A Fray of Furies, page 33
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
Disbelieving, she glanced back at the seething swathe of humanity they’d just traversed. The thought of more strained her imagination. Steeling herself, she plunged onward.
Imposing though the wall was, its jaws yawned toothlessly. She found herself, one among a slew of citymen, churning toward distant daylight. It was how she imagined salmon felt, jostling one another for a clear jump at the falls. As though she were really struggling upriver, her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. Bodies pressed in on her in the dark, smothering, drowning–
Gasping, she burst out the other side, into light. Only as her dizziness receded did she notice Bearbait, leading her by the hand.
She shook him off angrily. And stalled.
Around her, buildings climbed skyward, stacked two, three and even four atop each other. In the distance winked another wall, peeking above the rooftops and dwarfing the one at her back. And beyond that rose an impossible spire of pure white. It bore into the blue, made faint by distance. Specks of birds hung suspended around it. Even as she stared, the stone around her woke to a clarion knell, carried on the wind. The call was answered from quarters near and far, like hunting hounds, signaling each other.
The cacophony of bells was deafening.
She stood, hands covering her ears, as a stream of humanity parted around her. How had she ever thought to do this alone?
“Come on,” the krin mouthed, extending a hand.
Hating herself, she clutched at it.
He led them through the press while she fought for her bearings. Finally, he ducked through a low doorway and into an ill lit room, littered with empty tables and chairs. At least it was relatively quiet. She silently surrendered their purse and left him to negotiate their room and board.
By the time they were seated at the empty bar, awaiting bowls of reheated stew, she’d recovered herself somewhat.
“This is more than we paid for the last inn,” she growled, pushing the measly coppers around her palm. The proprietress, who was meant to overhear, seemed unimpressed by her glare.
“What did you expect?” Bearbait asked, leaning so as to eclipse their staring match. “It’s the capital. Things are more dear here.”
“A thing’s price should be its price,” she called after the innkeeper’s back, as the woman was summoned to the kitchen. “Where a thing is makes no difference to what it is.”
“Not true,” he argued, obviously trying to distract her. “The same cinnamon, cumin and coriander that sells for coppers on any Purlian street corner is worth its weight in silver in Quicaan.”
“But it is the same sin-man, common and corr-here-under.”
“Cin-na-mon–”
“Hssst!” she silenced him, in no mood for corrections.
The innkeeper returned, setting her stew before her with such force it lipped over the rim. They exchanged glowers as she shook the scalding goop from her fingers.
“Does this sheep–” she waved at her bowl.
“Mutton.”
“Shut up! Does this sheep taste better for being served in the city? No. Did it best the shepherd at a footrace or the butcher at arm-wrestling? No. Will its flesh grant the gift of far-seeing? No.” She grimaced at the foolishness of it. “So, why pay more?”
He ducked his head to hide his smile. He’d come to expect a ding about the ear, if his mirth were mistaken for mockery.
“Not a footrace, perhaps,” he mused. “But the shepherd would have had to drive his herd down to the city, all the way from the uplands. Unless he has family to help, that means hiring extra hands, which costs money. It means feeding his flock on other farmers’ fields, which means paying grazing rights. It means hiring a Chapter mender in the city to certify his animals as safe to eat. All of that drives up the price. Pun intended.”
She shook her head, unwilling to concede the point, “Were our very expensive beds also driven up from the downlands–?”
“Down from the uplands–”
She brandished her wooden spoon like a weapon. He flinched.
“If so,” he conceded, “I trust they’re certified safe to sleep in.”
She maintained her glare, making sure he’d been cowed.
“What?” he questioned at last, noting the wary way she’d been eyeing her meal.
“I suspect that mean-eyed stoat spat in my stew.”
He sniffed experimentally at his own spoonful.
“Mine’s fine.”
“Good,” she smirked, swiping his bowl from under his elbow.
Sighing, he reached for hers.
“We should see about visiting the Menders’ University. The innkeeper says it’s not too far from here. And if that doesn’t–”
“No,” she stomped on his idea. “Not yet. For now, we wait.”
“Wait?” he wondered. “For what?”
You, to change into something that doesn’t ask questions.
She ignored him. Sighing, he soon followed her example, bending to his meal.
She would find the Old Masters’ descendants alone. She could not risk Bearbait overhearing her message, in case it caused the krin to cast off its human guise prematurely. If not for him, she’d have had a Hunt to handle that eventuality. Now, she’d need to open these city warriors’ eyes to the danger first.
She would find the nearest Huntmaster, explain her task as Herald and demand audience with his chief. That was proper.
Resolutely, she kept shoveling in spoonful after spoonful.
Far from spit, it tasted like ashes.
This time, as she braved the city streets, she drew oodles of attention. She’d left off the lowlander dress. For this, she needed to be recognized and taken seriously. She wore her armor, her knife strapped to her belt and war paint transforming her face.
She’d left Bearbait at the inn, trapped in their room and in his insensate state. She needed to gather warriors and head back before he awoke and ventured forth on his own.
The citymen shrank from her path. None dared challenged her. She accepted the wary looks and closed scowls as her due. Until a girl-child tugged her mother to a stop and pointed excitedly.
She had no idea what ‘Festival!’ meant. But the mother’s reply was clearly dismissive.
Feeling unaccustomed embarrassment, she turned down the next alley. A gaggle of unbloodied boys, playing at wooden swords, spotted her and eagerly rushed in. She snatched one of their weapons and lay about her. The mongrels fled, howling their shame. A minder barreled, shrieking, from a nearby doorway but turned tail as a wooden sword winged past her ear.
Seeing red, Kassika pushed onto a busy street. The crowd gave no regard to her standing or personal space. Even an elder would have expected a shove if he’d crowded her so. She was used to Blackwater’s wide rivers and expansive hills. These people pawed at each other like Deepmeadowers in the dark.
However she tried, she couldn’t shove them all. Their closeness set her teeth on edge. Her knuckles ached on her knife’s grip.
Finally, she caught sight of a city warrior.
This was more like it, she thought. She could tell the three were of the same tribe. They wore almost exactly the same colors and bore the same totem. Not a proper animal spirit, just a depiction of the distant tower on a grey shield. Citymen were strange.
Ignoring the way their shirts of glistening mail and their steel helms put her poor cuirass to shame, she approached.
The nearest warrior was distracted, giving directions to another lowlander. His companions straightened, noting her attention. That was proper. Warriors should be wary of one another.
The crowd parted expectantly and she cut across its stream.
“Hail, city warrior,” she presented herself. “I wish to speak to the Old Masters on a matter of urgency,” she said, for the audience gathering at her back. “I bring a warning of war from the People.”
She’d considered saying ‘Hillmen’, but that was not what they called themselves. She’d not start her Herald’s duties with a lie.
For their part, the warriors made a slow study of her. She clenched her teeth as they took in her frayed moccasins, her coarse cuirass and her balding furs.
Finally, the foremost’s eyes lit up with amusement.
“Playing dress-up are we, little girl?” he guffawed.
Aah. This too, was familiar. Her response to his probing insult would show her status in relation to his. He was a lowly sentry. She was a blooded warrior, a Hunter and the Herald.
So she hauled off and punched him in the face.
Chapter 12 – Of Conviction
The book had said Eris Bolk swam.
He would have settled for sinking.
Instead, he tumbled, tugged through maelstrom after maelstrom. Around him, enormous bodies of light lit up the black, undulating amorphously. The current carried him too close to one, its tortured song shivering his bones. Their impact nearly knocked the breath from him and he trailed bloody bubbles in his wake.
Terrible pressure was building inside his ears, threatening to unseat his jaw. Curled into a tight ball, he struggled to sort the ponderous behemoths from the spots preceding a blackout.
Too soon, he could suppress the sucking spasms in his chest no longer. He inhaled the blackness.
Which ripped apart.
He spilled, limply, into sunlight and golden sand.
Struggling to his knees, he spewed water and pond sludge. The miserable retching, leavened by searing gasps, subsided slowly.
The powder beneath him was so fine, it refused to run with the wet. It retreated before it instead, revealing something beneath. In wonderment, he scraped at it with the heel of his hand. It must have been a bright mosaic once, its enamel chipped and scarred–
No. New and flawless–
He blinked again and it reverted to its weathered state.
His tearing eyes were playing tricks.
With a groan, he pushed to his feet.
Desert.
As far the eye could see.
He turned a full circle.
Unrelieved, unbroken dunes. No oasis. No camp. No provisions.
No lockbox. He fumbled at his collar. No phial.
He glanced up, trying to get his bearings.
No sun. As if the azure sky itself bleached the light.
“Neever!” he called hoarsely. “Yoriana!”
His voice bounced as though he were at the bottom of a well. Beginning to panic, he whirled again, only to step back in surprise.
“Sand spawned magic,” he swore, glaring at the sudden pavilion. Complete with carved posts and wasteful silks, it seemed similar to the tents the desert potentates preferred for their travels.
It was the only hint of life in the featureless desert.
Hesitating only a moment, he ducked beneath the awning.
Cool, dank air breathed into his face. He stared.
He’d expected ruinously expensive carpets, room dividers, lounging chairs and other assorted idiocies. Instead, the previously spied mosaic stretched before him and into darkness. It crawled down broad, stone steps to a sculpted basin. Bright tiles shimmered beneath the surface of a shallow pool. Flaming braziers punctuated columns of enameled stone. They rose, like reeds, to shoulder a ceiling painted to look like an oasis.
He suspected the ingress behind him had vanished. But all his shock and attention was drawn to the telltale glimmer…
A career thief, he did not think he’d ever used the word ‘treasure’ aloud. But that was what lay strewn, in careless piles, just beyond the pillars. Mountains of coins, strewns with crowns, slithering with pearls and sprouting jeweled daggers. Strongboxes rode the golden dunes like bogged down beasts.
His heart sat up and begged like a puppy at the breakfast table.
“A long time.”
He spun. He gave no thought to the disappeared pavilion. A pillared aisle marched away from him, ending in a stepped dais. By the light of the low braziers he could just make out a pair of shapely legs, crossed at the knee, topping the jeweled throne there. Heavy, golden anklets chimed to idle kicking.
The heart in his throat rescued him from the knee-jerk responses: Who’s there? Where am I? What’s going on?
Swallowing, he managed a polite, “Your pardon?”
“A long time,” repeated the unseen occupant, “since one of your kind found their way here.”
“You might consider posting some signs,” he grinned giddily.
Husky laughter rolled around the room, “I value my privacy.”
He was starting to recover his equilibrium.
“Is that why you won’t let me see your face?”
Hands clapped imperiously, upsetting their bangles. A covey of braziers breathed to higher life, bathing the throne room in light.
A beautiful woman with a lion’s head crowning her shoulders, the book had said. Somehow, he’d expected it to be a headdress.
Feline eyes regarded him from beneath a dark fringe. A broad bridge tapered down to delicate, pink nostrils. Expressive lips treated him to a sharp-toothed smile.
Pointed ears swiveled to follow his surprised gasp.
“You’re a mehz!” he declared, disbelieving.
“I beg your pardon…?” she growled. And it was a growl. Clawed hands gripped her armrests, as if to propel her forward.
“I mean, mehzahwe, lady,” he hastily corrected. “The golden tongued–” he was about to say tricksters, “–prophets of myth!”
Many a would-be hero had met their ignominious end, tangled in the mehzahwe’s deadly riddles. They were fables that warned against fostering ambitions above one’s station or intelligence.
The mehz preened, rolling her shoulders in a leonine shrug.
“That I am,” she purred, rising. Her movements were lithe as she padded down the stairs. Despite the adornment of chains, bracelets, necklets and silk, she was objectively naked. A fine, dun-colored down brushed her features, thickening on her shoulders to run down the center of her chest. The ruff accentuated her breasts but managed (just) to conceal her loins.
“So,” he gulped, “I suppose you know why I’m here?”
“Of course,” she assured him, cocking a hip as she sashayed to a stop. “But do you? You seek me intentionally, yet at another’s behest. That is rare. And it doesn’t help,” she sneered, “that you’ve brought nothing with which to barter.”
She turned away, her long tail flicking irritation.
“I brought offerings,” he rushed to reassure. “But they did not weather the, um, trip down.”
Like his harness. And – salt and silver! – his knives.
“You mean this?”
She turned, holding a familiar lockbox.
“Oh, good,” he stared, “you’ve, ah, found it.”
“You can keep it,” she returned with a backhanded toss. He snatched the flying container to his chest.
“But there’s a fortune in here!” he argued. “Two, in fact!”
“Baubles,” she dismissed.
He looked around at the piled riches. If your taste ran toward volume over value, then his little box was but a single grain in the desert. Something about the glittering mounds bothered him.
“I also brought something else…” he tried.
“Yes,” she confirmed. The phial hung in a web of its own string, woven among her claws. She turned it this way and that, watching the play of silvery bubbles. “What is it supposed to be?”
I thought you knew everything, he didn’t say.
“My life,” he admitted, unwillingly. “I’m afflicted by a magical malady. That is the last of my medicine. Without it, I will die.”
“Aah…” she breathed appreciatively, her slight frown clearing. One dainty claw caressed the phial, “Very clever.”
“Thank you.”
“I did not mean you,” she scoffed.
“But you’ll take it in trade?” he hoped, not understanding.
She seemed to consider, finally taking a step toward him.
It was done so very casually. He felt no alarm until the phial’s string yawned beneath her dainty fingers. Then the noose was closing over his head. He held still as the prick of sharp claws combed through his hair and plucked at his shirt collar. She met his eyes, her own orbs flecked with green and gold and slightly too large. His heart tried to hammer its way out his back. The little vessel swayed between them, a dead mouse, held by its tail.
“No,” she told him. And dropped it down his shirt front. “It holds no value for me.”
“That is, um, unexpected,” he breathed, ignoring the way her talons were toying with the hems and folds of his hip jacket. “I was told you calculate value not by coin but by consequence to the holder.”
Her smile was as sharp as it was seductive.
“Then you know more than most,” her hands feathered over his shoulders, outwardly consoling. “But you are misled. Your hunger for health and wealth is mundane. Meaningless to me. The method by which you choose to sate it, however…”
He managed not to jerk away as her touch trailed down his arms. She hefted his free hand in her own, the other settling on his elbow. She inspected his fingers critically as she spoke, probing at his bones and knuckles as he would a melon, to test for ripeness.
“Master Thief,” she murmured. “The Grinning Ghost.”
Hungry eyes met his, “Now that is worth something.”
“I don’t understand,” he was forced to admit.
In a blinding move, she was too close. Two sharp claws pricked through his shirt. “Your hidden heart,” she breathed in his ear. “Your most fervent desire: to be the greatest thief in the world.”
Seeming unable to stop herself, she stropped his jaw with a rough tongue. He cringed from the suggestion of teeth on his earlobe. An oblivious man might mistake it for something sexual. He was pretty sure it was a taste test. He shivered, stepping away from her. She let him go.
“That is my price,” she told him. “Your renown.”
“But I’m not,” he argued.
“Yet,” she told him. “And if you agree, you never will be.”
His breath sped. He’d known it for a childish dream. Yet, she spoke as if it were inevitable. The mehz did not strike him as the sort who would bargain in impossible currency. Across the span of years, a boy with a bloodied lip glared an accusation at him.
