Chapter Nineteen

 

 

HE SHOULDN’T have let me sleep, but he did. Only for an hour or two, I think—enough for some of my strength to return. I’m resilient. Comes with being stubborn, I suspect. He went out briefly while I slept, and by the time I awoke, he had food and watery ale to share.

“Where did you get the money?” I asked. I was leaning back against some crates and gnawing on dry bread I’d dipped into a thick stew. Jory had said the meat was good for replacing all the blood I’d lost.

“Him,” Jory said with his mouth full, pointing at Myghal’s corpse. “He had surprisingly little on him, though.”

“He never carried much. I don’t think money interested him nearly as much as power.”

I felt neither sorrow nor joy over his death. I didn’t even feel bitter over what he’d done. I must have bled the bitterness out, and I wasn’t sure what was left.

“We can’t stay here,” I said. Myghal might not have told anyone where he and his guards were going, but eventually someone would realize they were missing and come looking for them. At least the runaway guard hadn’t gone for assistance. If he had, Jory and I would have been dead some time ago.

“Where shall we go?” asked Jory.

“I’m… out of places.”

“But you know all the answers now, don’t you?”

I did—or the important ones, anyway. I knew that Myghal had tried to rope me into his scheme, and when that didn’t work, he’d told Lord Uren to involve me. I knew Lord Uren had targeted Jory after Jory refused to get Arthyen involved. I knew that Myghal trusted Lord Uren so little that he’d planted at least one of his own people in Uren’s household and given her instructions to kill the lord, if needed, to keep him silent. I knew that although Myghal was now dead, he undoubtedly had other coconspirators who might still try to kill the prince. And—a dubious bonus—I now knew that Myghal had attempted to use me years ago and had engineered my disgrace in the guards.

None of this knowledge made me any happier, but it was better than wondering.

“What are you thinking, Daveth?”

“Prince Clesek.”

Jory rubbed absently at his bicep, which I suspected had been injured. “You don’t owe him a thing.”

“I know.”

“Neither do I. Although he was nice to me once when he didn’t have to be. Do you want to be a hero? Do you think you’ll get some kind of reward?” He regarded me closely.

I laughed. “Men like me are not heroes.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Look. I don’t care about that. Heroes are for children’s stories. And I don’t even really care about the prince.”

“Then?”

“The city of Tangye. She cares very little for me, but I love her. She’s my mother.”

Jory nodded. “And you’re her faithful son.”

“I suppose I am.”

I finished my bread and drank the remainder of liquid from the stew while Jory nibbled on some salted plums and stared at me.

“Will you make me a promise?” he asked when we were finished eating.

“No. I don’t make promises.”

“Of course you do. And you’ll make me one now because you care about me.” He lifted his chin. “I know you do, so don’t bother lying about it.”

“I won’t stab you. Probably.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll always be honest. Truth is hard for me. But I can swear that I will never betray you. I am not him.” He made a contemptuous wave at Myghal.

For some foolish reason, I believed him. “And what promise do you want from me?”

“After we warn the prince—assuming we survive that—we leave the city. Together.”

“And do what?”

“See what the world has to offer us.”

I looked down at my lap. “How will we survive?”

He stood, walked over, and crouched in front of me. “Since you’ve met me, you’ve survived three concerted attempts at your life, wraiths, ghosts, a necromancer, and Lady Death. I have confidence you’ll manage whatever else befalls us.”

I’d have ripped off his clothes and made him sing with passion, if only I’d had the time and strength.

We stripped the clothing from the dead guards and Myghal. I have to admit, I felt an odd pang at seeing him naked for the last time, so very pale and with all his vitality soaked into the warehouse floor. I felt better, though, after putting on his boots. They fit well, and although they were gaudy for my taste—with a design of colored leather and fancy stitching—they were almost as good as mine had been. I took his chausses as well, since they were proper city guard colors and less bloody than mine. But his tunic was ruined, as was my own, so I took a somewhat less gory one from a dead guard. I also took the guard’s cloak, feeling guilty for the short, unfortunate existence I’d given my own.

“We can’t just leave the bodies here,” I said when I was fully dressed.

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Seems impolite.” When Jory blinked at me, I explained. “The wraiths. We were their guests.”

He looked at me as though I were insane, but he didn’t argue. “So what do we do with them?”

“The river, of course.”

At one time, a ramp had run down from the warehouse and out onto the water, making it easier to transport ale kegs to boats anchored in the deeper channel. The ramp was long gone, but when we shoved some crates aside, we found the door that had led to it. The rusted hinges squealed horribly. Jory and I dragged the corpses to the doorway one by one, heaved them out, and watched them splash into the river below. Myghal was the last. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

As we walked back toward the center of the room, I spied Lord Uren’s head. The spell had long since worn off, and now the eyes were filmy and the mouth gaped meaninglessly. He was of no more use to us.

Oddly, although my feelings toward Myghal were neutral, I still hated Lord Uren for what he’d done to Jory. And not just the matters related to his godsdamned assassination plans. I hated how he’d demeaned Jory—his own kinsman—used him and pimped him out.

While Jory watched, I carried Lord Uren’s head to the doorway, set it on the threshold, and kicked it hard as I could. It sailed into the air before landing with a satisfying splash.

“Enough of that,” I said as I closed the door. “Let’s go do something stupid.”

 

 

ONCE AGAIN we crossed Meryasek Bridge and wound our way through the Low. With my hood up, I looked like a city guard—although an observant person would have noticed I carried knives rather than a sword, which was unusual. Jory covered his head as well, but he wore his own cloak rather than a guard’s uniform. Still, few paid us any mind. If anyone in the Low was looking for us, we didn’t encounter them.

The Silver was trickier. Residents there were more likely to have seen and read the handbills about us, and people in the Silver were generally more apt to pay attention to passersby. To the extent possible, we kept to alleys and quiet residential streets. It occurred to me how inefficient and inept the city guard was. I wondered if corruption was to blame. Perhaps most members of the guard kept too busy coercing Lowlers and plotting, which left scant attention for real problems, including the fugitives in their midst. Between my height, the limp I’d acquired that day, and the poor state of Jory’s clothes, we were obvious. Yet nobody stopped us.

“I have no idea how to get us to the prince,” I admitted as we walked up the hill, not far from Arthyen’s house. I could get us into the Royal Quarter easily enough—I hoped without a welcoming party of thugs this time—but I couldn’t exactly march into the castle. And the prince was notoriously reclusive. For good reason, apparently.

It would be convenient if we could warn someone else in his stead or send a message, but I didn’t know who to trust. And who would trust me? Even if I weren’t a wanted man, I looked thoroughly disreputable with my bloody, pilfered clothes and my growth of stubble. Jory had cleaned my wounds as well as he was able, but even I could tell how ripe the rest of me smelled. He wasn’t much better.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Of sorts. It’s risky.”

“Will it require another trip to Tewl Loor?”

“No.”

“Then lead on.”

We entered the Royal Quarter via the same route as before. The only people we saw along the isolated path were a group of half-grown girls in decorated tunics. They watched us fearfully as we passed.

The palaces of the nobility were large and showy, each with a front gate guarded by one or two people in livery. It looked to be an incredibly boring job. We walked through alleys whenever possible, between the high walls that surrounded the palaces’ extensive back gardens. Sometimes tall trees overhung the alley, and although they might have been pretty, they compromised the estates’ security.

“You know the back ways well,” I observed.

“I used to travel them often. I’d slip out of my house and sneak down to the outskirts of the Low, at first just for fun but later to meet up with my lover.”

“You weren’t permitted to go?”

“No, not even before my parents learned of him. My parents thought I should spend my time at my studies, but I was never an eager scholar.” He gave a rough laugh. “I used to envy the children I’d see running loose in the other quarters. I thought of them as being free of drudgery and responsibility, but it never occurred to me they were also free of basic needs and safety and parental care. How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Were you envious of the spoiled rich children?”

“I didn’t give them much thought. I rarely left the Low, so most of the people I saw were like me.” Some were worse off, actually. At least I had a healthy body. And I’d had a mother for my beginning years, as insufficient as she was. She hadn’t thrown me in the river as soon as I was born, although sometimes I had wondered why. Maybe she did love me in her own way, and maybe she held some hope for me.

We’d reached an especially narrow alley. A pair of pink and orange jewelsprites, startled at our arrival, scampered up the wall on our right and disappeared over the top. The air smelled of flowers and baking bread, and the smoke was light enough that blue sky shone through. You would think that people who lived in such a pleasant environment would be content, but my recent experience with nobility told me that was not necessarily the case.

Jory stopped and motioned at the white stone wall on our right. “It can be climbed if you’re careful. Are you well enough to manage it, do you think?”

“Probably. You’ve climbed it many times.”

“Not recently, but yes.”

“Why not just come and go through the back gate?” It was unguarded, and although it was surely locked, Jory must have known the lockspell when he lived here. I might be able to take a crack at it myself, since I was good with locks.

“I did at first. But when my parents caught me at it, they set a charm to make me ill if I walked through. After that I learned to climb.”

“You were a prisoner.”

“A privileged one.”

Which was better, I wondered: luxury in a cage or poverty at large?

He scaled the wall first, and I watched carefully. The stones provided precarious toe- and fingerholds. He made it over quickly, and I heard him drop to earth with a soft thud on the other side.

I was less agile due to my injured hand and shoulder. I slipped several times and swore a lot. But I finally made it to the top, panting and in pain. It hurt anew when I tumbled to the other side.

Jory helped me to my feet, and I looked around quickly. It was a lovely place. Pathways of crushed stone formed meandering trails among trees interplanted with shrubs and flowerbeds. A number of statues, apparently generations old, graced the gardens. Many were of animals, a few seemed to represent various deities, and all of them were worn and moss-covered. Jory led us toward a large fountain that trickled peacefully off to one side.

“Aren’t there gardeners?” I whispered.

“Sometimes. I told you this was risky.”

Not far from the fountain and hidden by a line of tall greenery stood a small stone building with a heavy wooden door. Although I couldn’t read the words carved into the pediment, I recognized the figure inscribed above them. I’d recently danced with her.

“The ash house?” I asked.

“Nobody ever goes in there except on festival days.”

I didn’t understand how this was going to get us any closer to the prince, but when Jory inched the door open, I followed him inside.

I’d never been in an ash house before. Very few Lowlers could afford to burn their deceased family members, and those who could scrape together the coins generally kept the remains in a jar somewhere. In the Smith and Silver, burning ceremonies are more commonplace, and small home altars displayed sometimes ornate and expensive ash jars. But the aristocracy is different. They erect structures specifically to keep the jars. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. As a boy, I’d grieved to think of my mother tossed into the river. But filthy as it was, that river was the city’s lifeblood. Now I didn’t mind if my final journey was in those waters.

The dark ash house smelled musty. A few tiny windows pierced the tops of the walls, letting in enough light to illuminate the dust we’d disturbed. In the center of the room stood an altar, currently without offerings, and a pair of low benches. Many stone shelves lined the walls, each of them crowded with jars.

“You have a lot of dead relatives,” I observed.

Jory stroked a dark jar fashioned in the shape of a merman. “We’re an old family. They’re an old family. I’m not a part of it any longer.”

“I’m sorry.”

He flashed a quick smile. “Thank you. I finished that mourning long ago.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“You are going to wait here while I go collect some things from the house.”

“Jory—”

“Don’t argue.” He set a hand on my shoulder but pulled back when I winced. “Sorry. I know my way around the house and you don’t. You’ll only increase our chances of getting caught.”

“But if someone discovers you—”

“Then perhaps you can still find a way to get to the prince. Or you can just leave the city. I don’t want to fight anyone in the house. I know them.”

“I knew Myghal.”

“Yes, but the family servants didn’t betray me. Even my family members didn’t. Yes, they turned me away, but that made sense to them under the circumstances. Honor was more important than I was.”

In my view, that was a type of betrayal as well, but I didn’t say so. I sat on a bench and Jory bent to give me a fast, fierce kiss before he left.

I’ve heard that some people are afraid to be alone in an ash house, but that seemed silly. After all, I’d recently conversed with several dead people who’d shown considerably more vigor than any of the piles of ashes surrounding me. I’d just spent a day toting one of those dead people around. Well, part of him, anyway. If I felt anything at all from the ashes, it was a sense of stolid peace. Alive, these people had been convinced of their worth and superiority, and now their fancy resting place confirmed it. I imagined their ghosts—very different from the ones in Tewl Loor—lounging around, ordering the spirits of servants to see to their needs, trading gossip gone stale hundreds of years ago.

I stood, paced the room a few times, and inspected some of the jars. They each had writing—the name of the person inside, I assumed—but I had to guess at who might be encased in each. If I had to choose a jar to be interred in, I’d opt for one shaped like a knife. That would suit me. I thought about what jar would have awaited Jory but discovered that the notion of his death distressed me.

He was gone a long time, and I startled when the door finally creaked open. He entered with his arms full.

“I haven’t lost my skulking skills,” he said, looking pleased as he set his burden onto the altar.

“We’ve been practicing them of late.”

“So we have.” And he began to strip. I was taken aback at first, thinking the time and place inappropriate for lovemaking. But he chuckled at my stare, handed me a thick cake of soap, and then hefted a large jug. “Be right back.”

He sped out of the ash house completely nude. When he returned moments later, the container was full. He used the water and soap to scrub himself down—he even cleaned his hair. Then, grinning, he ran off and refilled the jug.

It was my turn, apparently, but he wouldn’t let me scrub myself. Too many wounds to be careful of, he explained. His fingers felt lovely on my bare skin. Even better was when he produced a razor and scraped the whiskers from my face.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now that we’re presentable, we get dressed.”

I gaped at the clothing he gave me. Instead of chausses, I had trousers made of turquoise silk. They hung loose around my hips and thighs and were snug along my lower legs. The blouse—too short to be a tunic—was also silk, sleeveless and bright yellow with red piping along the placket. The cloak was actually a cape, the interior of the same yellow silk, with an exterior of plush black velvet embroidered with fanciful creatures.

Jory had a similar costume but with scarlet trousers and a cobalt blouse.

“Explain,” I demanded.

“When I was very young, we had some visitors from… somewhere west of the mountains. They were involved in trade negotiations with my parents and grandmother. They were the most exotic beings I had ever seen. When they left, they gave us some of their clothing and we gave them some of ours. I wonder if they had any use of them? These have been sitting in a cupboard.”

I looked down at myself, unsure of the gaudiness. Jory looked magnificent, of course. I probably just looked ridiculous. “And why do we need them now?”

“We’re going to the castle and telling them that we’re visitors from afar. I’m an interpreter and scribe, but you, Daveth, are a wizard.”

I choked. “Me?”

“You’ve heard about Prince Clesek’s studies and have come all this way to see if he might be willing to exchange information with you.”

“And why in all hells would anyone believe this absurd story?”

“Because I speak a few words of the tongue those visitors spoke—enough to fool the guards, anyway. And you are going to demonstrate some magic.”

Maybe the previous day’s head injury had addled him. “I’m not a wizard. I don’t know magic.”

“Of course not. But neither do the guards. All you have to do is trick them. Don’t say anything, though. We’ll pretend you don’t understand our language.”

“Jory, there’s a good chance they’ll recognize me. I was a guard, remember?”

“But I am a performer, remember?”

And then he sat me down to explain the rest of his plan.