciate if you took your contract a little more seriously, Mercy. Your future’s not the only one at stake.”
“Elvi—”
She walks through the door, and, seconds later, the sound of the front door slamming shut echoes through the house.
Mercy lets out a frustrated sigh and flops back onto the couch. Has being in the capital softened her? Before, at the Keep, her mind had been consumed every second with thoughts of how to prove to Mother Illynor she was ready to become a Daughter. She’d spent every waking moment trying to impress the tutors—even Trytain, who had looked at her like she were scum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Now, surrounded by so much life and culture, she can’t help wanting to extend the experience, to sate her curiosity which grows by the day. After all, she’d been born here, to people she imagines hadn’t been much different from Elvira.
For the first time, she wonders what her life would have become had she never been taken to the Guild. Would her parents have fled to Cirisor anyway, abandoned her on some porch or in an alleyway, waiting for a random passerby to take pity on her? Would they have brought her with them? Or would they have simply sold themselves to the next rich nobleman who agreed to feed and clothe them?
Mercy shakes her head. Whomever Mercy would have become, the girl would have been unrecognizable to the woman she is today. Today Mercy would have sneered at her docility, her softness, her inability to ward off the punishing blows of her master. She’d have been submissive, trapped in a life of slavery as a piece of property whose worth was determined by nothing more than the shape of her ears. Mercy shivers, marveling at how close she’d come to this imagined life becoming a reality; if her father had walked into Drake Zendais’s study five minutes later, perhaps Llorin would have had enough time to flee. Perhaps her father wouldn’t have bartered her life for his.
“No,” Mercy says to the empty room. It is a waste of time to ponder the what-ifs. She rises and climbs the stairs to her third-floor bedroom. Sitting on her bed are her two daggers, tossed there by Elvira after Mercy had failed to return after Solari. Mercy picks them up, smiling at their familiar weight, and begins to practice.
An hour later, Elvira still hasn’t returned, so Mercy decides to take a walk through the Sapphire Quarter in hopes of running into Calum or Tamriel on patrol with the guards. Normally, she would never have expected to find a prince doing something so menial, but it seems like the sort of task Ghyslain would delegate to his son.
Mercy sheaths one of the daggers and tucks it into the waistband of her pants, allowing her flowy tunic to hide its shape. When she steps out of the house, she waits a moment, staring down the street half expecting Elvira to appear, back to her normal, quiet self. Of course, she doesn’t. In fact, the street is strangely empty; where it normally bustles with private carriages and workers pushing carts of food and drink, today there is only a stray dog standing a few doors down, munching on part of a sandwich someone had dropped near the sewer. When it sees Mercy, the dog yelps and bolts in
to an alley.
When she reaches the corner, something draws her left, toward the market district, and as she walks, the sounds of stomping approaches from behind her. She jumps out of the way as a group of twelve soldiers rounds the corner and sprints past her. Tamriel isn’t with them, but she still breaks into a run, following as closely as she can without being spotted. They wind through the streets so effortlessly Mercy quickly becomes disoriented, focusing on nothing more than keeping her eyes on the soldiers’ backs. When they pass the market, the commander shouts an order and six of the soldiers split from the main group and run down a side street. The rest continue heading straight, Mercy trailing behind as quickly as her delicate silk slippers will allow.
A sound like the crashing of waves builds all around her, amplified and distorted by the buildings surrounding her, and it blends with the stomping of the soldiers’ feet and the clanking of their armor. It puzzles her. Behind them, Alynthi River splits Sandori into the market and trading districts, and Lake Myrella is on the opposite side of the city. They should not be able to hear either from here.
Mercy nearly slams into one of the soldiers’ backs when she blindly rounds a corner, but she catches herself just in time, one hand automatically reaching back to make sure she hadn’t dropped her dagger.
Someone pushes past her, and as she turns to glare at him, she realizes where she is. She and about a thousand other people stand outside the walls surrounding Beggars’ End, and the crashing of waves is the roar of their voices merging into one. The street on which Mercy stands is perhaps ten feet wide, and the crowd in front of her is tightly packed with people standing elbow-to-elbow, so close she can’t see more than two rows in front of her. Above her, people hang out of the broken second-story window of a derelict house, shouting and tossing broken bottles at the bodies below.
Go, something whispers in her mind, and an unseen force propels her forward.
She darts into the crowd and elbows people out of her way as she pushes toward the center, fighting for every spare inch of space. The intersection is not very large, but with the wet heat of several thousand bodies, she might as well be wading through quicksand.
It’s a shock when she finally bursts into the open air near the wall surrounding Beggars’ End, gasping for breath after escaping the stifling blanket of the crowd. Her tunic is soaked through with sweat—both from exertion and nerves—and when a breeze twines around her body, she shivers despite the midday heat.
The guards have managed to secure some space between the mob and a group of arguing nobles in front of the gate to Beggars’ End, and Mercy stands a few feet inside the clearing. One of the guards notices her and shouts to his commander, who appraises her with a frown. He lifts his shield, preparing to shove her back into the crowd. Before he does, Leon, who had been pacing the clearing, spots her and runs over.
“Lady Marieve! What in the Creator’s name are you doing here? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a crisis?” He runs a shaky hand down his face, then blinks a few times before gripping her arms tightly.
“Leon, what the hell is happening here?” As she speaks, a pebble pings off one of the guards’ helmets. To their left, two soldiers shove back a crazed-looking young man who had tried to charge the gate.
Leon’s arm drops to his side. “Well, uh, we have our first confirmed death by Fieldings’ Plague. Apparently, someone wandered into the market this morning and started ranting about the Creator. He worked himself up so much his heart gave out. Terrified a whole bunch of people. Somehow word has gotten out it originated in Beggars’ End, and now they want to purge the district.”
“Can they do that?”
“They’ve given it a damned good try so far. But we only have so many soldiers on retainer. Most are on patrol in other parts of the city or stationed in the tents with the infected. If we don’t come up with a plan soon, they’re going to decide to stop playing nice.”
“You call this ‘playing nice’?”
“They’re panicking.” Leon shrugs. He’s trying to remain calm, but the constant tapping of his fingers against his thigh betrays his nerves. “They haven’t set any fires yet, and no one’s been drawn and quartered, so overall, we’re doing pretty well.”
Mercy searches his face but cannot tell whether he is joking. She glances at the nobles behind him, who seem to be oblivious to the mob as they argue amongst themselves. “Either way, please tell me you have a plan . . . or some semblance of a plan, at least.”
His smiles falters, then returns full force. He places a hand on her lower back and steers her toward the nobles. “You haven’t met these guys yet, have you? Allow me to introduce Porter Anders, Edwin Fioni, and Tanner Morris. And you, ah, know Cassius Baccha.”
“Nice to meet you all.” Mercy nods, then spins around, lifting onto her tiptoes until her face is inches from Leon’s. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, please tell me how you plan to get out of this mess.”
“I told you this would happen!” Cassius shouts. He grips the sides of his head with trembling hands, his knuckles white. “Who told you to reinforce the walls, to set double the guards, to treat this situation with the utmost security? But no—no one wants to listen to an old man’s paranoia!”
“They were dreams, Baccha! How did you expect us to take them at anything more than face value?” Edwin snaps. “Pouting isn’t going to achieve anything now—we’re still stuck here until we figure out what to do!”
“Taking your head out of your ass is a good start, Fioni—”
“Gentlemen!” Porter steps between them, placing a hand on each man’s chest. “Arguing hasn’t gotten us anywhere and it’s not going to change anything. Calm down. Let’s examine our options.”
“Don’t take too long, Porter,” Tanner says nervously. “This crowd is becoming rowdier by the minute.”
Porter pushes Cassius and Edwin apart, then wipes his forehead with a handkerchief and straightens his jacket. “You’re right. We can’t keep them waiting any longer. Leon, how many soldiers are at our disposal?”
“Twenty-nine, plus Commander Willis.”
“Commander, could the soldiers press outward in one wave, push the people out of the clearing and into the side streets?” Porter calls. “If we split up the main horde, they’ll become more complacent, easier to manage.”
“It’s possible, sir, but as angry as they are, they may mistake it for an attack and respond violently. They’re not armed, but they still outnumber us more than I care to think about.”
“Wonderful,” Porter says, rubbing his temples.
“We can’t just stand around and wait!”
“Until now, that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.”
“There’s another option,” Edwin begins quietly. “We could—Baccha, don’t bite my head off for saying this—but we could give them what they want.”
“Let them in? Are you insane, or just stupid?” Cassius cries.
“Who lives here, Cassius? Truly? Slaves, bastards, orphans, beggars—what good are they to us? Hm? We have an obligation to the masses—to these people!” He waves a hand to the crowd. Their voices are raucous, echoing off the surrounding buildings.
“You know there are more poor in this city than anyone else, Edwin. You really want to cater to the masses, protect them!”
“We don’t have to let them all in—just a few.”
“No way.” Leon shakes his head. “You open that gate, you won’t be able to close it again. They’ll swarm the second you open the lock.”
“We aren’t really entertaining this idea, are we?” Cassius asks. “It’ll be a slaughter!”
“No, we’re not,” Porter says, shooting a stern look to Edwin. “You don’t have to like them, but I won’t stand idly by while you allow a genocide. We serve the people of this city—that means the people on this side of the wall and that side.” He fixes Edwin with a glare. “And you will remember who has the higher rank here, Fioni.”
This sets o
ff their arguing all over again. Edwin says something rude to Tanner, who responds with an insult of his own. Porter looks ready to punch someone. Leon begins to pace again. “We’re going to die,” he murmurs. He repeats it twice before Mercy can’t stand it any longer.
She crosses the clearing and taps on Commander Willis’s shoulder. “Prepare your men to push outward. We’re going to split the crowd,” she says. “They want a fight, we’ll fight for every inch.”
Leon stops and stares at her. “Marieve, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m making the decision.” She turns to Willis. “Tell your men not to hold back. Show the people you mean business, and they’ll take the hint soon enough.”
“Marieve, stop. You don’t have the authority to make this decision.”
“The people who do can’t stop bickering long enough to come up with a real plan. Commander, give the order.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I cannot take orders from foreign nobility. I must hear it from one of them.”
“This mob isn’t going to wait patiently while they deliberate. Sooner or later, they’re going to come for us. Give the order, Commander.” When he does not immediately shout to his men, Mercy turns to Leon. “Give the order. He’ll listen to you. Trust me, it’s a good plan. At the very least, it’ll buy us time.”
Leon wavers, glancing from Mercy to the crowd. Just when she thinks he won’t listen, he presses his lips into a tight line and nods to the commander.
Willis turns to his men and shouts to advance. The soldiers confirm his order, then move into one line on either side of the clearing, holding their shields in front of their chests. At the commander’s next order, they begin to press forward and outward, like a V, from the clearing. The crowd doesn’t fight back at first, their faces a mixture of surprise and anger, but then they start to push. A few of the people hanging out of the upstairs windows of the building shout obscenities and toss pieces of wood, broken bottles, and stones into the crowd, hitting both soldiers and civilians.
Merciless Page 25
