Magic always sounded so damn complicated. “The full-on singing is your version of channeled magic, then.”
“In a way,” Lena said. “Though we use our own soulfire to fuel the spell, never that of an unwilling victim.”
It sure didn’t stop them from fucking people over. I managed to keep that behind my teeth, barely; but Lena surely saw it in my face. She led me into the receiving room without speaking again.
Marten and Stevan stood before the great arched window, their eyes closed and their rings glowing bright as they sang. Marten was the tenor, Stevan the baritone; flickers of colored light chased over the window’s wards every time their voices met on a note. The sky outside was growing pale with the approach of dawn, the towers ghostly in the low light.
Talm leaned against a table laden with glazed ceramic cups and a tray of fruit and flatbread. His expression was odd as he watched Marten and Stevan: wistful admiration, but a hint of something darker lay in his eyes. I hoped it meant his anger with Marten hadn’t faded.
I stalked over to the table. The cups proved to contain mint-scented water. I downed one and snatched up a handful of food.
Talm said to me, “They’ve almost finished.” He looked at Lena as she reached for a slice of rockmelon. “Impressive how smoothly they cast together, isn’t it? I’m not sure I could manage that with my old training partner from the Arcanum.”
Or maybe all I’d seen was simple jealousy. Maybe Marten and Stevan had been something more than training partners, back in the day.
Lena said softly to Talm, “It’s my hope this mission will revive their friendship. For Stevan’s sake, if not Marten’s. I remember Stevan in his adept days…in the final year before his commissioning, he used to demonstrate spells for my year-class. He was so different then; as quick to laugh as to criticize, passionate about all manner of things along with magic…”
Talm nudged Lena, grinning at her with the casual, teasing ease of long-held friendship. “Had a crush on him, did you?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Plenty of us did. To see him now…” She shook her head, her amusement vanishing. “He’s been so angry since Reshannis’s trial.”
“I can imagine.” Talm’s eyes went back to Marten. For an instant I caught a flash of sadness so deep it startled me, before his expression settled into his usual wry humor.
“What trial?” I asked.
Lena looked away. Talm shrugged and said lightly, “Sorry. Nothing more boring than hearing other people reminisce, is there?”
Marten and Stevan stopped singing. Marten turned with an air of satisfaction. “We have a good idea of Ruslan’s outer wards. Enough for Stevan to key a spell for Lena’s use—yes, Stevan?”
Stevan nodded, as icily impassive as ever. He pulled a jeweled golden disc from a pocket and shut his eyes again, his lips moving soundlessly.
Ambassador Halassian stumped into the room, her gray hair pinned up in a loose bun instead of intricate braids. “Haven’t you left yet, Captain? Sechaveh will expect a prompt response in this.”
“We’re nearly ready,” Marten said, glancing at Stevan. “We’ll hurry, the moment Stevan completes his spell.”
Talm asked, “Did Sechaveh’s message say the manner of death, or any information about the victim?”
“No,” Marten said. “It was rather carefully phrased. I suspect Lord Sechaveh didn’t want the messenger to know the details. We were simply requested to go to a certain residence in Vaishala district as soon as possible, in regard to a fatality related to our purpose in Ninavel.”
I swallowed a lump of flatbread, frowning. Vaishala district was highside, the next district over from Seltonis. The residents were wealthy families high up in the hierarchies of mining guilds and banking houses, with a sprinkling of mages to boot. As a Taint thief, I’d been sent there on jobs by Red Dal a couple times, but not often. The residents of Vaishala could afford seriously powerful wards, and many families were what counted as old wealth in Ninavel. From Red Dal’s perspective, that meant they weren’t as apt to brag over their possessions, making it tricky to know which houses were worth the risk. Not that any family was truly old wealth in Ninavel, since Sechaveh had only built the city a little more than a hundred years ago. But the families who’d lived in Ninavel a few generations were a bit more wise to the ways of Taint thieves than those who’d come more recently.
“Jenoviann can guide you,” Halassian said. “Before she came to Ninavel, she spent several years working with the healers of the Sanitorium. You’ll want her expertise in anatomy if you have the chance to examine the body. You’ll want to walk, not take a carriage; if you climb the Ramhorn stair as a shortcut to Vaishala, that’ll get you there far faster than traveling the causeways.”
“Stairs.” Talm sighed. “Of course it would be stairs. You’d think this city was built by mountain goats.”
Marten chuckled. “The exercise will help us all shake off sleep.”
I noted with contempt that he and the rest wore their usual uniforms. They’d regret all that heavy blue and gray fabric fast if we had to spend any time out in the sun. Unless they could use magic to keep themselves cool? Out of reflex, I looked around for Kiran to ask him; and then I remembered. I thumped my cup down on the table hard enough to make the tray rattle.
Marten and Lena both glanced my way, but neither said anything. Stevan opened his eyes and pocketed his charm. “The spell is complete.”
Marten didn’t waste any time heading for the door. I slid up close to him as Jenoviann released the wards. “You’d better have gotten authorization for that little show of good faith.”
Marten said quietly, “A thousand kenets, yes. The money’s yours, the moment you give me something of use.”
Thank Khalmet for that. I’d get that money in my hands by tonight, and put in a bid straight off with Red Dal.
Two bridges and one hell of a lot of stairs later, we reached the steep stone causeways of Vaishala, spiraling up past courtyard walls glittering with elaborate mosaics of agate, amethyst, and quartz. The rising sun tipped the spires above us with gold, the air clear and already warm. Scattered groups of people moved along the causeway, most of them servants heading for the morning markets before the midday heat took hold.
A few watercarts creaked past, bearing fat storage barrels with merchant house crests emblazoned on the sides. A small horde of scowling, wary-eyed guards accompanied each cart, deadly charms glinting on their wrists and palms. Highsiders had house cisterns they refilled with water purchased from the main district cistern. Sechaveh’s men guarded the district cisterns and took payment for water rations, but once beyond the cistern gate, protection from theft was up to the buyer. Highside, merchant houses rented out their private armies to guard water in transit. Down streetside, anyone who dared to leave a cistern with so much as a jug’s worth of water rations had to pay a ganglord’s protection fee. Either that, or fight off the ganglord’s entire crew, and thirsty opportunists besides.
When we reached the residence described in Sechaveh’s message, the courtyard’s iron gate was blocked by a line of guardsmen wearing Sechaveh’s scorpion crest. One stepped forward, a man whose shirt above his golden sash bore the flowing blue sigils of a wind mage. Marten showed him Sechaveh’s message, and after a quick exchange, the wind mage let us through the cordon.
The courtyard beyond was plain by highside standards, holding only a set of hardy citrus trees in marble planters spaced around a central mosaic worked in tiles of onyx and silver. The door to the house was closed and barred. Another two guardsmen stood before it, accompanied by a second wind mage, this one a woman.
“Sechaveh told me to expect you,” the wind mage said in a reedy voice. “But our orders are to bar entry to the house until his lead investigator arrives.”
So. Ruslan was coming. Funny to think that was actually good news. Behind Marten, Lena’s freckled face stiffened with resolve. Marten said genially to the wind mage, “We’ll gladly await Ruslan Khaveirin’s arrival to enter. But could you tell us a little of what to expect inside? Sechaveh’s message said the victim was another mage…the owner of this house, perhaps?”
The wind mage shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Yes. A cloud mage named Jadin Sovarias. I haven’t been inside myself, and know nothing more.”
So don’t bother to ask
, her scowl said.
Marten gestured in rueful acceptance and ambled over to examine the orange tree next to me. I muttered, “Quit dallying, Marten. Pretend you forgot something and send Lena and me for it.” My nerves buzzed with a mixture of excitement and worry. The thought of crossing wards as powerful as Ruslan’s made my palms sweat, even knowing he wouldn’t be lurking inside them.
“Not yet,” Marten said softly. “When Ruslan arrives, I want to see who’s with him. If he brings Mikail, that’ll mean one less possibility for a guard on Kiran…ah. Ruslan’s arrived—twin gods, the man’s soulfire glares bright enough to blind even through the gate wards.”
Marten straightened and strode to the courtyard’s center, Lena and the others falling into formation behind him. I edged up behind them, just enough to one side that I could still see the gate. I wanted to stay as much out of Ruslan’s notice as possible.
The outer gate swung open. Ruslan swept into the courtyard, resplendent in finely tailored clothes of bronze silk marked by jagged sigils. Trailing him, one on each side, were Mikail and Kiran.
Surprise hit me with the force of an avalanche. Kiran! I’d never thought Ruslan would be so arrogant as to parade him right in front of us. Ruslan must mean to force his obedience with the mark-bond, knowing it would upset and distract us. He could torment Kiran further in the bargain by making him face the man who’d betrayed him so thoroughly. I winced just thinking of the bitter rage Kiran would endure in seeing Marten.
Unlike Ruslan, Kiran and Mikail wore unrelieved black, their crimson sigils standing out in sharp relief on their shirts. I recognized the largest of the sigils; I’d seen it etched into the skin over Kiran’s heart. He’d told me it was Ruslan’s personal mark.
I dragged my gaze up from the sigils, dreading what I’d see in Kiran’s face.
My surprise deepened into shock. He looked…relaxed. His blue eyes were clear, his head held high, and though his skin remained startlingly pale, his face showed no hint of strain. I’d never realized just how much stress and unhappiness had always been visible in his demeanor, all the way from the first time I’d met him. Until now, when for the first time I saw him without it.
My first thought was the mark-bond. But Kiran walked with easy confidence, not the dragging jerkiness or the slow, dreamy movements I’d seen from him when Ruslan used their link.
Stevan hissed at Marten, “See? He’s been Ruslan’s creature from the first. He acted the lost waif only to spy on us.”
Marten’s black eyes narrowed, watching Kiran.
“That’s not true.” My whisper was equally harsh. Stevan was wrong. He had to be. I knew Kiran, damn it. Nobody could be that good an actor. Ruslan had to be controlling him somehow. Or maybe Ruslan had threatened him, forced him to put on a show? But he didn’t look under duress, or even drugged.
“
Quiet.
” Marten stepped forward to meet Ruslan, his expression settling into its usual good-natured mask.
“Captain Martennan. Good to see you are prompt,” Ruslan said. “You know of my apprentices, Mikail and Kiran ai Ruslanov.” He laid his hands on Kiran and Mikail’s shoulders. Kiran didn’t flinch from the touch. He looked straight at Marten and showed nothing more than a faint wariness.
“Of course,” Marten said, irony shading his voice. He bowed, carefully formal. The other Alathians didn’t. Stevan and Jenoviann had assumed expressions of cold, stone-faced politeness, but Lena and Talm were staring at Kiran, identical sharp lines between their brows.
Ruslan smiled, and I had to look away, unable to bear the mocking satisfaction in it. He’d seen our dismay over Kiran and he was enjoying the hell out of our surprise and unease. I did my best to imitate Mikail’s stolid calm. Fuck if I’d give Ruslan the pleasure of realizing just how thrown I was.
Kiran glanced at me—and blinked, his eyes twitching back to mine, then away.
Oh, mother of maidens! I knew that reaction. Most people did something similar when they first met me, thanks to my eyes seeming so out of place with my dark Arkennlander coloring. It was like they couldn’t believe they’d seen the color of my eyes right, and had to check again.
If Kiran didn’t recognize me…had Ruslan fucked with his memories? I got a flash of Kiran, white-faced from the pain of his broken arm on the Whitefires’ western slopes, saying,
I don’t remember anything before Ruslan. He always said it was because my life only truly started when I came to him.
But erasing the past of a kid too little to question it was one thing. Ruslan would’ve had to destroy Kiran’s memories going as far back as Alisa’s death last winter, maybe further. With that long of a gap, Kiran would realize his loss and be curious, even suspicious. Unless Ruslan had replaced his memories with false ones, somehow?
Maybe I was reading far too much into a brief instant’s reaction. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake in this. I refused to believe Stevan’s accusation, but there might be another explanation than lost memory. I prayed there was another explanation. If Kiran truly thought me a stranger, I was in serious trouble. I’d counted on his help, both for himself and to pry that coin out of Marten. I had to talk to him, discover the truth.
Marten was too far away for me to speak without Ruslan hearing. I eased toward Lena, who stood closest.
“Captain, you are welcome to engage in whatever investigative methods you see fit, provided you do not interfere with mine.” Ruslan spoke with the indulgent condescension of a den minder telling her youngest Taint thief he could help make dinner.
Marten awarded Ruslan one of his disarmingly bright smiles. I hoped Ruslan found all that casual cheerfulness as annoying as I always had.
“For our part, we ask only that you share your findings,” Marten said.
“Of course,” Ruslan said, in a tone that precisely matched Marten’s earlier irony. He strode for the house, Mikail and Kiran right behind him. The guardsmen hastily unbarred the door and backed away, as did the wind mage. Their bodies were tense and their eyes firmly fixed on the ground. Not even Sechaveh’s handpicked guards were immune to all the terrible stories about blood mages.