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  5 Kilessin

  Cyriana sneered at an irritating rhythm from Eloran’s cane tapping against unwashed floorboards in the tenement. The brass-crowned stick produced a cadence every bit as loud on wood as it did on cobblestones outside. She nurtured the thought of snapping it over her knee, but soon decided against the cruel gesture.

  “Leave the conversing to me whenever possible,” he remarked. “She can be a shy girl, and you aren’t the welcoming sort with your scowly face.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the model of comfort. But if you insist I stay tight-lipped, who am I to argue?”

  “One further addendum. You’re likely to believe she’s a teenager when you glimpse her. But Zalla’s older and more experienced than you might think based on her appearance.”

  “If she possesses the talents you claim I won’t make any kiddie quips. Satisfied?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to be.” Eloran lifted a hand upon reaching one unassuming door and smacked its surface. “Lass?” he hollered. “Zalla, are you in there?”

  “Doesn’t seem as though anyone is home,” Cyriana mumbled. “What a joy this excursion has been.”

  “Have patience. She’ll be here.”

  “When? Might not saunter to her abode for another day. Do you feel like camping in some squalid tenement hallway counting blood and puke stains in the meantime?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Neither do I as it happens. Fortunate you found me in an unusually charitable mood. I’m willing to wait a little while for your girl to show her face. Otherwise we hightail it out of this wretched coastal city. Fact is, we don’t need her. I have only your word to go on that she’s a boon to our company.”

  “I would’ve thought my word carries more weight in your mind.”

  “You also vouched for Hasrin,” Cyriana retorted. “Remember how that turned out?”

  “Hasrin was a shifty crook and I told you so at the beginning.”

  “We all are. But I didn’t expect him to steal from fellow crooks. Aren’t we supposed to have a code or some such?”

  “First I’m hearing of it. Cleverer brigands steal from the dumber ones with an unfortunate consistency. Be proud you fall into the former category on most days.” Eloran pounded a fist on the scratched wood once again. “Are you lounging about, Zalla? Open the door for an old friend.”

  “Shush,” Cyriana remarked, touching a forefinger to her lips. “Stop your damned thumping. Thought I heard a creak.”

  “This whole place creaks. It was probably you shifting your own feet.”

  “Trust those of us who still have their hearing. The sound came from beyond this door. I think she’s home. Is she an untrusting sort?”

  “No more than most folk, if I recall.” He leaned closer to the door and rapped it with a knuckle. “Zalla? If you’re in there be a dear and unlock the door. I regret to inform you it’s most unpleasant out here.”

  Stained wood parted from its frame and a petite girl peered through the gap holding a dulled kitchen knife in one clenched fist. “Eloran?”

  “Aye, it’s me.”

  Cyriana eyed the blade grasped between whitened fingers. “Can’t say I’d answer the door any different if I lived here.”

  “This is an associate of mine, Cyriana,” announced Eloran. “May we come in?”

  Zalla nodded and stepped away from the door, ushering the pair into her abode. She hurried to bar the entry and Cyriana heard rustling metal until Zalla turned. Tangled brown hair hung limp to either side of a face streaked with grime and dripping sweat. Dark stains marred undyed clothing beneath her armpits and ripped trousers revealed a torn knee. Shifting sapphire irises were wreathed by jagged bloodshot lines.

  “Merciful gods,” Eloran said. “You look dreadful.”

  Cyriana cuffed the back of his head with a palm. “Cantankerous oaf. How long were you in that frigging dungeon? Never speak those words to a woman. Please forgive the boar’s shameful manners, Zalla.”

  He rubbed his skin through graying hair and glowered. “My apologies. What has you anxious?”

  She paced the tiny room while running one hand over her moist forehead. “I think I’m in trouble. I didn’t mean to cause all this. I only did what he asked me to do.”

  The poor girl seemed distraught and in need of comfort Cyriana was ill equipped to give. Zalla should count her blessings Maylene’s renowned sympathy was not here to witness the sight though. Cyriana bid farewell to sarcasm and steadied her voice into something resembling passable empathy. “It’s okay. You can put down the knife, if you’d like. And tell us what happened.”

  Zalla offered a shaky nod and placed her blade atop a table perched on rickety legs. Brushing damp hair from her eyes, she fidgeted and inhaled a breath. “I was hired yesterday to authenticate antique pottery during a sale earlier this morning. Only I didn’t know the seller hoped to pawn a fake. I told my employer it was a beautiful piece dating to the Malvinder Imperium, but the seller had claimed it came from the Drandian culture. Artistry from the two societies is similar, but the Drandians used a slightly different glazing technique on finished pottery that’s noticeable in sunlight. Most people don’t know the difference though, and some like to pass off one as the other to inflate or devalue the price.”

  “Don’t mean to be rude, but could we maybe hurry this tale along without explaining the preferences of ancient artisans?”

  “Sorry, rattled nerves make me chatty. I thought I was invited to confirm it was Malvindreni and ended up ruining the sale instead. The Drandians died out four centuries before the Imperium was formed and their artifacts are far more valuable to collectors. Their borders were also smaller than the Imperium’s, so Drandian pieces are rarer, too. The buyer thanked me and wanted nothing to do with the fake relic, but the seller vowed revenge. He promised to hurt me, and I didn’t know what to do. I don’t have any friends here, or enough money to take me elsewhere.”

  “Fortuitous we arrived when we did,” Eloran asserted. “My friend is assembling a team of likeminded individuals for a job. We have hopes you might join our group.”

  “Before you decide,” said Cyriana, “you should know what we’re doing isn’t legal in the strictest sense.”

  “I don’t even massage the truth that much when I forge documents. My dear Zalla, what we’re doing is illegal in every sense. I know how you tend to feel regarding suspect tasks, but I promise ours is not an offer you should dismiss lightly, given this morning’s incident. And we can take you away from here today.”

  “We’ve booked passage on a ship leaving Soroth this evening. You can be on it, carefree and safe with us. I give you my word.”

  A glimmer touched Zalla’s weary eyes as she stared at Cyriana. “You’d bring me with you?”

  “Eloran vouched for you. Said you possessed talents I might want to use. You remember everything you see or some such witchery?”

  “More like I can’t force myself to forget. All the things I’ve ever seen are burned into my mind. But I’m not sure how that can help you.”

  “Don’t go fretting on that,” replied Cyriana. “I’ve already conjured a few uses for one with your peculiar skillset. Leave the creative applications to me.”

  “I only need to remember things for you and in return you’ll protect me?”

  “More or less. I’m not fussy, and you’d be amazed how few crooks can recall simple facts.”

  “Cyriana’s word can be trusted,” Eloran affirmed. “You needn’t worry.”

  “I also intend to pay you a duke’s ransom, if you need more convincing than merely the whole keeping you alive thing.”

  The panicky lass nodded and wiped sweat from her nose. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Happy to hear it. You’ll be giddy as a clam in our care, and you won’t—”

  Harsh thumps resounded from beyond the entryway and Cyriana whipped her head around as dust tumbled from slender cracks. “Typical,” she murmured.

 
“Oh, gods,” Zalla whispered. “They’re here for me.”

  “Get your arse down. You too, old man.”

  Cracking wood shattered into whirling slivers and the door crashed ajar to reveal one squat man cradling a loaded crossbow. An iron barb swiveled to face the frightened young woman.

  “Shit.” Cyriana whacked her palms into Zalla and shoved the girl into an awkward tumble. A harsh twang resounded and one stubby quarrel streaked past Cyriana’s face, imbedding into the far wall. Shorn fletching rattled from the impact as she unsheathed two daggers and bounded upright over a chair.

  “Think you can reload before I skewer you, fucker?” she shouted. Cyriana sprinted toward the man while he sought to scramble backward against a companion barring the doorway. She averted a clumsy swipe with the crossbow and buried one knife into his clavicle amid spewing warmth. He shrieked and snatched at her dagger as she bayonetted a spongy gut with the other. “Should’ve brought a longbow.”

  Cyriana wrenched gory iron free and walloped her boot into his stomach, knocking the convulsing body into a tangle. His comrade slewed in a swelling puddle, clutched sullied clothing and tossed the corpse aside.

  “One down,” she taunted, striding through the yawning entryway. “Care to wager who’s next on my list?”

  He brandished an unclean smallsword and withdrew, smearing footprints in his wake. Nervous eyes darted to his friend’s corpse decorating the hallway.

  “Don’t be shy. Or are you surprised you need to contend with more than a lone unarmed girl?” Cyriana twirled one dagger and sprayed red dribbles on the flooring. “Don’t like it when we fight back, huh? Too bad for you, because I’ll carve into you for this.”

  He showed considerable hesitation and even seemed eager to flee rather than challenge her. Nothing more than a goon promised easy gold for slitting a girl’s throat. Cyriana reckoned she might enjoy ending this coward’s life. She tightened her fingers around leather grips and stood poised for a lunge, permitting herself a moment to fantasize lengthening his torment.

  Scarlet bubbles gurgled from his slack mouth and slicked iron tore through a buckskin jerkin. Cyriana loosened her stance in surprise while the man’s smallsword clattered onto scuffed planks. Moist eyes drooped downward in confusion at the sword bulging from his chest until he crumpled. Baskaran nodded in calm greeting and produced a handkerchief to wipe his tarnished blade.

  “Well damn it,” Cyriana grumbled. “I was eager to open him up.”

  “I didn’t want to take the chance. His blade held a longer reach than your implements. This is also what you hired me for, is it not?”

  “Fair enough. All’s forgiven for filching my kill. Didn’t even hear you coming.”

  “Duelists who aren’t light on their feet seldom grow old,” Baskaran answered.

  “A font of wisdom, to boot. I’m more impressed with you by the day. And glad you turned suspicious at the unusual sight of a thug marching in with a crossbow.” Cyriana turned to glimpse Zalla approaching with unsteady steps. “Making some neighborhood friends, are we?”

  She stumbled aghast from her home, touched a shaky palm to the doorframe and raised a hand to cover trembling lips. “You…you killed them.”

  “I’ve a tendency to grow homicidal when strangers loose bolts at my face.” Cyriana waved a blade swathed in crimson at the twitching corpses. “You’re a lucky one. These weren’t professional murderers. Nothing but dimwitted brutes who thought killing a girl was a jolly way to spend their afternoon. If your pissed off antiquities seller has a mind to see you bleeding, he’ll hire assassins next. The ones you don’t see coming.”

  She shifted blue eyes and finally noticed Baskaran standing with a drawn sword.

  “No reason to be alarmed,” Cyriana affirmed. “His name is Baskaran and he’s with Eloran and myself. He helped save your life.”

  “All I did was tell the truth like I was hired to do. I didn’t…I never thought…”

  Eloran touched a tender hand to her shoulder and squeezed. Cyriana was unused to seeing an affectionate display from the petulant man, even such a simple gesture. His act seemed to calm the unnerved girl.

  “It’s now or never, Zalla,” said Cyriana. “Leave this place behind if you’re keen to stay among the living.”

  “You promise to keep me safe?”

  “Count on it.”

  Zalla scampered back into her home while Cyriana cleaned her knives on a dead man’s trousers. She emerged carrying a threadbare rucksack slung over one shoulder and nodded. “Okay. I’m ready to leave.”

  “Then good riddance to this miserable city.”

  *

  11 Kilessin

  Cyriana brushed an errant red strand moistened by fleeting mist from her brow while the merchant caravel sliced through placid surfs. Canvas fluttered atop groaning masts overhead and Cyriana leaned on a pitted gunwale, eyeing pastures and farmland home to scarce settlements dotting Arroyo’s outskirts. Whitecaps plumed skyward against rocks weathered from eons standing sentinel along an unwelcoming coastline.

  Crunching on a buttered biscuit, Desin wandered alongside her and stared into sparkling waves. “The water almost looks purple, don’t it?”

  “Certain stretches close to shore have a violet tinge under the morning and evening sun. That’s why this sea was named the Amaranthine.”

  Desin glanced at her, one cheek puffed with chewed biscuit and his face consumed by a blank expression.

  “Amaranth means purple,” Cyriana elucidated.

  “Why not call it that?”

  “The Purple Sea? Because that sounds idiotic. Why can’t men learn more than one word for each color? Ask me the origins of any clever geographic name and I’d wager there was a woman behind the term. No man crafted the Frostbrine Sea, I’ll tell you that much. He’d have called it the Icy Waters, the Sea That Often Has Snow Patches, or some other unimaginative moniker. Now the Barren Region, way north in your home kingdom, that has a man’s stink all over it. Like something out of a gods-awful faery storybook. Go ahead, conjure a name and I’ll tell you what gender authored it.”

  Sitting cross-legged alongside a barrel and sharpening her knives, Maylene nodded. “I’d reckon the woman speaks true.”

  “Uh, the Sand Sea?” asked Desin.

  “Predictably boring and literal,” Cyriana responded. “A man.”

  Thorkell rested forearms on the railing and smirked. “Cradle of Winter.”

  “Woman. Too artistic to be otherwise.”

  “Have my brethren and me all figured out, huh?”

  “You aren’t a complicated lot, I’m afraid. Much as you seem content to believe you are.”

  “Absurd though it is for me to admit,” Eloran said, “Iulia Vespasia Tullius led the ancient My’shi expedition that charted the northern limits of Encrin. She named the Cradle of Winter, and the Frostbrine might be attributed to her as well.”

  Cyriana cast a self-satisfied grin at Thorkell and raised her brows, offering an invitation for him to challenge the point.

  “Whose side are you on, Eloran?” he demanded.

  “History, my boy. As I ever will be.”

  “Hush your jabbering,” chided Maylene. She sheathed a dagger, climbed to her feet and brushed dirt from leather trousers. Crossing a slanted deck to the rail, she affixed her gaze on structures erected on the edge of Halfmoon Bay. “There she is, lady and gentlemen. Arroyo, so conceited and unprepared for our ilk. Never has there been a city more ripe for plundering.”

  Clanging bells sounded atop a pristine marble belfry, imbuing the air with musical tones. Rising above all other edifices was Starwatch Tower, its crown glowing in the morning sunlight with such intensity that it surely shamed all lighthouses.

  The ship captain bellowed commands and sailors scrambled aloft to the yardarms upon taut shrouds. Arms sheathed in glistening sweat manipulated sails while others fiddled with hempen lines Cyriana was unable to identify. The caravel glided across a tranquil sea toward wharves clu
ttered with masted ships and swarming longshoremen.

  She tugged Maylene apart from the others and slapped a small leather pouch into her bare hand. “Escort our chums to a tavern for some much needed revelry. Try not to let anyone get too drunk, and keep an eye on our poor seasick duelist. Baskaran should be careful what he eats for the next day. You can thank Zalla for watching over him. Is it wrong the youngest member of our posse has the best grasp on nurturing the enfeebled?”

  “I wouldn’t dwell too much on it,” Maylene suggested. “And where will you be during this?”

  “Once we drop anchor I’m off to chat with our benefactor’s whelp. Meet me in the Widowed Moon two hours from now with our keen crew. This evening we’ll begin conspiring a burglary.”

  *

  Cyriana hoisted one hand and rattled bare skin against a door. A pale splotch caught her eye and she noticed a speckle of dried blood adorning one knuckle. Perhaps her washing regimen since leaving Soroth required some revision. Or soap.

  The entry opened to reveal unwelcoming features obscured by thickening stubble.

  Cyriana winked in greeting. “Yarn. Nice to see you again.”

  “Ever charming,” he quipped. “Do come in. Should I be alarmed you discovered my room without difficulty?”

  “I don’t see any reason to. Grumpy Shiylan is evidently not a common description, as I learned downstairs talking with the proprietor. There was only one candidate he could direct me toward.” Entering the austere chamber, she eyed a barren table and frowned. “No wine to offer your thirsty guest?”

  “I finished my last bottle yesterday evening. Truthfully I didn’t expect you to arrive for a few more days yet.”

  “We stumbled on some good fortune and generous winds. Plus as a nice bonus, no one’s tried to kill any of us for almost one whole week. I could hardly believe it myself.” She ambled toward the lone table and drummed her fingertips against tarnished wood. “You have what I requested?”

  “Through no small difficulty, I’ve acquired it.” Rope retrieved rolled parchment tucked beneath a dresser and swatted Cyriana’s hand aside, placing it atop the furnishing. He unfurled an intricate sketch depicting Starwatch and its grounds. Black ink traced gardens, dormitories and lecture halls beneath the central imposing tower. A cursive script identified the purpose for each structure. “Perhaps I should have inquired sooner if you’re literate.”