Evan Dicken - [BCS310 S02] Read online

  Despite the meager payout, it was hard not to catch the buoyant mood that gripped Heko. The streets were hung with festival lanterns, the breeze thick with the smells of pepper and roasted mung beetles. Every corner seemed to boast an acrobat or folly show, the actors shouting to be heard over the frenetic beat of parade drums. Great trestle tables had been erected in every plaza, loaded down with baked serpent, racks of boiled sausages, and massive trays of rice seasoned with cumin and garlic. It seemed like every bell was ringing, every voice raised in song, every hand filled with food or drink, or waving streamers of colored paper.

  We were celebrating a victory, after all.

  “Best be off to the grand concourse if we want to catch the martyring. I’ve got an admirer in the city guard that’ll get us within spitting distance of the scaffold.” Neren slammed her goblet down, sloshing more than a little over herself as she glanced over at me. “You coming, old man?”

  I took a pull from my own drink, then made a face, the wine gone unaccountably sour. “I’ve seen plenty enough triumphs. I’ll stay here, keep the bench warm.”

  “You sure?” She stood and winked at me. “The oracles are laying even odds Suntalon will escape. Wouldn’t that be a sight?”

  I shook my head, feeling the mix of wine and sausage roil in my gut. My face must have shown that discomfort, because Neren’s grin slipped. “You all right, Deff?”

  I waved away her concern, nodding at the pitchers and half-empty plates. “Been on trail rations too long—always takes me a day or two to adjust to real food.”

  She kissed me on the forehead. “Try not to die while I’m gone.”

  I leaned back, surprised, unable to tell whether the flush in Neren’s cheeks was from drink or embarrassment. But the moment had already passed. She swept up her goblet and drained it, back to trading insults with the other glory hounds as they spilled out onto the street.

  With the others gone, there wasn’t much to do except drink, but the thought of more wine made me queasy. I pushed back from the table, halfway off the bench before I realized I had nowhere to go.

  The roar of distant voices rattled the cups and saucers. I felt the cheers resonate deep within my chest, more feeling than sound. It wouldn’t be long now until Suntalon met her fate. I tried to tell myself it was justice—she and her kind had killed thousands in the wars. And yet, as I closed my eyes, I saw not Suntalon but Bao Broadbow, his face shadowed with doubt. I wondered what it would be like to be a hero—to feel true purpose resonate through you, pure, clear, irresistible.

  Perhaps, this time, it really would have been different.

  I shook my head. The captain was right: what good was another bandit prince? Heroes’ bones would form the weapons that defended our borders, their blood and organs distilled into cures for all manner of ills, their skin used to buttress sails, their hair woven into cords of impossible strength. Bao would do far more good dead than he ever could alive—for those who could afford to pay, at least. The Synod gave lip service to Leveler ideals, but it didn’t change the fact that most everything of value flowed uphill. And as for what came down—

  “Deff.”

  I opened my eyes to see Sthis standing above me. Her cheeks were flushed as she leaned in to rest her fists on the table. “Where is Neren?”

  I nodded at the tavern door. “Gone to watch the show.”

  “Damn.” She straightened. “We’ll have to collect her on the way out.”

  “What’s going on, Captain?”

  “Gather your things.” Sthis spoke just above a whisper. “I’ve got a lead on something big.”

  I stood, if a bit unsteadily. “Already wearing everything I own.”

  “Good, then follow me.”

  We left the bar through the back entrance, sticking to the thin alleys that ran along the Celedine sewers. The Triumph was in full swing, and it was an unseasonably warm day, the smell such that we saw no one apart from a few ragpickers trawling for castoffs amidst the refuse.

  The alley let out into a wide cobbled street, crowded with people, their faces painted in celebratory reds and golds. Neither rich nor well-connected enough to warrant room in the plaza, they made do with dramatic reenactments. On the nearby corner, a women on stilts, wearing cloth-of-gold padded to resemble musculature, was led to a stage where a dozen children in tinpot helms and mock censor doublets pretended to ritually strangle her. It was a sloppy scene, rife with giggles and flailing arms, but the crowd was too drunk to mind. The actors made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in ability. It wasn’t half bad. Although, to be fair, I was more than a little drunk myself.

  “Captain, you ever thought about going back to the stage?”

  She favored me with a narrow-eyed glance.

  “No, really. I’ve been thinking we could do a run—vignettes of the hunt, that sort of thing.”

  “Save the stories for Neren.” She rapped a knuckle against my chest. “I need you sober and I need you ready. This could turn sour, quick.”

  Sthis and I had been in enough scraps together for me to recognize the coldness in her voice, the tight set of her shoulders that could only mean one thing.

  We were on a hunt.

  Sthis and I pushed through the press, crowds thinning as the street gradually sloped toward the base of the Celedine Heights. She moved like a woman possessed, pausing only once when we were forced from the road by a passing palanquin.

  The woman inside spared us no more attention than she would any bit of roadway chaff. She was little more than a shadow behind the palanquin curtains, but a stray gust moved the fabric, revealing a stern, ageless face, high-browed and dignified, her skin smooth as marble and sheened with a pale glow that spoke to regular treatments of hero’s blood.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done to deserve it.

  At last, we came to a shabby-looking stone building marked with the shield and crossed spears of the Heko city guard. I was familiar with the type, had spent many a night in one, usually after a particularly impressive run of drunkenness.

  There were two guards inside, drinking ale and pitching coppers on the room’s single table. They had the look of rough men, but the dye on their tabards was still bright. As the war dragged on, many among the guard had been shifted to the Adjenci front and the missing ranks filled by less ideal candidates.

  “Is he still here?” Sthis asked.

  The guard by the table spat, then nodded. “Where’s the money?”

  The captain glanced at me, motioning to the guard. It took me a moment to realize she meant me to pay the man. With a wince, I untied my coin purse and counted a week’s worth of drinking money into his callused palm.

  “You almost missed your chance.” With a grin that showed several missing teeth, he fished a key from his pocket and moved to unlock the door that led back to the cells. “We got word the censors were coming to collect him, but they must’ve got held up on account of the Triumph.”

  “Our luck.” Sthis offered the fellow a thin smile. “May we have some privacy?”

  “Just be quick about it.” With a shrug, the guard returned to the table.

  The cell was perhaps ten paces on a side, windowless and musty, the floor covered with dirty straw. Benches were bolted to the walls, little more than shadows in the thin slats of dusty light that trickled through the bars. It stank of blood and piss, and some other more unsettling odor that seemed to congeal at the back of my throat. Still, the captain approached the bars like it was the bower of some Celedine debutante.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out the cell’s single occupant. Huddled on the floor, he was almost shapeless in the dark, shivering despite the sickly heat. At our approach, he stood with a faint rattle of chains, head tilted as if to smell the air.

  “Who’s there?” The question came like the rasp of a dying crow.

  “Martyr’s blood,” Sthis whispered under her breath. “So it’s true.”

  “I don’t understand, Captain. Who—?
” My mouth went trail dry when the man shambled into the light.

  He was swathed in bandages, the remains of once-fine clothes almost rotting off his body. A ragged slash traced the line of his jaw, and his eyes were spotted with burst blood vessels, but still I recognized him.

  “By the Weeper.” I looked to Sthis, seeing my shock reflected in her eyes. “It’s Zemmel.”

  “Deff? Captain? Is that you?” The wreck of our old comrade stumbled forward to clutch the bars. “You’ve got to get me out before the censors come. They’ll—”

  “The censors caught you hunting?” I asked. Because of the Synod’s deathgrip on the hero trade, glory hounds who ran afoul of the law were likely to receive little more than swift hanging. It was odd they’d dragged Zemmel back to Heko.

  “S’not like that.” He licked lips gone bruise purple. “We were up near the front, trailing the army. Got wind of a battle near Fort Sainshad. Talk was the plumes were moving entire regiments into the foothills—not just soldiers but censors, saints’ steel, martyrbone ballistae, all of it. Most thought they were preparing for a push, but the lads and I knew better.”

  “They were after Suntalon,” Sthis said softly.

  “The legions move slow.” Zemmel nodded. “Figured we could range ahead, snag a tribal champion or two, maybe even get the drop on something bigger.”

  I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “We saw the censors had captured Suntalon.”

  “They didn’t capture shit.” Bloody spittle leaked from the corners of Zemmel’s mouth. “Talon slaughtered a few patrols, put Sainshad to the sword, and every puffed-up general on the front was fighting to take the bait. Almost three legions marched north. Fool that I was, I went with ‘em. Suntalon caught us out in the foothills. One moment it’s all sky and empty stone, next thing you know the hills are crawling with Adjenci shriekers. It was like the Bad Dozen come again. Everyone hacking at each other—men and women falling like wheat, the air full of screams, and blood, and fire.” Zemmel reached through the bars, blindly clutching at Sthis’s sleeve. “Captain, I could feel it in my bones, my heart.”

  “How did Suntalon fall?” Sthis’s voice was sharp as an unexpected blade.

  “Wasn’t the censors who brought down Suntalon.” Zemmel bared red-flecked teeth. “It was the Weeper.”

  I took an unconscious step back, feeling like someone had buried a spear in my gut.

  “You’ve got to believe me.” Zemmel’s fingers left bloody streaks on the captain’s sleeve. “She’s back, Captain. Climbed back down the Vault of Heaven to judge us all.”

  “Impossible.” The word slipped from my lips unbidden.

  “I swear, Deff, sure as I stood beside you at Ashfield. Why else would the censors be coming for me?” Zemmel bared his teeth. “Get me out of here and I’ll take you right to her.”

  “You can track the Weeper?” Sthis asked.

  “Would’ve gone after her myself, but my crew were all dead. I came south, hoping to put together a new one, but a patrol caught me just north of Lapo.”

  Sthis glanced at me.

  I frowned. “We could spike the guards’ ale with coldwillow. It’ll knock them flat in a half-hour or so. But, Captain, I mislike drugging—”

  “No time.” With a nod, Sthis turned away. “Guards!”

  There was a scuff of boots on stone, then the door to the main room opened, the gap-toothed guard squinting into the gloom.

  Sthis took two quick steps and slipped her dagger into the hollow of his throat. The guard gave a choking gasp, trying to pull away, but Sthis had already snaked an arm around him, almost companionable as she guided his fall. It all happened so quickly I barely had time to register the surprised shout from the front of the guard post.

  “Deff! He can’t get away.” Sthis’s call brought old reflexes to the fore. My hands moved almost without thought, plucking the axe from my belt as I charged into the main room.

  The remaining guard lunged from the shadows at my left, quick enough I couldn’t avoid the thrust of his short sword. It slid through my bicep just below the shoulder. There was no pain, only a wet numbness that crept down the limb. I knew the hurt would come later.

  Growling, I released my axe to grab the man’s wrist as he tried to draw the blade back. He beat at me with his free hand, face twisted into a look somewhere between fury and fright. No stranger to back-alley brawls, this one, but I had stood the wall against Towerbane, buried friends in the fields where Goshawk burned. I was no hero, but I had slain many.

  I smashed my forehead into guard’s nose, using the brief moment of surprise to hook my foot behind his back heel. A twist sent him sprawling back against the table.

  I snatched the blade from my arm, but before I could finish the job, one of Captain Sthis’ crossbow bolts pinned the guard to the pitted wood. He flopped like a feathered treecat, letting out little panicked grunts before slowly falling back.

  “You’re covered in blood, Deff.” Sthis walked up to the dead man and bent to calmly work her bolt from his chest. “There are spare cloaks in the drawer. Fetch one for Zemmel as well.”

  There were fresh cloaks—the largest barely covered me, while even the smallest ballooned like a wind-caught sail on Zemmel’s emaciated frame. After binding the wound on my arm, I got dressed. Fortunately, it seemed Bao’s blood was still with me, as the puncture had already scabbed over.

  Sthis looked me up and down. “Stop gaping, you’ll give us away. I thought you were an actor.”

  I did my best to hide the tremble in my legs as I helped a barely conscious Zemmel out onto the street. The Triumph was still in full swing, the roads thronged with drunken celebrants. It was easy to lose ourselves in the crowds; far harder to shake the memory of what we had just done.

  We slipped back into the tavern and were quickly ushered to a private booth by the owner, an old Leveler whose discretion we had relied upon many times in the past.

  “Captain, hunting heroes is one thing,” I said once Sthis had sent the fellow away for food and stiff drink. “But those were men we killed back there.”

  “They would have never released Zemmel.” She looked away. “Besides, once word of the Weeper got out the other crews would be pulling up stakes in an hour.”

  “This is about a bounty?” I could only stare. “I’d expect that from Neren, but Captain, you’re—”

  “Don’t tell me what I am.” She spoke in barely a whisper, but the words came as if loosed from a bow. She turned to meet my gaze. Tear tracks cut her cheeks, bright as saints’ steel in the smoky gloom. “This isn’t just a bounty, Deff. This is the Weeper. If you don’t know what that means, then you’re as big a fool as Neren.”

  Realization settled on me like a cloak. Lot of people had lost friends and family during the Bad Dozen, lost everything, in fact. Capturing the Weeper would bring us more money than we’d ever seen, but it was more than that. This was the woman who had toppled Empires, burned entire nations in the name of justice, made promise after promise then abandoned us when the payment came due.

  She had much to answer for.

  “I don’t want to do this alone.” Sthis scrubbed a fist across her face, squaring her shoulders. “But I will if I have to.”

  “We were there when the Weeper ran away, Captain.” I shrugged. “Seems only right we should be the ones to welcome her back.”

  The rattle of wagon wheels provided jostling counterpoint to the nervous thud of my heart. We’d been six days on the road, and I was still jumping at shadows. I couldn’t believe we were set to face the Weeper again—not just a hero, but a hero who had climbed to heaven and back.

  “I’m going to build a tower on the Celedine.” Neren balanced her knife on the tip of one long finger. “All marble and gold fittings, bigger than any of the others, with high windows so I can look down on everyone else.”

  “The only thing you’ll be buying is a coffin if you aren’t careful,” I muttered back. We’d been moving day and night, tradi
ng our horses for fresh ones at every town we passed. Whatever unnatural vigor Bao’s blood had given me was almost exhausted, and I was feeling every mile.

  “How’s that?” Neren flicked her blade up, caught it, then slid it back into its concealed sheath.

  “How’s what?”

  She made a face. “How am I going to buy a coffin if I’m dead? No, it’s golden towers for me.”

  “They’d never accept you.”

  “Speak for yourself, old man.” Neren struck an exaggerated pose. “I’d be the belle of the godsdamned ball.”

  I tried to imagine Neren in a palanquin, her face the cold perfection of a statue, but the image just felt wrong. Instead, I shook my head. “You’re better than that.”

  Neren laughed like I’d said something funny. “Watch yourself. Too much talk like that and I’ll mistake you for a hero.”

  I made a face. “Just an old glory hound, lass. No Triumphs for me.”

  “You’d put on a better show than Suntalon, at least,” she said. “She didn’t even try to escape—just sat there and let the censors strangle her.”

  “Enough,” Sthis said from the front of the cart. “We’re past the border—from here on we should be ready for Adjenci, legionary scouts, censors, anything.”

  “The battle took place a day or so north of here.” Zemmel lifted a trembling hand toward the low foothills cropping the horizon. He had put on a bit of weight in the last few days, but he was still a poor shadow of the swaggering bravo I had known back during the Bad Dozen.

  “Something I still can’t figure.” Neren picked at her teeth. “If it was the Weeper who knocked Suntalon on her ass, how did the censors end up with her?”

  “That’s the thing of it,” Zemmel replied. “Weeper strolls down the mountain, works her magic, then just walks away. By the time it was finished, there was no one left but Suntalon. The censors just rode in and scooped her up.”

  Neren whistled. “Lucky bastards.”

  “Least until they have to explain to the Synod why three legions aren’t coming home,” Zemmel said with a shrug.