KNITE:

  Sanas was the first to board, displeased to have exchanged mud for mildew and all the more eager to return to more civilized lands. Four women and a dozen men joined us—Jule’s crew. The women marched up the gangway without pause. The men waited in line as, one by one, Jule clipped a metal band around their necks.

  Roche snarled as he walked past them and up the ramp. “Collars,” he spat.

  “A necessity,” Jule said. She pushed up onto the tips of her toes for the last man. He was tall and perilously lean, though his broad shoulders and large hands suggested he was made to carry muscle. “They trust they are free.”

  The tall man croaked, a sign of thirst or a scarcely used voice, “Are you the reason we can no longer save others?”

  Roche hooked a thumb in my direction. He was always quick to deflect blame.

  I stopped in front of the man. “What is your name, soldier?” His scars identified him quickly enough.

  “Kendril. So it was you?”

  I stepped closer. “It is I.”

  “Why?” he asked, looking down at me. I’ve never been a vertically gifted man, and long years and tall brothers had made me used to the fact, but Kendril’s height displeased me for reasons I found challenging to pinpoint.

  “Logistics.” I walked past him and onto the small vessel.

  Throughout our journey, Kendril eyed me at every turn. So did the others in Jule’s crew. Only when the shores of Snowliar came into view did he come to voice his discontent.

  “You’re powerful,” he said. I got the feeling he was preempting an excuse.

  “I am,” I agreed, not looking back from the array of gray blocks dotting the horizon. I straddled the bowsprit, naked feet dangling over the water as the ship cut through the typically unyielding Dead Sea. “Your point?”

  “Else, I’d demand an answer.”

  I glanced back at him. “Ask, and I may give you what you seek.”

  For a moment, he looked confused. Surprised, even. Then he snorted. “Empty words. Your kind is fond of them.”

  “As your kind is fond of bravado. Tell me, soldier, why have you approached me?”

  “To tell you your presence here is tolerated, not wanted.”

  I lifted my legs and spun them over the bowsprit to turn his way. “No, it isn't. The slave in you wanted to rebel in quiet ways, with hot-but-toothless words and quiet looks of enmity. The soldier in you was less satisfied. He wanted to act. To confront. To do more. So, soldier, do more. Ask.”

  Kendril broke eye contact. I didn’t need to use my soulsight to read his emotions. “What did you mean by logistics?” he asked.

  “For all the trust you put in Jule—wearing the collar, braving the Dead Sea, and risking reclamation—I see she has not reciprocated your faith.”

  Kendril spat on the deck. “I knew you were a bag of air. Curse you, godling.” He turned to leave.

  “Just because you have not…”

  The tall man stopped. “You mean—”

  “Logistics. Who did you think was bringing the new arrivals?” I smiled. “If circumstances permit, would you like to join our efforts tonight?”

  “To free slaves?”

  “To free slavers.”

  “Free slavers?”

  My smile turned into a grin. I’m told my grin looks playful to those who don’t know me. Those who do say it teaches them the breadth of terror. “Of their lives, of course.”

  Kendril nodded gravely. I was impressed. He might find necessity in joining us, even some solace in whatever small piece of vengeance he allowed himself, but he was not so broken as to be giddy about the prospect of blood. Not like Roche or Helena. Not like me.

  “He’s refusing to leave with us,” Jule said, having approached me soon after he’d left. There was little darkness in her soul. Not the sinner then, I thought. The saint. That intrigued me. I had believed the darker part of her soul had a larger capacity for anger. I stood corrected.

  I laughed. “That’s unexpected. I’d have wagered on him seeking permission. Good for him.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Can you not wait for him?” I asked.

  “I cannot be there when it happens, whatever you have planned. My identity as a slave merchant is too valuable to put under suspicion.”

  “There is no need to leave.”

  The small spots of darkness on Jule’d soul pulsed, heralding the sinner but not quite fulfilling the promise.

  “Would it help to know you’ll likely approve of my plan?” I asked.

  Jule released a slow breath, her eyes fluttering open when all the air had left her lungs. “Tell me, and we’ll see.”

  “You’ll certainly approve of my plan.”

  She growled. Honestly growled. Like a wild beast. “Cease your childish games and tell me of your plan.”

  “I don’t trust you,” I said bluntly. “And until my plan comes to fruition, I won't.”

  “What makes you think I’ll trust you?”

  “I don’t.” I hopped onto the ship’s deck, landing beside the captain. “Stay or leave—my plans will work out the same. I only meant to inform you that leaving has no bearing on what will happen. You will, however, have to endure the chore of sailing back to Snowliar if you choose to leave.”

  “Neither your word nor Kendril’s life is worth the risk.”

  “But it isn't just Kendril, is it?”

  Words trembled on her lips. In the end, she stormed off in a huff, her soul ablaze.

  I found Sanas high up on one of the masts, lying in a hammock she’d fashioned from silk and tied to ropes. She’d donned fresh garments, clean and scented with floral perfumes, her similarly scented fiery hair glistening in the humid air.

  “We must speak,” I said, hanging off a horizontal beam.

  Sanas sat up to regard me, the movement adding to the wind-induced sway of her makeshift bed. “About?”

  “What we’re about to do.” I looked towards the growing cityscape of Snowliar. The dots of gray had turned to oblong pebbles. “We are nearly there.”

  “For another massacre?”

  I pulled myself up onto the beam and settled into a crouch. “Are you ready to do your part?”

  Sanas sighed. Somehow, there was a strength to the gesture. Resolve. “I’ll do as my conscience instructs.”

  “And if it pushes you into my path rather than on it?”

  Her smile was complex, rueful yet confident, and more genuine for it. “My conscience is too smart to sentence me to a worthless death. No, the worst I’ll do against your efforts is to exclude my involvement.”

  “And Roche?”

  She sighed again, this one tired. Resigned. “Promise me he’ll earn no sin.”

  “I won’t. My only promise is to nudge him towards targets his soul will recognize as worthwhile. The rest is up to him. He is too old for you to coddle, Sanas.”

  “I suppose I can’t ask for more.”

  “You can, but you won’t. You trust yourself well enough not to fail just to know you would.”

  ***

  I was right. All but the four women in Jule’s crew were of the mind to stay. In turn, so too was Jule. I deduced the men she’d commissioned onto her ship were the best she could find among the rescued slaves. Grateful as they were for their rescue, Kendril had, during their harrowing time as slaves, fostered more than gratitude; they followed him out of a sense of kinship, of shared horrors.

  With the ship docked, I left the slaves and their watcher to huddle and hide within its hull. The next part was for me and mine to complete.

  The port was busy with activity. Against the backdrop of the ever-silent Dead Sea, ship captains and their crews whipped their living—in so much as their hearts still beat and their lungs still drew air—merchandise from their ships and into orderly rows, readying them to be eaten by the dozen maw-like entrances situated to the left of the incline leading up to the town-sized city. To the right were a dozen more maws spewing out a line of broken men as they were directed toward the docks. The two ships receiving slaves, larger vessels kept apart and given prime locations, were unlike those making deliveries. They were sleeker, cleaner, newer, and better-built ships captained by sturdy Triplers rather than soft merchants. The sight made me wonder how Jule managed to get permission to sail into Halor. Then I reasoned Mistress Stone needed a captain who didn’t have the look of a slaver, someone who could lure the hapless free men they caught without the hassle of force.

  We disembarked and entered the haze of bodies and odors, hidden by crowds and sensus both—our mission required as much stealth as strength. Helena led our group, followed by Roche and Sanas. I closed out the rear. We weaved towards and up the stairs, undisturbed. The combination of Helena and Roche delivered us to the city proper’s entrance unseen. Alas, the gate was protected by more than just guards. Unlike other city lords, Mistress Stone, whose illicit trade called for secrecy, didn’t have the protection of a widespread and tyrannical reputation. And so her methods of protection were subtler, more built on detection than on intimidation or deterrence.

  I cut Roche’s Tunnels short as we approached the gate. He looked back at me with a frown, clearly not having noticed the matrixes chiseled within the gate’s metal frame. The prospect of satiating his vices tended to narrow his focus. He was, at most other times, a perceptive fellow.

  The guards pointed their spears at Helena, who held her hands up and backed away.

  “Who are you?” one of the guards said. Her eyes were wild with panic. A group of strange men and women appearing from thin air tends to put guards off-kilter.

  My soulsight pierced the walls of the stone barbican. One soul behind a desk in an office above the gateway. A lowly godling, so low she might not have even been a Tripler, sat reading reports and sipping wine. The on-duty watch commander, if I had to guess. The rooms to the left and right of the gate were clear, one filled with armor and weaponry, the other lined with shelves of rolled and stacked papers. Further investigation showed seven guards within earshot, none Named or of royal blood.

  “Without sound,” I said, pooling a weak illusion at our backs.

  Helena got hers first. Moon slid through the guard’s throat and skittered across the head of her spine. The guard fell, feebly clutching at her gaping wound.

  Roche took pleasure in his kill. He’d been swift to start, dashing in to rip away the protective necklace of ivory she wore. To enter her soul, to do more than shape her aura, he needed past her borrowed defenses. And so he ripped the ivory off her petite neck, spilling the cadaverous beads to the stone. His Tunnels absorbed her attention, forcing her to concentrate on her inability to breathe and the pain of the thin wire he dug under her left ear and through her neck. She died. Her heart failed more out of shock than injury. The boy had killed her with pain.

  “Oh, I was enjoying myself,” Roche complained. “Why’d she have to go and die so quickly.”

  “Hide the bodies,” I ordered. “Sanas, burn the blood on the ground and walls. Just the blood. No scorch marks.”

  We rushed in and out of the gatehouse, then into the gray streets of Snowliar, the five remaining gate guards and the weak Tripler no wiser to our entry. Our target was clear. The castle made little effort to excuse its presence, hulking above all but the outer walls. Sharp edges, coned towers, and crenelated parapets dared enemies to attack. I’d never responded well to provocation, but when they seek to provoke me into an action I’ve already decided on, who am I not to oblige us both?

  Roche’s Tunnels returned to masking our presence, and we ran through the gray streets and alleys of Snowliar, closing in on the city lord’s residence.

  I sighed in relief once we neared Stone’s stronghold. Slavery is a dark business. To be successful, you must accept this darkness and let it seep into your soul. I spotted the ink of sin on almost all of the souls who roamed within. Even the servants weren’t free of the stains. Only two remained outside my judgment. The first was in the heart of the domain, too young to commit evil. So young they hadn't yet forged the intent needed to sin. The other was in the dungeon, bound in prevailing chains of enchanted metals, collared, and locked in a skeleton room. He was less innocent but not so guilty as to bring him within reach of my inimical care.

  The portcullis was closed but unmanned. Sanas’s flames made short work of melting away the lock. Roche melded the molten iron back into place to disguise the damage well enough to fool distant eyes.

  Inside was a large, open area separating us and the main household, a field of gray stone. Helena scanned the battlements atop the curtain walls. There was no need. No guards patrolled them. Most of the souls I sensed were inside an austere, windowless building to the left. The barracks for Stone’s personal guard, I assumed.

  Two died on our way across the courtyard. The first was a finely dressed older woman with immaculately well-groomed hair and a look of disbelief at seeing unfamiliar persons daring to swagger across the castle grounds. Sanas tackled her to the ground and dug flame-licked thumbs into her eyes, surprising and delighting Roche in equal measure. The second was a servant carrying folded bedding in a large basket. She was lucky the silken sheets were piled high enough to hide her death from her. Unseen, Helena slithered behind the unsuspecting maid and slipped Pin into her brain through the base of her neck. The maid expired like one might fall asleep—without pain and unaware. Guilty or not, Helena never cherished the murder of commoners.

  I came to a halt outside the short steps of the manor entrance. “Roche.” I nodded towards the barracks.

  Roche stretched an invisible wire between his hands, biting his lower lip to stop himself from howling in joy. Then he leaped to his task.

  “Helena, all but the child and the prisoner.” I looked back at her. “Leave the prisoner in his cage and the child in her crib. Alive.”

  Helena nodded before gliding past me and merging with the shadows. Somehow, the shadows were darker and quieter for having accepted her. That thought prompted me to take a moment to erect a wind barrier around the barracks. Roche’s methods were as loud as Helena’s were quiet, one of many differences between my spy and assassin.

  The uppermost floor of the central keep was bound in layers of matrixes, pointing me to the lady of the city. I raced towards my target, slowed only by Sanas’ less impressive speed.

  Stone’s home was an odd contradiction of frugality and extravagance. The building was made of stone. Reinforced stone, but stone nonetheless. Despite that, complex matrixes were installed ubiquitously. For warmth, for fresh air, for music, and for countless other more trivial yet lavish purposes. The same went for the rugs lining the corridors. They were made from mundane creatures of local origin—unevolved bears, wolves, and other such animals—but had impressively constructed and imparted matrixes that made them akin to those of more expensive materials.

  Sacrificing stealth for haste, I brute-forced the door at the end of the spiral staircase leading up to the topmost floor and the matrixes protecting it, putting my shoulder and sensus into the lunge. The door crashed open. Beyond was a single, expansive room, a bedroom, a study, and a library set next to each other without the hassle of walls to separate them. Stone sat in a padded chair in the far corner, a tome in her lap. I recognized her. Barely. The damage and restraints she suffered made her soul unrecognizable, but the hardness in her eyes and the age in her gaze remained, and I recognized her. She was old. Too old. For a Fiora of her skill, she was not so old as to have her age reach the surface, yet folds of liver-spotted skin, thinning strands of silver hair, and milky white eyes confuted that claim.

  “So you’ve returned,” she said, closing her leather-bound book. For all the age her body suffered, her lively voice remained unaffected by the ills of her body and soul.

  I stepped into the room. “How have you fallen so low, niece of mine, to become a servant to cousins you once called lesser?”

  The old woman smiled—a pale thing compared to the dangerous radiance she’d once ruthlessly bared. “It is the way of things, for falling to be much easier than climbing. Faster, too.”

  I smiled back. “Ironic, coming from a Fiora as old as you are.”

  “And truer for it. I was born to fall.”

  I shrugged. “As are we all. Some just hold on longer than others. I must say, I’d pegged you as one who’d outlast many of your contemporaries.”

  “As did I.” Her smile reflected the melancholy of regret. “I suspect that is the very reason I failed to live up to our expectations. Conceit grows well on success. So, have you come to end me?”

  “Maybe,” I said, walking deeper into the room. “That would depend.”

  “On?” she asked.

  I came to stand before her. “When and how you knew I’d returned?”

  “When you called me ‘niece of mine.’”

  I laughed and engaged my soulsight. “And here I’d thought you were talking to me when I knocked on your door. I see now you were talking to the man you sold into slavery.”

  The old woman inclined her head. “So, what has my answer earned me?”

  “Come now, Polerma. You know I’m starting a war. Why would I kill those I can recruit into my army?”

  Polerma shuddered. “You mean—”

  “I can sense her machinations on you,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ll be more thorough, but fear not, I’ll not be nearly as vindictive. You’ll have to tell me how you ended up at her mercy. But that is a tale for another time.”

  Polerma sighed as only those who were truly tired could. “My family…”

  “You’re granddaughter is safe. As for her mother, if I know Helena, and I do, she is already dead. Since she’s so weak as to fall under the blade of a mere Named, I reckon her death won't bother you over much.”

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  “It does. She is the only one of my children not to discard me.”

  “That is unfortunate. Alas, it is also unavoidable.”

  A deep breath helped Polerma sit up straight. “Then begin.”

  I obliged. Like falling is easier than climbing, destruction is easier than creation. However, that is not the case for bindings of the soul. But then again, perhaps it is—I wasn’t looking to destroy; I was aiming to dismantle. Worse, I had to undo a particularly nasty matrix blocking Polerma’s powerful soul from healing her body. That explained her elderly ailments. By the end, I was just glad Elur didn't have the talent for Tunneling that her sister had.

  All of my guards came and went. I ignored them, not by choice but by necessity. My task took all my concentration to accomplish without dipping into the well of Meaning my talent offered. Half a day passed before I finished. Polerma was slouched in the chair, dark circles under her eyes. Still, she looked night and day. Her freed soul had reached back into her body and rebuked time for daring to invade. Thick, platinum hair with hints of gold had replaced the broken and bent wisps of gray. Pockmarked and slack skin had smoothed, recovering the tautness of youth. And there she sat, having shed Elur’s prison of old age, Polerma, the oldest and most potent of Grono’s Fioras.

  “How many in the city know of your imprisonment, of who you really are?” I asked.

  She raised a finger. “But one.”

  “I assume she’s not yours.”

  She scoffed. “Only in so much as she’s willing to play the part.”

  “A spy.”

  Polerma straightened, her posture and expression as imperious as when she’d been at the height of her power. “Shackled or not, I am still Polerma kin Grono. Elur is not so reckless as to have me serve her without some way of keeping an eye on me.”

  “Did you not serve Lira?”

  “As far as she knew.”

  My open-mouthed smile was quick. It had to be. Salivating is undignified. Most of all when you let it trickle into sight. Swallowing the waters of my lust, I said, “Then you’ll not mind my making a snack of her.”

  Polerma stood. She stretched her arms, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. As air filled her lungs, the Golem matrixes around the room rattled and flashed, and the sensus imbued in them funneled into her.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  Polerma’s arms dropped to her sides. “More a feast than a snack, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Tut-tut, Polerma. Banish the thought. There’ll not be enough of her left for you to revenge upon once I am done.”

  Polerma shrugged, trying to hide her disappointment. “She is where she usually is—her estate near the main gate.”

  There came a knock. Roche and Helena strode in. The former carried his disappointment like a surly child, all open and exaggerated. There must not have been many victims for him in Polerma’s barracks. The latter held a quiet child wrapped in a bundle of thinly woven cotton. Behind them was Captain Jule. She stopped by the door, her suspicious gaze studying everything it reached.

  “You,” Roche said, pointing at Polerma accusingly. “If you’re only going to keep a mere twenty in your retinue of armed staff, they’ve got to be of a certain caliber. I walked in there expecting a worthy challenge.” He threw his arms up. “Do you know what I found instead? I’ll tell you what I found. I found—”

  “Roche,” I said. He fell quiet, but only after he blew out an exasperated breath. I turned to Helena. “The child?”

  Helena gently rocked the bundle in her arms, patting the infant's back. “She started crying. Since I’d killed her caretaker, I felt obliged to take on the role until such a time as I can find a more appropriate replacement.”

  I gave her a quizzical look. “Odd. I’d never have guessed you’d one day sympathize with a godling.”

  “She’s a child,” Helena protested.

  “So were some of those godlings we came across in the bandit’s camp.” I held up a hand to stop her from protesting the difference of a mere decade. “The prisoner?”

  “I think you’ll like who I’ve got locked downstairs,” Polerma cut in. I waved her on. “Well, let’s just say you’ve just reassembled the greater part of your famous Quinary, although”—she gestured at Helena—“I suppose her addition would render the name inaccurate.”

  “Halga?” Sanas asked from the doorway, the light of hope in her eyes.

  Roche shook his head, his expression both sad and guilty. “No. Bainan would never let Halga leave his House. She is too talented a Duros. I think Polerma here has Kip locked in her dungeon.”

  “I know,” I said. “Still, that is good news.” And it was. My Golodanian was a welcome asset. “Sanas, go free our man from bondage. I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm meal and a soft bed. Polerma, meet Captain Jule, leader of Halor’s rebelion. Jule, meet Polerma, Fiora of House Grono, the true face behind Mistress Stone. I’m sure you two have matters to discuss. Helena, see about quietly freeing a slave capable of nursing that child.”

  “Where will you be going?” Helena asked.

  “To cut the last string of Elur’s control over this city.” I got to my feet. “Roche, come. We have the matters to deal with.”

  Roche clapped his hands. “Really? Are there any godlings among them?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, “but I’m certain they consist of the strongest fighters in Snowliar, present company excluded, of course.”

  ***

  Sishal was in a small manor a little north and west of the city gate. A modest place for someone of her intemperate disposition, it was roughly a hundred paces on all sides and surrounded by four-story homes still wearing their original skeletons—Snowliar was built from the ruins of a much older city. Grass blanketed the inner courtyard, and a few structures embellished the otherwise open space: four stone benches marked the four corners, gray and sleek; a white gazebo decorated with murals of Elur sat in the center, its colors—and that of the greenery—conspicuous in the gray atmosphere of the city. As you’d expect, the place was quiet. I doubt Sishal was the type to enjoy the company of others, and with her lack of sanity, I doubt slaves or servants would last long under her employ.

  The gray wood of Sishal’s weathered gate shimmered like metal. I glanced over at Roche’s distorted reflection. He glanced over at mine.

  “Your prey is not here,” I said to him. “Go to the city gate. I suspect you’ll find them there.” I turned to look at him. “Do not make a spectacle of it.”

  “But—”

  “Use whatever flourishes you care to entertain yourself with. However, I’ll be more than disappointed if I find that your deed was witnessed by someone uninvolved because of a lack of self-restraint on your part.”

  “I—”

  “I do not need your words to service my ears, Roche. I need your actions to observe my wishes.” I turned away from him and pressed my hands against the wood of the gray doors, finding they shared more than a visual resemblance to metal. “Once you return, tell Polerma to send a squadron of abled and trusted bodies to the gate. Others will need to take over their duties.”

  Heavy and aged as they were, the doors did not creak. Sishal sensed my entry some other way. The matrix she engaged shut down the moment I cracked open the door. She looked over at me from where she sat in the middle of the gazebo, the manic craze I remembered lighting up her eyes.

  “You came back,” she said, standing. “For me? How kind of you to save me from having to hunt you down.”

  I returned her smile, open-mouthed, the dribble of my hunger coming down the corners of my mouth. Dignity can only be lost in the presence of those who have their own. No maiden feels the urge to cover her nakedness from a whore, nor does a man strive too diligently to hide his fear from a coward.

  “I had first thought you served Lira,” I said. “I wonder if she knows you don’t.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  I licked the dribble off my chin before it traveled outside the reach of my tongue. “Your true master must truly worry over her sister. Or maybe it’s because she needs her for the slave trade that keeps the island of Halor strong. For all her faults, Lira and her progeny are the only Tunnellers skilled in the art of rearing slaves.”

  Sishal approached, all casual-like, the hypnotic, graceful, and deadly sway of her hips doing nothing to dull her ugliness. “Clever as always. Mistress Elur explained her worth when I suggested we kill the old hag.”

  I wagged my finger. “Careful. Whatever else Lira may be, she is still a sister to the godling you worship.”

  “Enough foreplay.” Sishal rolled her shoulders, slipped her blade from its scabbard, and settled into a sword stance. “Let’s dance.”

  “Have you not paused to consider—”

  She attacked—a horizontal slash. I stepped back. Her double-edged sword reversed course. Another step back and another miss. She drew a small blade from her shoulder sheath with her free hand as she swiped at me with her sword a third time. I stepped back once more. The small blade flew at me the moment I dodged. I plucked the knife from the air.

  The first hint of fear.

  Calm yourself, I told myself. A meal rushed is a meal ruined.

  Sishal came again. And Again. And again. And kept failing. All her tactics. Her training. Her skill. Nothing she did reached me. And with every failed attempt, the fear grew.

  “You’re a godling.” The tip of her blade fell. She was breathing hard. Frantic fear had replaced her manic lust for blood.

  “I am.” I bit my lower lip and hissed in a breath. Soon, I would taste her. Soon…

  “A Fiora?”

  I cocked my head. “Have you given up?”

  Sishal heard the ridicule in my voice, saw the hunger in my eyes, and felt the surety in my smile. Anger bubbled in her soul. “I am not one to surrender. Death or victory are the only crossroads my life transverses.”

  “Then enough talk.”

  Sishal retook her stance. Her breathing evened out. Sensus coalesced on her blade and feet. More than before. A final move. A desperate last stand.

  I delivered the blow before she knew I had. A palm to her chest and a pulse of a Surgeon matrix, and her sword fell to the grass. She followed. Wide eyes stared up at me. I saw myself reflected in them: A man, his darkness offset by a bright smile and joy-filled eyes. Her fear climaxed. A chuckle rushed out from between my open-mouthed, salivating smile.

  I spent a day and a night enjoying Sishal. She was everything I expected. On the cusp of the following day, when only the last drop of her life remained, I stopped, content if not full. She’d lost what little remained of her sanity by then, the ebbs and flows of the agony I imparted eroding its shores until the already diminutive island was no more, and all that remained was a sea of madness.

  I looked at the withered Sishal, and a thought struck me. The Halorians were chasing a ghost. They must be, what with the increase in attacks on slavers, the commotion in Lira’s domain, the rescue of Aminy under Elur’s nose, the whispers of what befell Kilan’s agents, her visit to Haloryarey, and now the wrestling of control over Snowliar. Why not add to the mix? Why not give them a ghost to chase?

  I looked down at the deathly figure of Sishal. Why not, indeed, I thought.

  ***

  Kipsith barged into the inn. Polerma had offered to vacate the keep, but I wished for her to remain ruler of Snowliar—a task made harder if her sovereignty was muddied by the deference I’d forced upon her. Like most persons of his skill and heritage, Kip hadn't changed much since last I saw him. He stood a head shorter and a handbreadth thinner than average, preferred to cut his beard and hair just about long enough to notice he had any, wore jewelry wherever he found space, and sported the type of careless grin people relished wiping off of whatever smug bastard wore it. He came to stand beside me as I nursed the only remaining cup of Silas’ brew I found in the city.

  “Were they gold before you got your hands on them?” I asked without looking at him.

  He held up the necklaces he wore around his neck. “Some. I found this here beauty around a prettily broken neck.”

  “I assume you got your hands around the neck before you got them around the jewelry.”

  Kip’s grin grew wider. “Few can break necks as prettily as I can. After a thousand or so, you begin to appreciate the artistry.”

  I looked at Kip from the corner of my eye. He glowed with happiness. I groaned. The man was insufferably cheerful even in moments of sorrow. I was not looking forward to enduring the cheer he could now muster after having been freed from his grueling captivity. And it was a grueling experience. The scars on his soul told a story of unimaginable torture, and since, as a Golodanian godling, son of The Golden King himself, his soul was irrevocably tied to his body, his scars were visible to the naked eye as a series of healed tears and gashes crisscrossing his skin.

  “You survived,” I said.

  “Evidently. You know, life is—”

  “Many would’ve perished.”

  “Why, thank you. I'd have congratulated me too if I didn’t fear sounding pompous.”

  “Golodan is no more.”

  “I know. Wonderful, isn't it?”

  I looked away, already sick of his grin and fighting the urge to punch him into a brooding silence. “Will you stay?”

  “You would let me go if I wished?” The grin remained, but the merriment on the rest of his face quietened.

  “A man can only take so much suffering without a cause he deems more important than his fate.” I turned to face him. “Golodan is no more.”

  Kip looked away. “Will staying let me break necks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean Islander necks?”

  I nodded. “Considering my enemies, you’ll probably get your hands on a godling or two.”

  “Great!” He began to sit.

  “No,” I said.

  “Come now, Lord.” He leaned over the counter and grabbed a bottle from the bar’s rebuilt shelves. “I’m sure we can regale each other with stories aplenty. How long has it been?”

  “Long enough for you to forget how much you annoy me.” I downed what remained of my drink. “Maybe another time. Now give me that bottle and leave me be.”

  I got good and drunk that night. A mean feat for someone of my hardy constitution. The following day, I orchestrated and partook in the death of over two hundred. Yes, I knew when I started drinking what awaited me. And no, one had little to do with the other.

  The first of the slave ships arrived before sunrise. I was there to greet them. Without me, some of my subordinates—particularly Roche—might’ve killed more than my oaths allowed. Sanas chose to be absent. Kip was addicted to honesty. Whatever truths he’d shared about his time with Bainan filled her with enough dread to anchor her to a bed.

  The first captain to disembark was a flat-faced Tripler with an impressive overbite. She and her ships had much in common; both were fat and expensively ugly.

  “Where is my cargo?” she asked, coastal winds rendering her voluminous robes unfit for purpose.

  Seven women with severe expressions and studded whips wrapped up and around their forearms followed her off the ship, ready to escort the consignment of slaves they expected. Behind them, a dozen sailors went to and fro, handling various nautical tasks while dozens more were busy docking two other ships. No one but my three guards and I welcomed them.

  Helena stepped forward. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “A change of plans?” the Tripler sneered. “And who are you, commoner, to speak to me so casually? A Named?”

  Helena shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain. I used to be.”

  “What petulance! Before I have you thrashed, bring Sishal here so she may explain to me why I must suffer such a deplorable reception.”

  Helena looked back at me. The gesture did not escape the suddenly nervous Tripler.

  “Leave those on the ships,” I said. A few would see the next day, and I needed time to separate them from the others.

  Roche got to the godling first. Helena had closed in far sooner, but Telum Arts gave Roche a reach Helena’s speed failed to overcome on this occasion. To her frustration, she found the godling sliding apart as soon as Pin struck.

  Kip, the slowest of my guards, made do with the slave handlers, grabbing one by the arm and swinging her into another. They collided with a sickening sound, the slap of flesh and the crack of bones singing notes of carnage. Both victims fell limp, dead from the impact.

  “You like whipping others, do you?” Kip shouted, his tanned skin gleaming under the first rays of morning.

  We killed sixty from those first three ships. Those that followed offered more.

  Merchants did not keep slaves openly. Most ports outside Halor found slavery brutish, and any merchant flagrantly partaking in the practice was given very little consideration when it came to other forms of trade—one of very few traditions of decency remaining from Merkusian’s rule. As such, we massacred the crew of almost every merchant ship we sacked to the last. To my guard’s delight, out of the fifteen ships who’d trickled into Snowliar that day, all were captained by merchants. Of those fifteen, only one had come without slaves.

  Six days and countless deaths later, the coming ships slowed. On the eighth day, no ships came in sight of Snowliar’s coast. Or the ninth. The tenth, eleventh, and twelfth had us standing there, waiting and patrolling for ships that never came. On the thirteenth, a familiar shape broke through the horizon.

  Captain Jule came off her ship, naked as ever. Aminy skipped past her. If my inference was in any way accurate, I knew why her soul blazed with happiness. Merkon came down third, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tight. Then came a trail of former slaves led by Kendril, half of them marveling at being reintroduced to civilization, the other half throwing fearful glances at the maw-like entrances of the slave dungeons as if they were nightmares made real.

  Merkon stalked in my direction. His coarse, servant-gray clothes did little to hide his royal features. Though he was far from the most fair-haired or fair-skinned Fiora, and though he’d inherited very little of his mother’s talent for sensus, his competency in martial skills and the comparative luxury he grew up in gave him a presence too volatile and free-willed to match the subservience his attire symbolized.

  “I’m a prisoner,” he complained.

  “Prisoners are imprisoned to stop them from causing harm. One might say you are the opposite of a prisoner.” I smirked as a familiar face came to mind. “Someone bolder than I might go so far as to say I’ve turned the world into a prisoner for you.”

  Merkon shook his head. “Whatever game you are playing and however well you are playing it, it matters naught because I am not playing.”

  “Ah, come now, not even a little?” I said. “Here, let me help. If Aki were here, that is the boy who’s replaced you by the way, he’d correct me and say imprisonment is more punitive than preventative.”

  “He might’ve replaced me,” Merkon said, his teeth clenched as he spoke, “but I have not replaced him. Since my supposed rescue, I’ve been confined, forced to wear the clothes of a servant, and left in the custody of slavers.”

  “Are you well fed?”

  “So?”

  “Clothed and caused no harm? Given all the resources you needed to practice and advance your sensus and Art?”

  “That is beside the point.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Then what about the fact that you’re here.”

  “Here? Again, so what? A different city, yet the same prison.”

  “This city is now a haven for all the slaves rescued from Halor.”

  “So?”

  I let out a breath. The boy was quickly ruining the impression I had of him. “So hide among them, as free as you can be within the limits of this city’s walls.”

  The tenseness in his shoulders eased. “Better, but still a prison.”

  Resisting the urge to slap him and rebuking myself for having the impulse to act like my sister, I said, “What is it you would have me do? Take you back to your mother? Your birth mother, I mean. Or maybe you want to try your luck in Golodan and take up arms to protect the raids falling on the land your grandmother forced us to conquer? Tell me, young blood, what do you wish of me?”

  He took a step forward. “Send me to Partum or Celer. Gods, I’d even risk dying of hunger in Durum.”

  I kissed my teeth. “You think yourself any safer in their lands. Your mother has spies everywhere, and eventually, she will find you. Trust me, you do not want to be found.”

  “You keep telling me—”

  Pain. I gave him a sliver of what I’d saved him from. He threw back his head and screamed, eyes full of horror. When the moment passed, he fell to his knees, staring up as tears ran down.

  I leaned in close. “The doors are open. No one will stop you from leaving. Just know this pain you feel is but a fraction of the pain that awaits you outside the walls of my protection. The choice is yours.”

  Jule ordered one of the ex-slaves to help Merkon stand. “He’s grown restless,” she said. “Young men are never happy being tied down. It’s why they make for poor slaves.” She smiled. “Poor husbands, too.”

  “I hope this has proven me trustworthy,” I said.

  Jule looked at me sideways. “You think torturing the boy won you my trust?”

  I watched Merkon being carried up to the city, his sobs tickling the edges of my hearing. “Pain can be a valuable lesson.” I turned to face her. “But no, I was speaking of my giving you a true refuge.”

  “Yes,” she said tentatively, “I am beginning to trust that freeing slaves is part of whatever you are trying to accomplish.”

  “So then, when will you bring the real rebellion to the city.”

  Jule froze.

  “Calm yourself,” I said, and seeing her hand reach for her waist, added, “and try not to be rash.”

  Jule took a deep breath and pushed the darkness back. “When?”

  “Some might take offense at being so underestimated.” I shrugged. “Lucky for you, I am fond of being underestimated. The inverse can be rather bothersome.”

  “When?” she repeated.

  “As soon as I saw the place. You expected me to believe years of effort amounted to half a century of rescued men, a score of tents, and one badly constructed wooden building? As if that wasn’t enough, all the other signs I’ve witnessed since have only furthered my suspicion. I’d hoped you’d confess as our cooperation continued, but here we are.”

  “Who are you?”

  “An enemy of Lorail.”

  “Not an enemy of slavery?”

  “That too, in a way. It just so happens both require the same solution.”

  Jule narrowed her eyes. “But which is more important to you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You want Lorail dead.” It wasn’t a question. “What if abolishing slavery requires her to live?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Say it did.”

  “I’d kill her.”

  Jule was taken aback by my raw honesty. “You didn’t even try to deny it.”

  “No point. And as I’ve told you before, I don’t lie. You asked the question knowing the answer in any case. I’ll do you the favor of forgiving you for testing me.”

  Jule laughed. “Oh, how magnanimous of you. My thanks.”

  I grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull herself free. My grip was iron. A wave of sensus hit me, something reminiscent of Tunnels yet more dispersed, less focused, and directed more at my consciousness than my soul.

  “A favor,” I said, my will too strong to be diverted.

  The wave ceased. Jule nodded. “Thank you.” There was a lot less mirth in her tone this time.

  ***

  That summer, Polerma solidified her control, identifying and crushing those discontent with Snowliar’s new outlook on slavery. Jule and Aminy made numerous excursions to Halor, always returning with more freed slaves. To keep up appearances, I’d tasked Kip, Helena, and Roche with investigating and raiding any merchants and free cities surreptitiously dealing in slaves. This netted us a small trickle of men we were willing to give to Jule to sell in Haloryarey. A calculated move. By still supplying Halor with slaves but limiting any who did not come through Lira’s domain, we’d slowly allowed her to gain more power. And seeing as everything she was and owned was mine…

  Autumn saw a fleet of fifty-odd ships sail for Snowliar, all bearing Elur’s flag. I flew with Zephyr Arts—a feat only a Leaf could accomplish with any practicality—and burned down a few leading ships with a barrage of Ignis matrixes. Once I beheaded their strongest warrior, a Seculor Painter who believed herself capable of flight and thus was, the rest turned tail and ran back from whence they came. Roche and Helena fumed when they heard they’d missed the encounter.

  Midwinter. I sat at the inn’s bar. Kip and a gaily sober Roche sat beside me. Thankfully, their cheer was directed at the host of new patrons the inn now suffered.

  Sanas descended the stairs and approached, her hair swaying like the licks of a drowsy fire. “I almost miss The Bridge.”

  “You're doing better,” I said.

  “I am?”

  “You mentioned The Bridge in jest.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “And you’ve been leaving your room more often.”

  Sanas frowned. “Halga’s situation isn't so easy to ignore. The past is easier to forget than the present. After all, memories fade while the nightmares grow vivid and diversify.”

  I brought a goblet of wine to my lips. Trade had brought a crate of decent wine to the city—a heavy price for Snowliar’s sudden popularity. Rumors had invited a deluge of visitors, swelling the once spacious city. First were the merchants. They came for the opportunity to saturate a newly opened market. One or two, to begin with, came to scout the truth of what they’d heard. Then they came by caravans and ships, tugging along a neverending line of new settlers looking to escape the other free cities in the region—godlings' rule was lax, more so this far from the capital, and the lords of these cities were left to get drunk on their unbridled control over their domains. That these men and women, children in tow, sought to come to a place known for slavery was indicative of how horrid the free cities of this region were.

  “How long will we remain here?” Sanas asked.

  I picked up the half-finished bottle and poured the libation into my goblet until it threatened to overflow. “Me? I’ll stay until winter ends. Lura is unlikely to send a more handsome fleet, but I think it best to let matters settle before we proceed.”

  “And me?”

  “You’ll stay until you choose to join Aminy or the others in their outings.”

  Sanas snatched the goblet from my hand and drained the wine in three large gulps. Roche, seeing this, extricated himself from the well-endowed merchant’s wife he’d courted for the evening.

  “Sanas?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, slapping away his reaching hand.

  “You’re drinking wine.”

  Sanas turned to him, perfectly sober. Though she was a capable Reaper, she’d never found a reason to figure out how to let alcohol affect her. “If I can let go of the pain from The Bridge, I can surely let go of the oldest and dullest pain I hold.”

  Roche put a hand on her shoulder and ran it down her arm, his concern softening his jaunty expression. “Be careful not to overcome this hurdle just to fall into a pit.”

  Sanas placed my goblet before me, nodded, and marched back up the stairs. She was not used to being comforted by Roche. I knew because I watched her emotions roil, determination and humiliation fighting for control. I hoped the former won out. There was once a time I would’ve been sure.

  Roche watched her leave, pity etched onto his face. If only he knew that it was that very look that had driven her back into isolation, but his respect would not allow him to read her aura.

  “Where will you go?” Roche asked.

  I poured another drink. “To prepare.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  I paused, goblet held away from my waiting lips. One breath. Another.

  “Apologies,” Roche said. “I did not mean to pry.”

  I took a sip. “You did. Why else would you apologize?”

  Roche laughed nervously but said no more. Then he bowed and left to rejoin the eager merchant’s wife, who swooned over him.

  That’s how I spent the rest of winter: drinking and waiting. My plans were slow by design. Overthrowing the ugly thing born out of Merkusian’s death and nourished by the carcass of his life’s work could not be done in one fell swoop. No, I had to chip away at their already fractious cohesion. Worse, I had to make sure the bites I took did not leak so much blood as to attract foreign predators.

  And so, for him and his legacy, I did not rush my task.