A tremor went through Salick. She had not been here for months, not since the ceremonies for Master Mandarack. She had wanted to help prepare his body for the funeral fires—a final act of love and respect—but had panicked at first, unable to do her duty. Garet had been with her then, and gave her the strength she needed. She wished he were here now as those memories came back. She saw again the long procession carrying Mandarack’s body, Trax at its head, and the entire population of the city turning out to honour the man. She felt once more the despair in her heart as they made the long walk to the burning grounds that lay beyond the wall.
Why aren’t you here now, when I need you?
There was a cough behind her, and she turned to see the priest holding out the letter in her hand. There was compassion in the old woman’s eyes, but none in her tone. “Please tell Hallmaster Branet that we cannot deny proper ceremonies to any who need them. A Mask who dies will be honoured and burned just as a Lord, a Bane, or a beggar would. The Hall and the King may presume to judge them in life, but we would not dare to do so in death, Salick, lest the final judgement be against us all.”
“How did you . . .” she began.
The old woman held up a hand. “How did I know your name? Your father was my cousin’s boy, though you were born long after I came here. His death was the tragedy of a life wasted. By all accounts, your life has been one well spent—so far. Make sure that you keep on Heaven’s path, Salick. Farewell.”
Salick bowed and left, knowing that the answer she carried would enrage the Hallmaster. On the way out, Kaela caught sight of her and smiled in a knowing way.
Salick shoved the letter inside her vest and cursed.
Claws, this was an unlucky day to come to the Temple!
“
ARE YOU SURE
about this?” Captain Bixa asked. She was looking pointedly at Garet’s sword. Her own was in her hands, a longsword with a hand-and-a-half grip and a blade three fingers wide at the hilts. He had to admit his own weapon looked pitiful by comparison.
“I’m ready,” he said, and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to defend or attack.
Bixa shrugged and lunged forward, aiming low to frighten him into a hasty, off-balance retreat. There was a wicked grin on the Guard Captain’s face.
Instead of jumping back at such an intimate attack, Garet shifted to his right, bringing the point of the sword down and forcing the Captain’s blade to his left. He continued twisting, turning along the attacking weapon until he completed a full circle with his sword at the side of the Captain’s neck.
“Claws, you’re fast!” Bixa snarled, and jumped away, only to leap forward again with a two-handed, downward slash.
Since there was no way his short sword could stop the weight and force of it, Garet chose to be elsewhere, a short step to his left this time. Bixa’s blade stopped when she felt the curved point of his blade pressing against her leather practice armor.
The Captain raised her hands in mock surrender.
“You’re better than I expected. I’ve never seen a Bane fight before, for obvious reasons, and to be honest, you don’t look like much. But if every Bane is so skilled, you must do nothing but train in that Hall of yours!” she said, and sheathed her sword.
The others looking on gave muted applause, one hand lightly slapping the back of the other. It was too good a match to ignore, but a wise guard did not enthusiastically celebrate the defeat of their commander.
Garet nodded to acknowledge their approval before answering. “That’s true enough, Captain. We, I mean they, train continuously. That is what Banes do; they train, they sleep and eat, and they kill demons.”
Bixa flinched a bit at that, but inclined her head to Garet, showing the beginnings of respect. The Captain of the King’s Guard had not been so courteous this morning when she summoned him for testing with his new blade. He had met her here, in a small courtyard of the Palace Ward with the half moon, waning now, still bright in the sky.
“Breakfast then,” the Captain said, “but not for you slugs! Have at each other again, else you’ll be meat for those Masks, when we catch them.”
At a table in the guards’ dining hall, Garet brought that topic up again. “Captain, are we any closer to finding out where they are hiding?”
Bixa finished a spoonful of her porridge. She then lifted her cup and regarded Garet over the rim. “No, and that’s not for saying to anyone but a King’s Agent. Or the King, but he already knows it. We think the rot is in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Ward, and maybe the Fifth, but we have no proof. However, the people we suspect are being watched.”
“Can I help with that?” Garet asked. He had been a King’s Agent for four days now, but had done nothing but train with his sword and help Barick organize his history notes.
Bixa laughed and pointed at his hair. “You’re not exactly one to fade into a crowd, are you?” she said. “No, boy, you’re not much use out in the Wards.”
Garet felt the respect he had earned on the training ground slipping away. “I want to be useful, Captain. Can’t you suggest something else then?”
Bixa looked annoyed, but appeared to think about it. Several spoonfulls later, she had something to say. “You’re good with books and such, the King says. So why don’t you stick your nose in the records of those Wards and see if there’s anything ‘useful’ in them?”
She got up and left him there, taking her cup with her and out into the Ward.
He heard her shouting at someone, her voice cutting into the quiet morning air. Once more, it seemed, he would have to fight to prove himself, and with more than a sword. Mechanically, he finished his breakfast and walked slowly back to the Stewards School. He had a room there, more likely a cleared-out closet of some kind, for there were boxes of old deed titles under his cot. It was right across the hall from Barick’s rooms, and the Historian had monopolized Garet’s time, using him as a researcher and secretary.
The stone facade of the Stewards School too soon rose before him, and he paused on the steps to brace himself for more dusty work. It wasn’t that he minded Barick’s company so much, it was more that he missed certain company so much more that it sometimes hurt to breathe. The nights were the worst. Then he remembered everything about Salick, from the lightness of her laugh to the curve of the sword scar on her cheek. He replayed everything that led up to their separation, searching for some fault, some mistake he could make right with her.
Several stewards passed him on the stairs while he stood there like a moody statue. He shook himself and continued upwards. It was not such a bad job that lay before him. Though Barick would rattle on all day like rain against the window, he had no real harm in him.
Garet was not so sure of his fellow agents. Captain Bixa, for example, struck him as a woman who would do anything if ordered by the King.
He went through the center door and climbed the stairs to Barick’s rooms. At least all his worries could be temporarily buried by work, and the Historian could no doubt provide the records Bixa spoke of. Whether or not she was sending him on a fool’s journey just to keep him out from under her feet, well, nothing but time and work would tell.
“
IF IT’S NOT
Garet dragging me out of the Hall on a fool’s journey, it’s you,” Dorict complained. Marick ignored his complaints and pulled his friend into a narrow alley between two buildings.
“Don’t say that name so loud!” he whispered in Dorict’s annoyed ear. “At least not in the Twelfth Ward. After going over to the King, he’s too famous to be mentioned, and so am I, come to think of it. Now, straighten that old coat. Torfor really is a friend to Banes, isn’t he?”
“I noticed you weren’t afraid to mention . . . you-know-who, when you were badgering Torfor for these clothes. And these are worse than the last set. I look like a rag-pile with legs!”
Marick chuckled. “Why, you’ve never looked better! There’s a tragic beauty about you that near makes me faint. Now, we promised Tarix and Relict to be careful, and these disguises are fulfilling that promise, which of course leaves us free to take any other risk we want.”
Dorict looked alarmed. “The last time I was in disguise, Shirin almost killed me! What kind of risk are you talking about?”
Marick, however, was no longer listening. He sauntered out into the street, winding his way among the carts and labourers. Dorict followed him until they came to the first row of Traders’ houses, large, three- to four-story structures, each with a fortified storage room on the bottom floor and living space above. The small Bane began to wind his way among them, whistling tunelessly as he walked.
“What are you doing?” Dorict asked, sidling up beside him.
“Keeping my eyes open, as you should,” Marick replied out of the corner of his mouth. “We’re looking for the Masks!”
“I doubt we’ll spot a large group of men and women dressed in black and with covered faces,” Dorict hissed. “So what do you suggest I look for?”
“You’ll know when you see it,” Marick said, and continued his leisurely progress.
After a morning of looking and walking, and seeing nothing, the two found a tea stall set up in the shade of the Ward Wall and rested their feet.
“Brilliant,” Dorict declared. He had his shoes off and was rubbing his aching toes. “We’ve walked this Ward back and forth and back again with nothing to show for it! What now, oh Master Spy?”
“Keep looking, of course,” Marick said. He sipped his tea and watched the colourful play of commerce stretching around them.
A whip cracked nearby, and a horse screamed, causing the owner of the stall to drop a cup to the flagstones. He ran out into the street and out of sight. The two Banes could hear him shouting at someone just around a corner.
“Easy with that whip, you clawed fool! I bet that the horse is more valuable than you, and of better nature! Your Master should give it the whip and strap you in the traces.”
Another voice shouted, and the whip cracked again. This time the cry was human, and the tea stall owner came scuttling back, holding one hand to his cheek.
“Heaven strike him down!” he moaned and bent over to pick up the shards of his broken cup.
Marick left a scattering of coins on the table, more than enough for their tea, and pulled Dorict towards the corner where the argument had occurred.
“I’m an idiot!” he said.
Dorict nodded. “I know that! But where are we going now? Did you see something?”
Marick knelt and looked around the corner. After a glance, he stood again and grinned. “I should have used my ears instead of my eyes. I know that voice, and the sound of that whip! The man over there with the stubborn horse, he’s the one who took the Masks to the forest station. He did me an injury before, but this time he’s going to do us both a favour.”
They followed the man, once he got the cart moving again under his ready whip. He drove the horse south, towards the Outer Wall, but this time did not leave the Ward. Instead, he turned left into a passage between the warehouses owned, and sometimes uneasily shared, by the trading clans of the Ward. The man stopped at the farthest one and waited while wooden crates were loaded onto his cart, then he drove back the way he had come, passing by Marick and Dorict without noticing them standing in the shadows.
“Shall we go after him?” Dorict asked, but Marick had plucked the sleeve of a passing labourer.
“Excuse me, but I’m looking for Dorict’s warehouse. Is it that one over there?” he asked the woman, pointing to where the cart had stopped.
The woman snorted and shook her head. “Dorict’s warehouse? Never heard of it. That’s Chirat’s over there. Now leave off, I’ve got work to do.”
“A friendly sort,” Marick said when the woman had left them. “Should we go inside for a look?”
Dorict grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “No,” he said. “No, no, no, no, no. Do you want to give them another chance to kill you? They might have improved with practice! We are going back to the Hall, and you get to live and tell everyone how brilliant you are.”
Marick frowned. “But this would be much more fun. We might not die, and besides, everyone already knows I’m brilliant.”
He tried to wriggle out of Dorict’s grasp, but he might as well have tried to slip the embrace of a Crusher Demon.
“And yet you never get tired of telling us,” Dorict said, and steered his protesting friend towards the safety of the Hall.
SALICK STOPPED ON
the stairs. More Banes were in the Hall today, and their sashes added a dash of colour to the grey stone halls. Just now, one shade, red, was predominant, and those wearing it were all moving towards the Dining Hall.
“Are you a Bane or a piece of furniture?” Vinir asked, and gave her a friendly push. The two of them were not due to patrol until nightfall, circling outside the Wall to make sure the demons were not returning after six days of blessed absence.