LUZ
Vexed, is what I am. Truly vexed.
The Shield is alive. He made it to Aphorai City and out into the desert beyond. And all the while he’s somehow managed to stay ahead of me. It eventuates he’s also more cunning than I expected, covering his tracks so even I was second-guessing whether I’d lost them between the city and the sands.
When I sent the girl on her quest, I told her I’d look after her father. Curing him would have used less dahkai in the long run, but that would be breaking protocol, so I kept my word, ensuring his supply of the most advanced version of the Magister’s stand-in salve. Sometimes I even personally delivered it, when it suited. It’s no small thing to know your actions are buying a man another moon or ten. Before the salve began to fail in some patients, I would have ventured he could once again start measuring his future in turns.
Still, the old man doesn’t know that, and I’ve built up a decent rapport with Hab. It’s good tradecraft – the more friends one has, the less one finds oneself in need of using less palatable methods than polite conversation to glean information.
Hab assured me they left to come here. Yet the positively delightful thought occurs to me – perhaps he was sorely mistaken, and a rollicking about-face will be required to pick up the trail. I truly could be perched here on the edge of the canyon’s maw, getting the kind of tan I loathe … for nothing.
Oh, the tedium.
No, there we go: distant voices.
I could investigate more closely, but that wouldn’t be prudent: only a fool would corner a rabid animal. So I stay at the top of the canyon. It’s the best vantage point. The risk is that they catch wind of me being here fast enough to elude me in a chase. That risk is acceptable, and, I’d venture by the fact they’ve tethered their mounts well clear, unlikely to manifest.
A bead of sweat trickles behind my ear and I wipe it away. Aphorai born and bred I may be, but the desert has always felt … distasteful. Nothing good can come of one’s body odour reaching absolute concentration.
I chose the wrong profession. Give me fountains and shade like the next civilized person.
Below me is the entrance of what was formerly the Library, the reek of old ashes persisting. Though I suspect I know full well who has been behind the destruction, it’s been an act of immense restraint not investigating. When exactly it happened, the extent of the damage, is something the Order will need to ascertain. I wonder why we heard nothing. Were the stubborn old Chroniclers too proud to send a bird? Always so fusty and puffed-up with their own self-importance, and refusing to offer aid or seek it. But that doesn’t mean I’d want to see them succumb to the flames.
Movement catches my eye. Finally. Down on the canyon floor, a figure with burnished copper hair emerges from the Library’s tunnel. A second figure follows, walking like a warrior. Tattoos trail from under close-cropped black hair. All the way out here, he probably figures it’s safe to have not bothered to cover his head. His mistake.
It’s him, no speculating about it.
Wonderful.
Only one thing left to accomplish.
I heft the small jar in my palm. A precise blend of mandragora, sultis and poppy powder. The first is enough to sedate without paralyzing, the second makes even the most stubborn forget where they were and what they were seeking to achieve, and the third makes it seem like both those states of being are the loveliest to inhabit. The poppy isn’t strictly necessary, but I’ve always felt there’s a certain etiquette about these things.
All I need do is toss it into the canyon and, on impact, it will explode. Within a few breaths anyone down there will be willing to follow me to the end of the earth, at least until they give in to an irresistible drowsiness.
From there, it will only take a flick of a wrist.
Mercy until maturity.
I should do it. Here and now. Before they see me.
Something stays my hand. Tenets must be obeyed, but nowhere in the Order’s rulebook does it say you can’t do a little information gathering first. I’m ever loath to leave an unturned stone. Even if the secrets beneath are like young scorpions – you can never tell how much venom they’ll inject into the situation.
Instead of tossing the jar, I toe a shard of sandstone, sending it skittering over the edge as if I am but a clumsy sniffling out on their first adventure. Best to announce my presence so neither of them get any bold ideas.
They look up and I give them an exaggerated shrug of apology followed by my friendliest wave. I even summon a smile that conveys a reassuring openness that I find about as attractive as oversweetened lover’s perfume on an earnest young hopeful.
The Shield shifts, an almost imperceptible change at this distance, but anyone who has ever done serious close-quarters fighting in their time would be at pains to notice.
Better diffuse any tension as soon as possible.
“Greetings, fellow travellers!” I call down as chirpily as one can when shouting. “I mean no harm.”
Copperlocks clutches something to her chest. A souvenir? You can take the librarian out of the library…
“Who’re you?” The Shield’s baritone rumbles around the cliffs. His accent speaks of the slums, not court. Clever boy.
“Your name is Ashradinoran, yes?
“Ain’t never heard that name before.”
“Come now, might we dispense with this bluster? I have information for you. Not to mention water and food – looks like you’re running light on both. There’s a tidy little cave not far from here that I’m sure you’ll find most interesting. Follow the east branch of the canyon and you should find it easily enough.”
“And if we choose not to see this cave?”
“Entirely your prerogative, my wayward travellers. If I don’t see you there by the time the second moon rises …”
I’ll hunt you down.
“… I’ll assume you’re not interested in reuniting with your Prince.”
Instead of starting up the canyon as suggested, he nudges Copperlocks forward until she disappears under the shade of the cliff. His Shield instincts have taken over, no doubt intending to prevent them from becoming easy arrow targets.
I sigh. “I’ll have it known, I would have preferred to do this the civil way.”
I toss the jar into the ravine.
I lead their mounts to the cave, my human charges trailing us as docile as tuldah foals following an Edurshain herder’s song.
Then they sleep. Like the dead.
I’m not perturbed. Rather, it gives me time to clear out the long-desiccated remnants of the previous resident: a black-feathered lion. Too slow or injured to hunt larger game, I’d venture it retreated here to subsist on sandsquab and canyon squirrel until it found its final rest. At dusk, I build a fire at the cave’s entrance in case one of the beast’s descendants decides it’s time for them to follow in their ancestor’s footsteps.
There’s a boulder nearby, and I settle on to it, gazing up at the slice of stars above the canyon, my thoughts drifting as they are wont to do to the foibles of the Younger Gods. How disappointed Asmudtag must be in their children, to have been no better than the mortals they once walked among. Though if it weren’t for…
I pop a clove pastille into my mouth, concentrating on the spiced sweetness to prevent mention of the Lost God passing my lips.
Copperlocks is the first to wake, regaining her senses with a delicate little mewl.
I return to the cave, stretch my arms wide, hands circling in a courtly flourish. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“You live here?” She blinks up at me, pupils large and dark this far from the fire, then turns the same incredulous expression down to where her hands are tied at the wrists. Bound, but with linen padding between the rope and her skin.
I’m no barbarian.
“Come now, do they not have figures of speech where you hail from?”
She may be as naïve as she is pretty, but there’s a sharp intellect there as well, taking in her surrounds like she’s reading whole scrolls into every detail. I’d venture she thinks first, acts second.
I wonder if that ever gets her into trouble.
Just as I might be getting myself into trouble for delaying the inevitable. Particularly now that the Shield is stirring. He groans, stretching his neck and twisting his spine one way and then the other before slumping back against the cave wall, though he’s still shifting in a way that lets me know he’s testing his bindings.
Naturally, they’re tighter than the ones I fitted on Copperlocks.
“Who are you?” He demands again, grey eyes narrow.
I’ve long found that delaying an answer gives one an air of calm superiority. And if even a sliver of the gossip that’s emanated from the capital about him is true, an air of calm is of the highest value in this interaction.
“Here.” I hold out my waterskin, much fuller than the one tied to the Shield’s sorry excuse for a pack – like he’s bundled everything he owns into a ragged bedsheet – and gesture to Copperlocks.
She hesitates.
“Worried about poison?” I ask, tone arch, then take a pointed sip.
“You can’t blame me, can you?” She leans forward and I gently tip the waterskin against her lips, letting her take several gulps.
It was true, there’s nothing adulterated about the water. But the waterskin itself? Smeared with a paste made from suggos powder and nai balm, the latter to mask the smell. While she’s drinking, she’s breathing my best truth serum, which I’ve methodically, increment by increment, inured myself against over the turns. Painstaking work, but utterly worth the inconvenience.
I crouch in front of the Shield, proffering the water skin.
He shakes his head.
No matter, the proximity should be close enough for him to inhale sufficient amounts.
“Who are you,” he grates again.
If only I had a coin for every time I’d been asked that question. “Frankly, I’m more interested in you.”
The tendons in his neck leap up, and he clenches his fists, like he’s visibly restraining himself. I’d posit the desert heat is flaring his temper. After all, even I’m struggling to keep my nose powdered out here. But knowing what he is, this isn’t just the swelter of Aphorai. Even when he stayed in the Eraz’s palace before the Prince was poisoned, my reports said he was throwing back the highest dose of Linod’s this side of stopping his heart. But now…
It’s true. He’s far gone.
A pang of melancholy briefly aches in my chest. If he was born in Aphorai, perhaps Sephine would have saved him. Now, ending things will be a mercy in itself.
Just as soon as I have my information.
“What happened in the capital?”
The question takes him off guard. He scowls and looks away.
“You’d better find that tongue of yours if you want to see your Prince again.” The lie falls easily from my lips, even if I don’t care for the taste of it.
He looks as if he’d love nothing more than to lunge for me and wrap his hands around my throat.
“You can’t win this one with your fists, Shield. Tell me what happened in the capital, and I’ll take you to your Prince. He’s safe. As is Rakel. Now, speak.”
The truth serum would have already loosened the lips of all but the most restrained. A thought of grudging admiration courses through my mind. Perhaps he does have more control than I’ve given him credit for. But resisting a truth serum is one thing. Resisting the call of the Lost God when your very blood runs with it is another matter entirely.
“I’ll not say a word until I see the Prince.”
My sigh is the epitome of boredom.
All I need do is uncap the setting on my ring. One prick from finely wrought silver, a tiny break in the skin, and the poison will begin to work its way through his veins. Paralysis would soon set in. And then it will be but a flick of the wrist for a blade to bleed the life from him. If he has nothing to say, it’s simply a matter of making sure he never speaks again. Right here and now.
Elegant in its simplicity. Clean. Neat. As I like it. And keeping to the tenet I vowed to uphold.
Mercy until maturity.
Though do I truly believe that is the best course of action here?
There is no easy path to certainty. Not with the confluence of power in the capital. Not when we still don’t have a deliverable cure for the Affliction, to bring the provinces and their people to our side. There are simply too many variables. Too much unanswered. So many players in this game have changed, so many new threats on the field. It’s not even clear if we’re playing on the same game board any more.
But to doubt the Order is to doubt Asmudtag, is it not? I must trust in the ways that have ensured we were able to maintain balance since the Shadow Wars. Otherwise I’m but a mercenary.
My thumbnail finds the ring’s cap and flicks it open.
If he won’t speak, there’s naught much for it.
One little nick, that’s all it will take.