Godsgrave Page 4

  “Raiders!” Teardrinker bellowed.

  The women in Mia’s wagon screamed as a hail of arrows rained down on the caravan, punching through the canopy. Mia heard a gasp, felt the flesh around her shift. A young lass sank down in the crush, an arrow in her eye. One of the sprats took a shaft to the leg, started howling, the entire mass of bodies around her shifting like the sea in a storm and crushing her against the bars.

  “’Byss and blood . . .”

  Mia heard galloping hooves, the sound of black-feathered rain. Somewhere distant, Dustwalker was roaring in pain, Teardrinker shouting orders. The ring of steel rose over the bellow of wounded camels, the hiss of spraying sand. Mia cursed again as she was shoved face first against the bars, the folk around her boiling to a panic.

  “Right, fuck this,” she spat.

  Reaching down to her boot, Mia twisted the heel, retrieving her trusty lockpicks. In a moment, she was free of her manacles, reaching between the rusted bars. She set to sweet-talking the lock, tongue poking out in concentration. An arrow sheared through the canopy just shy of her head, another thudded into the wood near her hand.

  “ . . . you may wish to hurry . . .”

  The whisper was soft as baby’s breath, intended for her ears only.

  “You’re not helping,” she whispered back.

  “ . . . i am offering moral support . . .”

  “You’re being an annoying little shit.”

  “ . . . that too . . .”

  The lock sprung open in her hand and Mia kicked the door aside, tumbled out in the blazing light. She rolled beneath the wagon as the other women realized their cage was open, falling over themselves in their bid to escape.

  Mia could see a half-dozen raiders circling the caravan. They were clad in dark leather and desert colors, a mix of sexes and skin tones. Cesare was dead, punctured with black-feathered arrows. Mia saw no sign of Luka, but Dogger was crouched behind the aft wagon, Dustwalker’s corpse beside him. Teardrinker’s camel had taken an arrow to the throat, and the captain was hunkered behind its body, crossbow in hand.

  “Stinking whoresons!” she roared. “Do you know who I am?”

  The riders only jeered in response. Riding in that incessant circle, driving the escaping women back toward the wagons, and the captives in the other cages into a frothing panic.

  “Diversion,” Mia realized.

  “ . . . from what . . . ?”

  Dogger ducked out from cover, loosing a quick shot with his crossbow. From somewhere among the rocks, a black-feathered arrow flashed, striking him in the chest. Dogger fell, scarlet bubbles bursting on his lips.

  “From that sharpshooter up there,” Mia muttered.

  The girl reached out to the shadows beneath the wagon, gathering them up like a seamstress pulling thread. It was so bright out here, so different from the belly of the Quiet Mountain. But ever so slowly, she stitched the shadows together, weaving them into a cloak. And beneath it, she became little more than a smudge, like a greasy fingerprint on a portrait of the world.

  Of course, she could barely see a bloody thing. She’d always thought it cruel that the Goddess of Night would give her the gift to remain unseen but make her almost blind while doing it. Still, blind was better than butchered.

  Mia crept closer to the wheel, moving by feel, preparing to dash from cover.

  “ . . . try not to get shot . . .”

  “That’s excellent advice, Mister Kindly. My thanks.”

  “ . . . moral support, as i said . . .”

  Then she was moving. Crouched low, hands out before her, away from the wagons and toward the outcropping ahead. All the world was a blur, coffee black and milky white. The dark shape of a horse and rider loomed out of the nothingness, clipped her hard as it rode by. She staggered, wobbling blind until she hit a low outcropping of rock with her shins and tumbled into cover with a curse.

  “Ow, fuck it.”

  “ . . . o, poor child, where does it hurt . . . ?”

  The girl pulled herself up with a wince, slapped her rump.

  “Kiss it better?”

  “ . . . perhaps a bath is in order first . . .”

  The girl was off again, groping her way up the rocky slope, moving by feel and sound alone. She could still hear Teardrinker roaring challenge, but the girl was listening for the telltale hiss of arrows, the whip-snap of a bowstring. And there it came . . . and there again, Mia circling up and around, quiet as a particularly quiet dormouse who’d just been appointed Master of Quiet at the Iron Collegium.5

  Another arrow. Another snap of the bowstring. Mia could hear soft whispering between each shot, wondering if there was more than one shooter up there. She was behind them now, behind a tumble of boulders. And throwing aside her shadows, she peered over her cover to find out how many bowmen she’d have to murder.

  Turned out, there was none at all.

  O, there was an archer, no doubt. But she was no more a bowman than Mia was a swordsman. A woman, clad in gray leathers and mottled brown, her blond hair cropped short. Whenever a shot presented itself, she’d press an arrow to her lips, whisper a prayer, then let fly. Whatever divinity she prayed to seemed to be listening, too—as Luka dashed for one of the camels, the archer put an arrow in his shoulder, another in his shin as he scrambled back into cover.

  The rock crushed her head with the first blow, but Mia smashed it twice more into the back of her skull, just to be sure. The archer fell with a bubbling gurgle, fingers twitching. And picking up her bow, Mia drew the string to her lips, took aim, and put a black-feathered arrow into the spine of one of the raiders below.

  The woman twisted in her saddle, fell with a bloody cry. A comrade saw her fall, turned to the bluffs above and tumbled back off his horse with an arrow in his throat. Another raider cried warning, “’Ware the rocks! The rocks!” as Mia’s shot took him in the thigh, her second in his belly. A slingblade glittered as it flew out from the cover of the middle wagon, near taking the man’s head off his shoulders.

  The raiders were all a confusion now, their sharpshooter gone, and their plan along with her. Teardrinker took a shot with her crossbow, killing a horse and sending its rider to the dirt. Mia killed another rider with two shots to the chest. The last few raiders broke, scooping up their horseless comrade and galloping away as fast as their steeds could take them.

  “ . . . fine shooting . . .”

  Mia looked to the shadow sitting atop the archer’s corpse. It was small, wore the shape of a cat, cleaning a semitranslucent paw with a semitranslucent tongue.

  “My thanks,” Mia bowed.

  “ . . . that was sarcasm . . . ,” Mister Kindly replied. “ . . . you let four of them get away . . .”

  Mia made a face, raised the knuckles at the shadowcat.

  “ . . . while we’re still alone, i should probably take this opportunity to point out the insanity of this scheme of yours again . . .”

  “O, aye, Daughters forbid you let a turn pass without riding my arse about it.”

  Mia wiped her bloody hand on the dead archer’s britches, slung her quiver of arrows over her shoulder. And bow in hand, she made her way carefully down the slope to the carnage around the ’van.

  The women captives were still huddled around their cage. Graccus, Dogger, Dustwalker and Cesare were all dead. Luka was slumped near the middle wagon, arrows in his shoulder and shin. Mia watched him try to get to his feet, settling instead for one knee. His eyes were locked on hers, his second slingblade in hand.

  Teardrinker had taken an arrow to the leg somewhere in the fray. Her face was spattered with blood, but she still aimed her crossbow with steady hands right at Mia. The girl stopped forty feet away, raised her bow. It was finely crafted—horn and ash, graven with prayers to the Lady of Storms. It’d put an arrow through an iron breastplate at this range. And Captain Teardrinker was wearing nothing close to iron.

  “That father of yours taught you well, girl,” the captain called. “Fine shooting.”

>   “ . . . pfft . . . ,” whispered her shadow.

  Mia kicked the dark pooled around her feet, hissing for silence.

  “I’ve no wish to kill you, Captain,” Mia called.

  “Well there’s a stroke of fortune. I’ve no wish to fucking die, either.”

  The captain looked at the corpses around her, the wreckage of her crew, the arrow in her leg, down the long road to the Hanging Gardens.

  “I suppose we could call this even,” she called. “I was planning on fetching a fine price for you at market, but saving my life seems fair tithe. What say you ride up front with me for the rest of the trip, see us safe to the Gardens? I can cut you in on some of the profit? Twenty percent?”

  Mia shook her head. “I don’t want that, either.”

  “Well, what do you want?” Teardrinker spat, stare locked on the bow in Mia’s grip. “You’re holding decent cards, girl. You get a say in how this hand is played.”

  Mia looked to the other women huddled around the forewagon. They were filthy and haggard, clad in little more than rags. The dusty road stretched out across the blood-red sand, and she knew full well the fate that awaited them at the end of it.

  “I want back in the cage,” Mia said.

  Teardrinker blinked. “You just broke out of the cage . . .”

  “I chose you very carefully, Captain. Your reputation is well known. You don’t let your men spoil your goods. And you have an accord with the Lions of Leonides, neh?”

  “Leonides?” Exasperation crept into Teardrinker’s voice. “What in the name of Aa’s burning cock does a gladiatii stable have to do with any of this?”

  “Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?”

  The girl lowered her bow with a small smile.

  “I want you to sell me to them.”

  1 Firemass is a celebration that marks the turn toward summersdeep in the Itreyan calendar. Dedicated to Tsana, the Lady of Fire, it falls on the eighth month before truelight—the holiest of Aa’s feasts, when all three suns burn in the sky.Tsana is Aa’s firstborn daughter, a virgin goddess who serves as patron of both warriors and women. Firemass is marked by a four-hour cathedral mass, and is meant to be a turn of reflection and chaste contemplation. Of course, most of the Republic’s citizenry use it as an excuse to don masques and hold a raucous piss up, indulging in precisely the kind of behavior Tsana frowns upon.But, as with spouses, so with goddesses, gentlefriends; it is often better to beg forgiveness than seek permission.

  2 The three drams of the toxin known as “mishap” that Mia had slipped into the dona’s tea yestereve ensured she’d not be up to attending Senator Aurelius’s soiree—suffering explosive discharge from every orifice does tend to put a damper on one’s ability to hobnob. Mia normally would have used a smaller dose, especially on someone so elderly. But in the five turns she’d been casing Grigorio’s palazzo, the old woman had proved herself to be a battleaxe of the first order, whose only pleasure seemed to be shouting at a portrait of her dead husband and beating her slaves. So, Mia found it hard to feel too guilty about giving the old bitch an extra-large serving.Though she did feel sorry for whoever had to clean up the mess afterward.

  3 You’ll remember the coinage of Itreya is nicknamed for the folks most often found handling them, gentlefriends. Coppers are called “beggars.” Silvers are called “priests.” Depending on the social standing of the person you ask, gold coins are either called “tossers” or “get away from me you filthy pleb before I have my man here break your fucking legs.”

  4 Typically, the predators of the Ashkahi Whisperwastes don’t travel much past the Great Salt, and the biggest sand kraken are only found in the deep deserts. Occasionally, smaller specimens will range south when game grows scarce, and in recent years, several enterprising outfits operating out of southern Ashkah have set about capturing these roaming kraken, selling them for use in spectacle matches during the Venatus Magni—the great games held in honor of Aa during the Feast of Truelight.The masters of the venatus are constantly looking for ways to out-do the spectacle (and attendance) of previous games, and if the thought of watching a favorite gladiatii battling a horror from the Ashkahi Whisperwastes doesn’t get arses on seats, very little will, gentlefriends.

  5 You may recall the Ironpriests of the Collegium have their tongues removed at a young age to preserve the secrets of their order. Technically, there is no “Master of Quiet” at the Collegium—that was simply puffery on my part. But I was concerned you wouldn’t get the joke otherwise.. . . o, never mind.Bastards.What do you know about funny anyway?

  3: shadows

  Mia lay naked on the floor, spattered in red, Alenna in her arms. Music still swelled faintly from the ball upstairs, none of the senator’s guests any the wiser that his only son had been murdered right below their heels. Mister Kindly sat on the headboard, staring at the young don’s corpse. Eclipse licked her lips with a translucent tongue, the shadowwolf’s sigh rumbling through the floor.

  The girl in Mia’s arms shivered at the sight of them.

  “I’m going to take my hand away now, love,” Mia whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to tie you up, put my clothes back on, and then slip out into the sunslight and you’re never going to see me again. Does that sound fair?”

  Alenna nodded frantically, blinking the tears from her eyes.

  Eclipse’s soft feminine voice seemed to come from below the floorboards.

  “ . . . THAT IS FOOLISH . . .”

  “ . . . and you would be the expert on foolishness, pup . . . ,” Mister Kindly sneered.

  “ . . . BETTER TO BE RID OF HER. WE HAVE NO REASON TO LET HER LIVE . . .”

  “And no reason to end her,” Mia replied. “Unless someone is paying me. Now, shouldn’t one of you be watching the hallway in case a guard comes down here?

  “ . . . i kept watch last time, when you ended that magistrate . . .”

  “ . . . LIAR, I KEPT WATCH OUTSIDE THE WHOLE TIME. YOU WERE FEEDING LIKE A SOW AT TROUGH . . .”

  “ . . . and how would you know that, if you were keeping watch outside the whole time . . . ?”

  “If you two are quite finished? I give less than no fucks for who does it, but one of you better get out there, because someone’s go—”

  A soft knock sounded at the door. A deep voice calling beyond.

  “Mi Don?”

  Mia cursed beneath her breath, grip tightening on Alenna’s throat.

  “Mi Don,” said a second voice. “Your father requests your presence.”

  Guards, by the sound. At least two of them . . .

  “ . . . IT WAS YOUR TURN . . . ,” Eclipse whispered fierce.

  “ . . . lying mongr—. . .”

  Mia hissed for silence, her mind racing. With guards outside the bedchamber door, her chances of slipping out unnoticed were aflame. Dove was waiting with the carriage upstairs, but he wouldn’t be any use to her down here. She could fight easily enough, but she was buck naked, all but unarmed, and the noise would only bring more guards. The shadows down here were deep, but with the bedchambers in the basements, there weren’t any windows for her to climb out o—

  Mia gasped as Alenna’s elbow collided with her ribs, and with a black curse, the girl cracked her head back into Mia’s nose. Her grip momentarily loosened, Alenna drew breath and screamed, only partially muffled by Mia’s fingers.

  “Murder!” she cried. “Help me!”

  Mia slammed her fist into the side of the girl’s head, once, twice, knocking her senseless. She heard a curse, a heavy thump as something crashed into the door.

  “Mi Don?” someone shouted. “Open up!”

  “ . . . it was your turn . . .”

  “ . . . LIAR . . .”

  “Will the pair of you shut up!”

  Mia slung her dress over her head as the door shuddered on its hinges. Fishing about in her abandoned corset, she retrieved her gravebone dagger, the crow on the hilt rebuking her with its glittering amber stare. And reaching to the s
hadows around her, she dragged them over her head, throwing all the world into black and disappearing utterly beneath it.

  The door crashed open, two blurred shapes silhouetted against the light. One of them cried Aurelius’s name, moving in what Mia hoped was the direction of the bed. The other saw the naked, blood-spattered Liisian girl on the floor, and crouched beside her. And with the door now clear, Mia slung aside her cloak of shadows and ran.

  The guards bellowed for her to stop, but Mia paid no mind, sprinting down the plush hallway toward the broad stairs. Two more guards appeared above, frowning in confusion at the bloodstained girl barreling up the stairs toward them. One held up a hand to stop her as Mia’s dagger flashed, in and out, hilt-deep in his belly. The man gasped and fell, tumbling down the stairs as his comrade cried warning, hefting his shortsword. Mia twisted sideways, gasping as his blade cut deep into her shoulder and upper arm, her whistling counterstrike slicing his neck clean through.

  The man collapsed, gargling, and Mia was already gone, up out of the stairwell and onto the ground floor. She burst into the main hall, the marrowborn dons and donas crying out in alarm at the sight of her—bloodied blade in one hand, dark hair strewn around darker eyes, wide with fury.

  “Pardon me, Mi Dona,” she begged, smashing some pretty young thing aside as she tore through the hall. More guards burst into the room, unsure who to chase or why. The pair from Aurelius’s bedchamber appeared at the top of the stairs, scanning the confused crowd, finally spotting Mia as she pushed her way through the mob.

  “The girl in red!” one bellowed. “Stop her!”

  “Assassin!” the other cried. “The senator’s son, slain!”

  The hall dissolved into chaos, some folk reaching for Mia, others fleeing before her. She cut some well-heeled administratii from thigh to crotch as he made a grab for her, elbowed another gent in the face and dropped him cold. The knife in her hand and the look in her eye dissuaded the other do-gooders in the crowd, and with a sidestep, a shove, and a rolling tumble, she was through the double doors, sprinting down the plush entry hall. Snatching a tumbler off the drinks tray of a gobsmacked servant, she belted down the goldwine inside before hurling it at the guard rushing at her, bouncing the heavy crystal off his head and sending him sprawling.