Trading into Darkness

by C. M. Simpson

  “Sorry, girl,” she said to the hoshkat, “but this is where we part ways.”

  Refusing to think about the wisdom of going to confront Madame Monetti without any form of backup, Marsh stepped out of the grove, fixing the map in her mind. Another step took her into the dimly-lit shadows of a clump of callas and she spoke to them, thinking of the distance she had to cover and the point on the map she had reach.

  “I need to be there,” she told the shadows, highlighting the marker and picturing the location she remembered from her arrival with Fabrice. Becoming one with the shadows, she began to run.

  To her surprise, the pain of her bruises faded with the weight of her body and pack and movement became as easy as selecting the next section of shadow. Marsh wished she could go faster; she wished she could step through the shadow and find herself at the edge of the first farm, and then the second, and then at that point on the map. That one—the one near the junction.

  She needed to be there; needed it badly.

  The shadows blurred around her, her surroundings pivoting at a dizzying rate. Where she’d been skipping from the shadows beneath a grove of calla shrooms to the darkness at the edge of a stalagmite or rocky outcrop, now she slid through the cavern’s perpetual night, the walls of the first farmhouse she’d visited the night before looming before her.

  Marsh gasped, only to have the walls fade until she stood outside the barn of the second farm she’d visited, and then, almost too fast to register, the scenery shifted once again and Marsh stood where two roads met, their glows dark, the shadows crowding close on either side. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard a hoshkat roar with frustration.

  “Sorry, Mordan,” she whispered, stepping into the deeper shadows surrounding the base of a jumble of rocks.

  Letting herself drift out of shadow form, she thanked the cavern dark for the speed of her journey and wished she’d remembered to pack something to eat. Her head spun and she felt a little weak, but she knew where she was. She remembered passing through the junction with a herd of moutons and a string of mules that hadn’t belonged to her.

  That seemed so long ago. It was hard to believe it had only been a few weeks, and only a few weeks more since she had been a courier for Kearick’s Emporium in Kerrenin’s Ledge. It had been even less time since her employer had sent Mikel to retrieve her commission and kill her. Anger surged through her and Marsh caught hold of it, harnessing her outrage and using it to give her energy.

  Time to find out what Madame Monetti’s role was in this entire debacle had been.

  Marsh!

  Marsh didn’t have time for Roeglin’s fury…or the anxious undertones she heard in that single word. She set him firmly to one side of her mind and focused on the cavern around her. The junction she was familiar with, but she knew there had to be another road—one that would take her to Madame Monetti’s mansion.

  Marsh!

  Shut up, Ro. I need to concentrate.

  You need to get your ass right back—

  Marsh shut him out. Man couldn’t be quiet? Man wasn’t going to be allowed inside her head. And he thought he was such a mental magic titan…

  It took her a moment to find it, but the trail was there. Marsh stepped out onto the trade route and walked back to where two tall white pillars stretched from floor to ceiling. At first glance, they looked like a squared-off stalagmite had finally met the matching stalactite reaching down from above, but on closer inspection, Marsh would have sworn the pillars had always been one, and that they belonged to something man-made; an older structure that had sent roots deep into the earth hundreds of years ago.

  Roeglin’s next intrusion, when it came, arrived as a polite knock on the edge of her mind. Marsh sighed and cracked the barrier.

  What?

  Mind if I come along for the ride?

  Marsh thought about it.

  I’ve found it.

  Roeglin was silent for a moment, and Marsh got the impression he was trying to catch a glimpse of what she was seeing.

  Fine, she told him. You can watch, but not one word. You can’t stop me.

  This time Roeglin sighed. It was a sound of such utter despondency that Marsh almost felt sorry for him.

  Since when have I ever been able to do that?

  Almost.

  Point, she agreed and went back to the trail.

  Having worked out that the pillars were quite solid regardless of their origin, Marsh stepped between them and followed the trail beyond. After several feet, it widened into an open expanse of white rock on which nothing grew. More pillars rose around its edges, but these did not reach the ceiling, forming a kind of ragged fringe instead.

  Roeglin stayed silent and still, and Marsh soon forgot he was traveling with her, albeit only in her mind. She crossed the expanse of white flooring and entered another narrow section of trail.

  I don’t like this, Roeglin muttered.

  Too bad. We’re here. Marsh told him as the trail ended in front of two pristine white doors.

  Wait for me.

  He was begging.

  Can’t.

  Not when she was already at the doors.

  Marsh raised her hand and lifted the heavy golden knocker, using it to send booming echoes through whatever lay beyond the doors. When they opened to reveal two lines of shadow mages, she realized she might just have made another mistake. To give him credit, Roeglin didn’t waste time rubbing it in or scolding her.

  I’m coming, he said, and Marsh swallowed hard as she took in the towering dark-cloaked figures. She swallowed again when an equally tall man in the armor of the raiders stepped out from behind them and stalked toward her.

  He was flanked by two others, both wearing the same armor, the same insignia, and the same curving weapons she’d last seen being carried through Leon’s Deep when she’d asked the shadows to show her what was coming. Marsh felt her skin grow cool as she paled, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

  “State your business!” he ordered and Marsh cleared her throat, forcing herself to look at him. She tried not to glance nervously at the guards and mages on either side.

  “I have a delivery for Madame Monetti,” she said, then added, “From Kearick of Kerrenin’s Ledge.”

  It was a bold statement to make, considering the only things she carried in her pack were whatever was left from her journey from the shadow-mage monastery. She really didn’t need to hear the new voice that echoed down from the other end of the hall.

  “She lies!”

  It was not a voice she recognized, although the tale it told was a scenario she herself had run by Roeglin.

  “I waited for Mikel and saw his body buried outside the monastery walls.”

  Marsh backed up a step and turned to leave, but it was already too late. Her heart plummeted at the sight before her. Four shadow mages were slowly pulling themselves from the shadows and returning to human form. Well, merde! She’d thought she was one of a very few folks to be able to work that trick.

  They also knew the trick of using shadow weapons mixed with real in case their target could also shift form. She could tell that from the darts and crossbows they held. If they were even half-way proficient, she was done for.

  “Well, merde,” she murmured, out loud this time, and the warrior who had met her gave a bark of laughter.

  “Come with me,” he said. “Madame Monetti will want to speak with you.”

  Marsh turned side-on so she could see him, then stood very still as two of the shadow mages approached. The others were still pointing lethal weapons in her direction, and she wanted to live—at least for a little while longer.

  I’m coming, Roeglin repeated, and Marsh could think of only one reply.

  Hurry.

  14

  Madame Monetti

  Once they’d taken her weapons, gagged her, and bound her hands, Marsh was led into a plush office lined with display cases filled with teapots. Some looked like they’d been bought recently from local sources, but
others…Marsh stared. They looked really old, and not just because they were dented or missing a handle. No, there was something about their designs that felt unfamiliar.

  Why teapots? she wondered, tripping over the edge of a mottled gray-and-brown rug. It dragged her attention back to the present, and she swallowed a feeling of revulsion. The rug looked like someone had skinned a hoshkat and laid it on the floor. Seeing the head still attached made her stomach roll, and she willed it to be calm.

  Marsh shivered, glad Mordan hadn’t come with her. She’d have hated to see her friend decorating the floor in another part of the office. She stumbled and was jerked upright by the shadow mage walking to her right.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he snapped, giving her a none-too-gentle shake.

  Marsh wanted to tell him to watch where he was going, himself, except that it would have been childish…and she wouldn’t have gotten the words past the cloth covering her mouth. She also wanted to take her sword and run it through his middle, but this wasn’t possible either, given that her hands were bound and her sword had been taken and handed to someone else for safekeeping. It wasn’t’ safe to try to pull a shadow blade here.

  This was not how Marsh had envisioned meeting Madame Monetti, but she drew a deep breath and kept moving forward. At least she would be seeing the lady. For a long moment, she hadn’t been sure she’d live to make it through the door. Some of the mages had wanted revenge for fallen comrades.

  Some of the soldiers, too. Apparently, they’d had brothers and friends out on those raids. The gag had been their leader’s decision when she’d told one man his brother might have lived if he hadn’t been picking on little children and had been gutted like the pig he was. There was a good reason that man was still outside guarding the door.

  Marsh started smirking.

  If Roeglin hadn’t been so busy trying to catch up with her, he would have been appalled…but only if she let him into her head, again. It was almost fun being able to keep him out at will. She’d have to ask him how that worked. Mirth bubbled up inside her, followed by an instant of crushing despair. She would tell him if she ever got the chance. For all she knew, this could be the last room she’d ever see.

  Sucking in another breath to steady her pitching emotions, Marsh focused on putting one foot in front of the other and concentrated, trying to calm her mind. She really couldn’t afford to offend Madame Monetti like she’d offended the guard outside, not if she wanted to discover what happened to the people they took.

  And she did want to know what they were doing with those people; she really did. Did they live? Were they killed? Why did the shadow raiders need so many? Were they short a workforce? What sort of work would need all those people, all at once?

  Why did they look for children with magical talent, yet take those without it as well? There were so many answers she didn’t have, not least of which was what had happened to her parents. Yeah, that was the one thing she wanted to know above all else, no matter what promises she’d made to the others. She hadn’t realized her own folks’ disappearance still haunted her that much.

  Movement caught her attention, and she realized she’d been too lost in thought to notice they’d reached the end of the room.

  “Berens says you have a delivery for me.”

  Berens had said no such thing and both he and Marchant knew it, but neither he nor Marsh was about to contradict the woman who’d just entered. By the looks of her, Madame Monetti had not been raised in the Four Settlements. Judging from her height, she’d come from the surface…like Berens. Marsh stared at her, hoping the woman didn’t decide to take her silence for rudeness.

  Meeting Marsh’s eyes, Madame Monetti wrinkled her nose and tutted.

  “You might want to remove the girl’s gag, Berens. She can’t tell me anything if she can’t talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Berens tone was bland, as was his expression when he turned toward her, but that changed quickly enough. As he raised his hands to take the gag, Berens frowned.

  “You mind your manners, girl, or I’ll be gutting you myself.”

  Marsh’s eyes widened at the threat, but she managed a nod, and he removed the cloth from between her lips and lifted a flask of water in its place. Thankful for his foresight, Marsh took a gulp of water and rinsed it around her mouth, surprised when he let her take a second to wet her throat.

  The woman came closer, her long dark hair looped on top of her head in an intricate tangle of braids and clips. Marsh wanted to know how she ever found the time to do it but didn’t dare ask. For her part, the woman stalked around Marsh, her dark brown eyes inspecting every inch of the prisoner. When she was done, she looked at Berens.

  “She’ll do. When we’re finished, you’ll put her with the rest.” She stopped speaking, making a display of looking Marsh over and pursing her lips with distaste. “Maybe not with the rest. From what I’ve heard, she’s likely to cause trouble. Have Ardhur make sure she doesn’t.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  From the clipped tones of Berens’ voice, he didn’t like what his mistress was suggesting, but he didn’t have anything better to offer. Marsh’s nerves formed a knot in the pit of her stomach and sent apprehension through the rest of her body. By the Deep, what had she gotten herself into?

  She waited until the lady turned her attention on her, noting narrow features and full lips in a face that went from striking to beautiful.

  “Do you know who I am, girl?”

  Marsh nodded but said nothing. It was not enough for Madame Monetti.

  “And?”

  Oh, she really did want an answer to that. Marsh resisted the urge to say she was the stupid woman who’d had her tied up and came up with something else.

  “You are the one Kearick said to deliver the artifact to.”

  “And?”

  “And what, mistress?”

  “Where is my artifact?” the woman shrieked, putting her face an inch from Marsh’s.

  Marsh started, almost falling as she backed up. Berens grabbed her before she’d gone more than two steps, his grip tightening when Marsh tried to pull away. Firmly caught, Marsh froze, staring at the woman as her breath came in fast gasps.

  Madame Monetti straightened and studied her, a slow smile forming on her face. When Marsh remained silent, she reached out and curled her fingers under Marchant’s chin. Marsh flinched, but when Madame Monetti spoke, again, her voice was much softer.

  “So, child. Where is it?”

  Marsh shook her head, or tried to. The lady’s grip tightened, and her face became hard.

  “‘No’ is not an option. Tell me where it is.”

  Marsh shot a glance at Berens, but he pointed at the woman with his free hand. Again, Marsh shook her head, and Monetti nodded.

  “You’d have to take it off her anyway.”

  He would? Marsh shot a startled look at Berens, stiffening with alarm as he drew the dagger from his belt.

  “Your choice,” he said, flipping the blade and catching it in his fingertips. “I can cut the armor off you or just unbuckle it.”

  He flipped the knife again, once again gripping the hilt.

  Tell them, Roeglin said, breaking his silence in her mind. It’s not like they’ll ever find it.

  Marsh breathed a sigh of relief and looked at Madame Monetti.

  “It’s at the monastery.”

  “Where?”

  It was hard not to look toward Berens and his knife, but Marsh managed it.

  “In the armory in storage.”

  As far as she knew, that was true. The Supply Master did keep weapons on the wall.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t let trainees past the front counter.”

  Berens raised the knife and Marsh shrank away from it.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t know. I don’t. I really don’t.”

  It wasn’t hard to pretend to be afraid of the knife. She was afraid of it, —and
that much showed through. Berens looked at his mistress.

  “I could start cutting,” he said, “but I don’t think it would do any good—and we’d miss the next shipment. If the artifact is in the fortress; we’ll find it when we make the place our own. Hasn’t been a hiding place yet that we can’t discover.”

  Marsh wondered if that was true, and sincerely hoped it wasn’t. If the raiders wanted the artifact that badly, that was how badly they needed not to have it.

  Hang in there, Marsh.

  At least Roeglin had stopped calling her ‘trainee.’

  Not yet, I haven’t, Leclerc.

  But Madame Monetti was speaking again, and Marsh knew she needed to listen.

  “You know, you’d do a lot better working for us than against us,” the lady suggested, and Marsh lifted her head.

  She was about to retort that the last person who’d thought that, she’d gutted like a pig…and then she remembered Berens warning as they’d come into the room and decided she should not say anything. Madame Monetti stepped closer.

  “What, nothing to say? I understand you’re a trainee with the monastery, but the skills I’ve seen would put you at journeyman at the very least, if not junior master. Is that not so, Master Warven?”

  She lifted her head and looked toward one of the mages standing in front of a display cabinet. He gave her a startled glance and turned his attention to Marsh.

  “Ah, yes. Certainly. A junior master at the very least,” he said, rushing through the words as though not agreeing was a fate worse than death. “A junior master, indeed.”

  Madame Monetti turned to Marsh, her expression triumphant.

  “There! You see? A junior master rather than a trainee—and we pay much, much better.”

  “How much better?” Marsh wanted to know, and the madam named a figure five times what she was making as a trainee.