Gilded Serpent, page 2
“The goodwill will be worth the expense. Once the work is underway, I want you to…” As with Felix, he delved down into the minutiae, part of him wanting one of them to disobey him in some way, thus allowing him to act.
But unlike Felix, Titus only nodded, saluting sharply before departing with his escort.
“I was about ready for you to give them instructions on how to wipe their own asses.”
At Teriana’s words, several of his men smirked, and Marcus gave them cold stares before turning to her. “A change of regime is a delicate time for any nation. Better that I be specific in my orders, that way if things go poorly, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.”
“How magnanimous of you.” She flipped the braids the wind had pushed into her face back over her shoulder, revealing the bruises on her cheeks. Her split lip. Her right hand was pressed against her ribs, and though he knew they were only bruised, he also knew from experience how each breath hurt, the pain escapable only in sleep.
Which was an escape he couldn’t afford to give her. “I’ve a job for you.”
“Oh?” She didn’t look surprised. “Do tell, Legatus.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but whereas once she’d have been mocking him, now her tone served to deceive everyone else. To hide a secret.
“I’ll explain once we’re in Urcon’s fortress.”
Under the watchful eye of Gibzen and his men, they made their way to the fortress at the center of Aracam. Like all of the buildings in the city, it did not exceed two stories, but what it lacked in height it made up for in sprawl. Surrounded by a solid stone wall with only one gate, it was a maze of buildings his men were still in the process of searching, but at the moment, there was only one structure that concerned him.
They ducked to enter the building, following Gibzen through the narrow corridors lit by smoking torches. It felt more like walking through a series of caves than a structure built by the hands of men. The ceiling was so low that Marcus had to stoop as they walked, and he idly wondered how Servius was managing.
Ahead, two of his men flanked a heavy door, which they opened at the sight of him, forced to press their backs against the walls in order to allow room to pass.
“I bloody well hate this place!” Servius shouted as they entered. “If you’ve any kindness in you, sir, don’t ask me to stand. It would mean risking what brains I have left to these cursed ceilings.”
“Consider yourself at ease while I give Teriana the tour.”
She said nothing, following him into the next chamber, which was heaped with gold and silver and gemstones. Chests of coins were stacked haphazardly against the wall, jewelry and silverware mixed in together with sculptures of ivory and bronze, the wealth beyond anything Marcus had ever seen, and there were six more chambers of it. All of it covered with dust. Stolen away and then forgotten.
Teriana cleared her throat. “You’d better not be asking me to swindle Ereni and the other Arinoquian imperators, Marcus. Because the answer is no.”
“I’m not.” Leading her deeper into the treasury, he stopped only once they were out of earshot, pushing the door to the chamber shut. Dust puffed in his face and he coughed, knowing that he’d be risking one of his attacks if he stayed in here much longer. But he wanted to be alone with her.
“What, then?” Her tone implied that she expected him to ask something of her that she didn’t want to give, and Marcus’s chest tightened. Would that ever stop? Could it?
“I need you to put a total on this wealth. And I need it within the next two days.” And then, because he didn’t want it to sound like an order he had no right to give her, he added, “Please.”
Teriana’s eyes widened, and she gave the room an appraising once-over. “Marcus—”
“It has to be done. We currently have seven armies sitting outside of Aracam—”
“Gods, no wonder you need me to do this. You can’t even count. There are eight armies outside Aracam.”
Despite himself, Marcus laughed, catching hold of her waist and pulling her against him. She slid her arms around his neck, and for a heartbeat, he forgot about his headache. Forgot about politics and traitors and blood. “My army doesn’t concern me. It’s the rest of them.”
Tangling his fingers in her wet braids, he rested his cheek against hers, staring at a pile of golden cups, tasting the dust in the air. “The clans united for the sake of ridding themselves of Urcon, but now that he’s dead, it’s only a matter of time before they start fighting among themselves. If that happens, I’ll either have to choose sides or force my own authority down on their heads, neither of which is appealing.”
“Don’t fancy yourself the new ruler of Aracam?”
Grimacing, he shook his head, then leaned back against the wall so he could meet her gaze. “No. Nor am I interested in another battle on the heels of the one we just won. My men need a chance to breathe.”
And he needed a chance to carve out a life for them in this place while at the same time pretending he was still following the Senate’s—and Cassius’s—orders.
“The clans are expecting to receive a share of the plunder,” he continued. “I’d like to give it to them and have them on their way before they start trying to take what they feel they’re owed from the people living in this city.” He had other reasons, too. Pressing reasons, but they weren’t ones he dared to share.
“There’s nothing to take. Urcon and his men stripped this city clean as much as he did the rest of Arinoquia.”
Letting go of her, Marcus reached down to pick up a woven basket. A tin cup. A leather belt. Not treasure, but items that had had value to someone. “There is always something to take.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Servius’s voice echoed through. “The representatives from the clans are here.”
Time was of the essence, but Marcus still felt a flash of irritation at the interruption. Stolen moments, that was all they ever had. “Tell them to wait.”
“More secrets to tell me?” She tilted her head, midnight skin gleaming in the torchlight. Ocean waves rippled across her irises, the color a blue so dark and deep he imagined himself drowning in them. Bruised or not, she was more beautiful than anything in the room. More beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen.
And she’d chosen him.
Bending his head, he kissed her gently, mindful of her injuries. “You are the secret. This”—he kissed her again—“is the secret.”
Teriana rolled her eyes. “You really need to get some sleep. A secret is something everyone doesn’t know.” Reaching up, she touched his bruised throat. “This, everyone knows.”
She was probably right. She was right, only he didn’t want to admit it. “It’s one thing for my men to suspect. Quite another for me to shove it in their faces. I…” Marcus trailed off, struggling to find the words he wanted. This was untrodden territory for him, and he felt painfully ignorant—not a feeling he was used to. And certainly not one he liked. “This,” he finally said, “can only happen behind closed doors.”
“We live in a tent.” She winked. “No doors.”
Groaning in frustration, he leaned back against the wall, rubbing at his temples. “You drive me to madness.”
“You like it.”
He did like it. He liked her. But his affection for her had already been used against him with near-catastrophic effectiveness.
Stomach hollow, he forced himself to meet her gaze. “Would you want your crew to know?”
The waves rolling across her irises surged, and for a foolish heartbeat, he thought she might say yes. Then she looked away. “No. It wouldn’t go over well.”
That was likely an understatement.
“As much as I might wish otherwise, my men talk. To one another. To civilians. To the sailors on my ships. And those are the sailors who supply your crew, so I think it’s in both our best interests to keep the rumors in check.”
Teriana nodded, but he noticed a slight quiver in her jaw, even these stolen moments dampened by circumstances. Reaching down into an open chest, he picked up a necklace that caught his eye, all sapphires and diamonds and gold. He fastened it around her neck, watching how the gems glittered across the delicate bones of her throat.
Teriana looked down, then unfastened the necklace and handed it back to him. “That gold is steeped in blood. Pretty as it is, wearing it would be bad luck.”
“I doubt there’s an ounce of gold on Reath that hasn’t known blood, one way or another.” He dropped the necklace back in the chest, knowing she was right but also that she deserved more than he was giving her. “But blood or no, I need all of this valued. You’ll have to stay here while it’s done, but you’ll be under constant guard. And Servius will be with you.”
Opening the door, he led her back in the direction of the entrance. He nodded at the seven Arinoquians, four men and three women, standing with Servius and Gibzen. Switching to their language, he said, “You’re here to ensure the inventory of Urcon’s wealth is taken honestly and without bias. All will be searched upon departure from this room, and the punishment for theft will be the loss of a finger. Is this understood?”
They nodded, and he said, “Good. Teriana will be my representative, and given her expertise, hers will be the final word. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded, but still he hesitated, searching his brain for a reason to remain. A reason not to leave her presence. But neither Teriana nor this task needed his involvement, whereas there were a hundred other matters that did. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, then left without a backward glance.
4
LYDIA
The gates to Mudaire stood open as they approached, soft flakes of snow drifting from the sky to add to the carpet of white. It should’ve been beautiful, but with the endless streams of black crisscrossing the land, the stench of rot thick on the air, it looked for all the world to Lydia like the flesh of one infected by the blight.
Or a blighter, as she’d learned they were called during their journey back from the battleground of Alder’s Ford.
The soft thuds of the horses’ hooves turned to sharp clacks as they rode under the open portcullises and onto the cobbles, not a single sentry remaining to guard the city. The door to a house opened and shut on the wind, the hinges creaking, and the shutters on the windows rattled with each gust. Where Mudaire had once been thick with the scents of humanity—food and sweat and urine—now there was only rot, as though the city itself was a corpse laid out to decay.
And yet it was not entirely lifeless.
Lydia noted human tracks in the snow, far too many to be accounted for by a handful of individuals, and she turned to Quindor, who rode silently at her side. As Grand Master of Hegeria’s temple, he had authority over all healers in Mudamora and the ear of the King. He’d have answers. “I thought Lady Calorian was able to evacuate the city.” Her chest hitched at the mention of Killian’s mother, her mind leaping to him as it so often had over the days since she’d turned her back on him at Alder’s Ford.
Quindor’s gaze flicked to the tracks, his jaw tightening. “There were a good many who refused to go, and there wasn’t the manpower to force them. With the battle won, we anticipate more will return.”
“Why would anyone in their right mind stay?” There was nothing to eat but vermin and what fish could be caught on the sea, and the majority of the wells in the city were foul.
“Hope. Stubbornness. Fear.” His eyes moved to the shadows, and Lydia’s went with them, catching sight of motion. Of something human in shape. Her chest tightened, especially when she realized it was following them.
“Blighter,” Quindor said softly to the soldiers.
“Would you have me put it down, Grand Master?” one of the men replied. “Or do you wish it captured?”
Before Quindor could answer, it stepped out of the shadows.
“Spare a copper?” the child said, her voice high-pitched and sweet. “A crust of bread?”
Instinct had Lydia reaching for her saddlebags to retrieve the girl something to eat, but Quindor caught hold of her wrist. “Look,” he said. “Allow Hegeria’s mark to show you the truth.”
Lydia turned her head back to the child, seeing that the girl’s dark eyes were fixed on her. Her skin was pale, but her face bore none of the black veins of blight that marred the flesh of the infected who’d attacked the night of Malahi’s ball. Neither was she a mindless thing like those that had pursued them through the tunnels beneath the palace, intent on nothing but slaughter. There was intelligence in this girl’s eyes. Thought.
“Look,” Quindor repeated.
Lydia stared back into the eyes of the child, her skin turning to ice. All living creatures glowed with an ethereal mist of life that only those marked by Hegeria could see. Quindor and the soldiers, as well as the horses, radiated it, but the girl standing before them had no more life in her than the stones beneath her feet. A walking corpse.
“The blight is evolving,” Quindor said, then he nodded at the guard. “Put it down.”
“No!” Lydia protested, but the Grand Master grabbed the reins of her horse to keep her from intervening as the soldier pulled his sword.
The girl’s eyes widened with fear, and she turned and sprinted toward an alley. But the soldier’s horse was faster. A flash of a blade. A gush of blood.
A child’s head rolling across the snow.
“Burn it.” Quindor’s voice was toneless.
Another of the soldiers dismounted to pour oil over the corpse, including the head, and then touched his torch to it. Flames burst bright.
Nausea rose in Lydia’s stomach, her skin simultaneously hot and cold, but Quindor’s words tore her eyes from the sight.
“The war isn’t over,” he said. “It has only just begun. And this”—he gestured at the inferno—“is a battle Hegeria’s Marked must fight.” His gaze fixed on hers. “That’s why you are here.”
* * *
They dismounted in the middle of the city’s god circle, and several of the soldiers took the reins of the horses to bring them to the stables at the palace, the only place secure enough to protect them from slaughter.
The doors to the temple opened as they approached, heavily armed soldiers in the company of two young healers inspecting their party before they were allowed to enter.
“Welcome back, Grand Master,” both of the young healers said, inclining their heads respectfully, and Quindor smiled affectionately at both as he led Lydia inside.
The last time she’d been here was to deliver Gwen into the temple’s care, and the scene was much changed. Instead of the foyer being filled with rows of cots, it was empty of everything except for soldiers, all of the men wearing coats marked with Hegeria’s half-moon. What windows the main level had once possessed had been bricked over. The temple was now a fortress.
“Do the blighters try to get inside?” she asked, heart beating a rapid staccato as she remembered the waves of them tumbling through the trapdoor into the palace tunnels, their endless pursuit.
“Not yet,” the young healer answered. “But Hegeria’s Marked alone see them for what they are, so it’s in their best interest to kill us. We think they’re waiting for an opportune moment.”
“Shush now,” Quindor said. “I’d hear a proper report, not inflated rumors. Come, Lydia. I’ll show you to your quarters and after you’ve had a chance to settle, we will discuss the matter of the infected.”
The blight is evolving. Quindor’s words echoed through her thoughts as she followed him to a curved staircase, leading her upward. They climbed to the fifth floor before turning down a hallway, which circled the tower.
“The dormitories,” he said, then led her past a dozen closed doors before stopping before one marked with a 37. “This will be your room. You are responsible for keeping it clean and for your own laundry. Attend me in my office in an hour so that we might discuss your role.”
“Yes, Grand Master,” she answered, but Quindor was already swiftly retreating up the corridor, so she went inside.
It was small—more cell than room, in her opinion, with a narrow cot against the wall, a rickety wardrobe against the other, as well as a wash table on which a basin filled with water sat. The grey stone of the floor was softened only by the presence of a threadbare carpet, but the blankets on the bed appeared soft and warm. A set of folded white garments sat on the blankets, and Lydia picked them up. A thick robe. A white cotton shift. A woven belt. And on the floor, three pairs of black boots of various sizes.
Lydia methodically stripped off her dirty clothing, leaving it in a pile. Goose bumps rose on her skin as she crossed the frigid floor to stand naked in front of the wash table. There was a mirror on the wall—nothing more than a polished piece of metal—and Lydia stared at her reflection. Her hair was tangled and filthy, her skin marked with dirt. And beneath the filth, her cheeks were hollow, her eyes shadowed and sunken from exhaustion and fear and grief. But what drew her eye was the half-moon that Quindor himself had tattooed onto her forehead during the journey back from Alder’s Ford. This was the first time she’d seen it, and she traced a fingernail over the design, reminded, briefly, of how the Empire marked the men in its legions.
And thought of the legions pulled Teriana into the forefront of her mind. Her best friend, who was the prisoner of the young man who’d tried to murder Lydia on Lucius Cassius’s orders. Please watch over her, she prayed to the Six. Don’t let him hurt her.
Pouring water into the basin, she picked up the cloth and bar of soap sitting next to it and began to scrub her face, then her body, the water turning a murky brown. She discarded the dirty water into the chamber pot under the cot, then refilled the basin. Bending forward, she immersed her hair as best she could, pinching her eyes shut as she worked up a soapy lather and then pouring the rest of the pitcher of water over her head to rinse it. Reaching blindly for a towel, she wiped her face and wrapped her damp hair. And then she opened her eyes and reached for the basin.
The water wasn’t the murky brown of dirt, but rather a deep shade of rust.
