The Worlds of J D L Rosell Page 7

  Our three cartmen bore us across the city in a turn and a half. As we dismounted and paid them, they wheeled off, shining with sweat and their purses jingling with nickel magnes. As for my companions and I, we had to straighten our hair and beat the dust off our clothes. We’d paid the men well for the quick ride, but no amount of tip could keep the trip from being an uncomfortable and dirty one. But in a city where people were in a greater supply than beasts of burden, we used what transportation we had.

  Having had the cartmen let us off a little ways from Servant Feiyan’s compound, we walked the last bit on foot, keeping under the overhanging apartments and hoping the shadows and night would hide us from any watching eyes. Soon, her manor came into view. Pressing against the wall of a shop, we peered around the corner at it. Xaron whistled as we looked over the sprawling compound. “You don’t see that everyday in Port.”

  It wasn’t the richest estate we’d ever seen, certainly not more than many in Iris and Bazaar, two of the richer demes of Oedija. Yet rising on a hill from the row of other houses and shops, it was practically a palace here in Port. Composed of an estate that stretched out towards a cliff, it encompassed a dozen times more space than any of its neighbors. Small gestures towards opulence had also been made in its decorations, but it seemed to me a performance more than a genuine display of extravagance. Feiyan’s rise may have been meteoric, but her coffers — and power — weren’t without their limits.

  I pressed back against the shop wall. “Now I suppose we wait.”

  “Not for long,” Nomusa murmured. “The glass mounted in the last forum read nine and a half turns. Eazal’s intermediary could be here at any moment.”

  She was quickly proven correct. Barely a quarter-turn after we’d arrived, there was movement out of the darkness. I squinted at the figure approaching the manor gate, but it wasn’t until it stood before the two mounted pyr lamps that I saw the flash of silver. My breath caught. “It’s her. The woman from the sanctuary.”

  “You’d think they’d send a less distinctive emissary,” Nomusa muttered.

  “Well, here she is.” Xaron looked between Nomusa and me. “Do you have any bright ideas, or can I do what I’m best at now?”

  I shared a look with Nomusa. We’d briefly discussed what to do once we saw the contact earlier, but hadn’t come to any consensus. Just seeing her in association with the Servant wasn’t enough to get us very far in finding out who was behind Agmon’s murder. To locate our next lead, we had to actually overhear the conversation between Feiyan and this intermediary. Which called for a house-break.

  It was exactly the last thing we wanted to do.

  Five years before, near the beginning of when Nomusa and I started working together as Finches, we didn’t have many rules in our quest to succeed. Only one: no house-breaks. If we couldn’t hear the whispers by other means, we figured we weren’t worth our salt as Verifiers.

  Of course, we only made this rule after Nomusa convinced me to break into a whorehouse owner’s private solar, and I was nearly caught by the burliest woman I have ever seen. Needless to say, the experience was bruising enough to keep both Nomusa and me adherent to the rule.

  Until, that is, Xaron came along two years ago and turned everything upside. We met Xaron when he broke into a house that we had been staking out to find out who had stolen a pair of trousers, an incident more significant than it sounds on its face. After a series of misunderstandings, he ended up moving into Canopy with us and becoming a Finch.

  I had tried my best to ensure all of us stuck to our rule of no house-breaks. But as a warden, Xaron’s gifts sometimes made it too easy to consider breaking it when options became limited. Like now, for instance.

  I didn’t want Xaron to do it. I didn’t want him to feel eager like he always did when he had a chance to use his magic beyond the simple parlor tricks he practiced in Canopy. If he was caught, it wouldn’t just mean imprisonment like it would for Nomusa and I. Living as a feral warden outside the confines of the Acadium warranted death. And with the law enforced by Shepherds, battle-trained wardens who were indoctrinated into the rules of the demotism, it was no mean risk. But I saw no other option than to give up, and resign ourselves to potentially more people dying at the hands of this woman’s master.

  Nomusa nodded her assent, and I sighed. “Fine. You can do it.”

  Xaron immediately started to head away, but I arrested him with a hand on his arm. “But if you run into trouble, give us the signal. All right?”

  He flashed a grin. “I won’t need to.” The next moment, he had taken off at a lope, sticking to shadows on the opposite side of the compound. No doubt he searched the perimeter for the best entry point.

  I watched him disappear into the darkness. Suddenly, I found myself wishing we’d taken the time to stop by Canopy. There, I had a Finch mask and a Tribunal medallion I might have used in case he did need our aid. Even if he gave the signal, at this moment, I had no idea what we could to do help.

  Then an idea occurred to me.

  “I have to go somewhere,” I told Nomusa hurriedly.

  “What?” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “Where are you going? We have to make sure Xaron makes it out safely.”

  “That’s what I intend to do.” I quickly told her my plan before I hurried off into the dark alleys of Oedija.

  It wasn’t the first cliff Xaron had climbed, but it was certainly the tallest. Strolling towards the dock so that he was nearly at the base of the cliff, he craned his neck back. The cliff was exposed for the most part, but if he continued further into the inlet, the opposite stone face leaned closer and cast part of the ascent in shadow. He smiled, thinking that Feiyan must enjoy this private view often during the day. At night, it was Xaron’s to claim.

  Having circled the Servant’s compound, he’d determined that his best bet for infiltrating the estate would be to ascend the cliff. At seventy spans high, that was no mean feat. But Xaron just smiled to look at it. If he knew himself at all, he was up to the task.

  And he was itching to channel.

  Glancing around to make sure no one watched or followed, he made his way over the boulders towards the cove. He could have launched himself over the rough terrain with a burst of kinesis, but even he wasn’t so foolish as to waste his strength on convenience. Still, as he hopped from stone to stone, his hands and feet itched, the energy of the Pyrthae pressing at his fingertips and toes. It had been too long since he’d had a chance to properly channel beyond the little that Airene and Nomusa allowed him within Canopy.

  And the things he could do if he were allowed. He’d scaled walls in a single jump. He’d performed acrobatics every bit as complicated as the men at the gymnasiums. Once, when a Shepherd had tailed him, he’d vaulted over rooftops to escape. And the tricks with radiance he could perform — juggling fire, casting simple illusions, bursts of light as distractions. He was gifted with this power, yet was told by everyone around him that he couldn’t use it.

  Once, he’d lived in a place where he wasn’t restricted. After he’d left his home at seventeen for refusing to stop channeling, he’d found a commune of other feral wardens, and Graz, their leader, took him under his wing. Like Xaron himself, Graz and the others had believed that those with an attunement to the Pyrthae shouldn’t be treated as the detritus of the polis, either shooed into the Acadium to live out their days in repression and among dusty books, or made into the brutal Shepherds who forced other wardens into the same choice. No, they believed they had a right to be exactly who they were, and lived following that shared belief. For two glorious years, Xaron had seen a different future than had been promised for his whole life up until that point.

  And then the Shepherds had come.

  He had been out purchasing food for the coming span when they came. When he returned, two satchels of bread and fruit slung over his shoulders, he found their home blackened and smoldering. He wanted to run inside, to see if they’d died in the flames or had been taken away, but he had
n’t had the courage. Everyone in the vicinity would know that house had been blighted with the daemonic presence of feral wardens. If he was associated with it, he, too, could meet their same fate.

  So instead, he ran, never to know for sure what had happened to his friends.

  But even two years later, he still carried on their belief as best he could. Sure, he was cautious, or as cautious as he could compel himself to be. But he still channeled everyday, even if it was just a little. He wouldn’t let the world around press him into forgetting who he truly was. He would carry on their small rebellion for them. And hopefully, their deaths would someday not be in vain.

  Xaron slipped down a large, slick stone and found where he would begin his climb: a recess in the rock that crawled up most of the cliff and was spiderwebbed with cracks perfect for toe and finger grips. Wiping his sweaty palms, he forced himself to breathe through the sudden gurgling in his stomach. He was just excited, he told himself.

  He reached the lowest cracks and gingerly put his fingers in them, testing how they held his weight. He'd always known he had long fingers and toes, but suddenly they seemed far too fragile for this task. He breathed in, then out. Only one way to fix that.

  He channeled. It was a test, just a few small streams of kinesis to his digits to reinforce their strength, but he felt the difference as he gripped the stone and lifted himself up. He easily clung to the handholds now. It didn’t, however, strengthen his arms and legs. He had to be careful, or he’d wear himself out. That, or he’d tear his limbs off with an erratic burst. Just as his magic conferred power, it came with inherent risks as well. But there was little point in dwelling on those possibilities now.

  Before he began the climb, he studied the wall again. When he’d first had this idea, he’d humored himself with the fantasy of clearing the cliff in three jumps. Now he saw how foolish that plan had been. It was far too risky and noisy. He’d have to go the long, slow, boring way. With a sigh, he began to climb.

  It was easy going at first, and the cracks were plentiful and easily within reach. But a third of the way up, Xaron realized he was headed towards trouble. Not only were his arms quickly tiring, but as he looked ahead in the low light for his next handholds, he saw they grew thinner and further apart. It should have scared him, and his upset stomach told him it probably did. But mostly, he felt the itch of anticipation. Energy flowed through him. He could do this, would do this. After all, what kind of warden was he if he couldn’t?

  He picked his way up the wall until he couldn’t find the next firm handhold, a little less than two-thirds of the way up, then braced himself. He checked the flow of the elements inside him and allowed in a bit more kinesis. He felt the rock groan beneath his fingers as the pressure from the magic increased. He looked up again for the spot he was aiming for. From where he was, it’d be a long leap. But he didn’t stop to let doubt seep in. Bracing his legs and flexing his arms, he channeled kinesis in a huge burst and threw himself up the cliff.

  He flew. Lifting off the rock face, his old handholds crumbled as he exploded kinesis into them and propelled himself towards the sky. He was twenty spans from the top, ten spans, five — but he was slowing. At the moment of suspension, still a few spans from the top, the horrible realization that he wasn't going to make it slammed into him. He reached out, his hand shy of the cliff’s lip. Panic reared inside him, and he began flailing about him as if something might appear out of nowhere for him to grab. But he was too far away. There was nothing around him but air.

  Xaron began to fall.

  But he wasn’t out of ideas yet. Thrusting his legs out beneath him, he pulled at every bit of magic he had access to and directed kinesis towards his feet. Pure force rippled behind him as he tried to use the very air to propel him forward. His gut ached as his locus, the center point of his connection the Pyrthae, strained from channeling so much energy, and his limbs burned from directing it. But he wasn’t falling anymore, and bit by bit, he moved closer to the cliff’s edge. Xaron gritted his teeth and pushed harder, engaging his hands in it as well. An arm’s length away, a hand’s breadth—

  He reached out and grabbed the stone lip of the edge of the cliff and clung to it like a drowning sailor to a rope. Fully aware of the sear from too much channeling, Xaron cut the streams off abruptly and let his body fall against the cliff. He was pouring sweat, but as he pulled himself to safety, he grinned. He’d done it. Close call regardless, he’d done it.

  He flipped onto his back and looked up at the cloudy sky laced with green tendrils from the radiant winds when his breath caught at a thought. When he’d leaped that final distance, he’d channeled enough kinesis to break stone. How much noise had he made? He didn’t hear any alarms sounding or footsteps approaching, but he knew he couldn’t lie in repose for long.

  Ignoring his leaden limbs, Xaron sat upright and crawled to the low stone barrier that ran along the cliff’s edge. Listening, he detected a faint whisper on the other side, perhaps two guards in quiet conversation. Xaron risked a peek over the wall. Shadowy forms littered the courtyard, but he quickly saw they were not guards, but statues and fountains and other ornamentation. Only a lone guard stood with a pyr lamp in the whole the courtyard, and he shone his beam into the darkness toward the docks. Either he hadn’t made as much noise as he’d thought, or this guard was deafer than stone.

  Ducking back down, Xaron took a deep breath, then once more opened himself up to the Pyrthae. Power streamed through him, starting in his belly and spreading to his limbs. Though it hurt as it flowed, he sighed with relief. He never felt more alive than when he channeled; the rest of existence without it seemed drab and dull-edged. Sitting up and peering over once more, he saw the guard still staring out over the dock and took his chance. Slipping over the wall, he slinked across the courtyard in a crouch. By channeling a small stream of kinesis to soften his footfalls, he barely made a whisper as he passed. He moved around the curves of fountains, around the edges of gardens, behind benches and chairs so that he was soon ten paces behind the guard, the man’s mutterings plain to hear.

  “Every damn night…” the man said. “Every damn night she goes out. And what’s she have to say for it? ‘What would you have me do, Eg? Stay in the house all the time?’ Like that’s a punishment. Like I don’t work every night for her to do just that. What I wouldn’t give to be home right now…”

  Stifling a chuckle, Xaron slipped past the guard to the door. Opening it without the guard hearing or seeing would be difficult, but Xaron had just the trick for it. Channeling radiance, he repressed its shining properties, and instead let it spread in a thin sheet before him, covering his way to the door. If it worked as he’d practiced in Canopy — employed then to steal the last mango without his fellow Finches noticing — he’d be reflecting back a similar environment as was around him. It would look strange to the guard if he looked too closely at it, but Xaron hoped it would at least disguise his movement. As for sound, Xaron would have to trust to fate and hope that Feiyan was one of those masters who wouldn’t tolerate a squeaky hinge.

  Placing his hand on the handle, Xaron held his breath as he gently pulled. It swung silently open a crack. Just a little wider, and he’d be able to slip through with the guard none the wiser—

  The hinge screeched.

  The guard spun, his lamp shining straight at where Xaron crouched. Xaron froze, natural instincts urging him to hide, even though he had no better cover around than his shield of radiance. With the light on his illusion, he didn’t know whether it was better to move out of the way or not, so he froze in indecision.

  “What in the high heights of the ‘Thae…?” the guard muttered, walking forward and staring at where Xaron crouched. What he saw, Xaron didn’t know. Perhaps it looked like a piece of wall floating disembodied from it. Or perhaps he couldn’t see the door at all. The shield drew its images from the environment around, but what exactly it drew, Xaron hadn’t refined his magic enough to know.

  The guard was on
ly six paces away, his hand outstretched toward Xaron’s radiance shield, when Xaron finally willed himself to move. Just as he did, the guard flinched. Xaron cringed; the wall must have moved in the guard's eyes. There was nothing for it but to move quickly and slip through the door, then quickly close it behind. Blessedly, as he escaped while the guard still stared in confusion, the hinges were quiet this time. Just before the door shut, he heard the final gasp from the guard as the illusion shifted once again, then the sealed door shut out all sound.

  Walking quickly, Xaron dispelled the radiance shield and slunk his way through the nearly complete darkness. If the guard decided to come through, casting another radiance shield would likely only provoke further curiosity. Xaron needed to truly disappear. He blindly felt his way along the wall, his pounding blood the only thing he could hear. His fingers drifted along an open doorframe, and Xaron, breathing a prayer to any god who would listen, moved behind it.

  No sooner had he done so than the outside door opened. “Hello?” the guard called softly. Xaron heard him take one step in, then two. Light flickered on the doorframe. His stomach churned, and he waited for the guard to step through and spot him. But after a few quick breaths, the man just muttered to himself, and his retreating steps echoed in the room. The door closed once again.

  He let out a heavy sigh. He was inside and undiscovered. But the worst was still to come. Now he had to sneak through the grounds — and get out — without being detected.

  Nothing for it but to keep moving.

  Channeling a tiny tongue of fire for light, Xaron navigated his way through the dark rooms, half-bent over just in case he needed to hide or bolt. Twice he nearly bumped into a fragile vase or other decoration, but he corrected himself just in time. He had no idea where he was, or even where he was trying to go. As this thought rattled around his head, he became more and more uncertain of what he was even trying to do here. Had he infiltrated her compound just to prove to he could do it? Was this about upholding what Graz and the others had believed, or just making himself look good before his accomplices?