Leviathan's Blood (22 page)

In the past, Ayae had laughed, or stuck out her tongue, or responded quickly, but today, she managed a slight smile, her attention on the people around her.

She was nervous. She had been on edge since they had stepped out of the house. Both Faise and Zineer were anxious as well. Halfway to the market, Ayae had thought that they should turn back, but
she told herself that she shouldn’t. In the final hours of the night, Faise and Zineer had rejected the idea of going to Sinae Al’tor. They shouldn’t have to hide, Zineer said and
Ayae agreed with him. She agreed with Faise as well when she said that they still had to help the Mireeans. None of them should have to hide because of that. But Ayae knew that her movements were
quicker than they would normally be. She knew her skin was warmer than usual. And she knew that she was searching for anyone out of place, anyone who paid too much attention to her or Faise or
Zineer, anyone who held a cloak strangely across them. Yet all she had spotted was a Leeran priest at the back of the market, speaking to the largely unresponsive crowd. His hand rose occasionally
over the heads of people, a book in his hand.

Faise touched her shoulder.

Startled, Ayae said, ‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not paying attention.’

She grimaced. To the left of Faise, Zineer was buying large thick-skinned oranges. ‘I just – it doesn’t matter. What did you say?’

‘I asked if you wanted one of those books for Zaifyr.’ The other woman turned in the direction of the priest. His arm had dropped and Ayae could no longer see him. A wave had washed
over him and he had sunk beneath the black sea. ‘He’d probably appreciate it.’

‘He would,’ she said. ‘But those – only the priests can touch those books. He told me that.’

Zineer turned, a twine sack of fruit in his hands. ‘Who do you think is paying for the books?’ he asked. ‘I mean, the printing of them, that is.’

‘Why not the priests?’ Faise replied.

‘They claim not to have any money.’ Slowly, the three began to pick their way through the crowd. Zineer took the bag from Faise and placed the fruit in it as he continued to speak.
‘They are arriving without artifice. I heard one claim that the other day. We are but flesh and blood, were the exact words, I believe. They offer nothing but the truth of that.’

‘The Enclave thinks it is Benan Le’ta,’ Ayae said. ‘They haven’t come right out and said it, but he has been seen meeting with the priests, so the accusation
follows.’

‘There aren’t that many presses capable of printing books in Yeflam.’ Zineer pushed the bag up his arm. ‘Most do papers, pamphlets – only five, by memory, can do
actual books.’

‘One is owned by Le’ta,’ Faise added.

‘Leaving four . . .’

Ayae’s voice trailed off. Before her stood Commander Bnid Gaerl. He was a tall man with a heavily lined face. He had dark flat eyes almost lost in the lines of his face. Over his back he
carried a large two-handed sword, and when he stepped into the path the three had been taking with casual ease, he did so without evidence of the weapon’s weight.

‘Leaving only four.’ His voice was rough, as if his throat had been damaged at some time. ‘Rather inauspicious, don’t you think?’

‘You’re only one.’ Ayae moved in front of Faise and Zineer. ‘I would say the odds are not in your favour.’

‘They say you don’t burn, girl.’ Gaerl’s tone sharpened the last word. ‘But do you bleed? I bet you do. All you cursed bleed.’

She took a step forwards.

‘You think I’m here to fight?’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘I’m here to see you panic. To hear you plead.’

‘You haven’t enough life left for that.’

‘You’ll plead,’ he said. ‘You’ll plead once you hear that the Captain of the Ghosts was arrested.’

‘He isn’t even in Yeflam.’

‘Oh, he is. He told me where he was. He told the Soldier as well. He thinks he’ll be able to play us against each other and get some safety.’ Around the mercenary, the market
crowd became still, his words capturing those closest first and then spreading. ‘But he’s just going to go to Wila and rot.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Little girl.’ He laughed again. ‘Do you want me to tell you your fortune? I do that for girls I find special sometimes.’

‘There’s no need.’ The anger in her voice did not surprise her. She took another step towards him. ‘I know how it goes.’

‘Then you know about the two people I got behind your friends.’

Ayae stopped.

‘You are no soldier, girl.’ Gaerl’s voice was hard. ‘When Heast is on that island, he won’t be able to help you. He won’t be able to begin no miracle, no
twist, no turn. He’ll just have to watch you bleed from Wila. He’ll know it’s his fault as well. He’ll know he failed. He’ll know ’cause I’ll drop your
traitorous heads down to him before I start working my way through his spies and paid-for soldiers.’

He stepped back into the still crowd, ending the conversation suddenly. The crowd rippled as he did, the stillness evaporating as he presented the long, well-oiled leather scabbard of his sword
to Ayae and Faise and Zineer before he disappeared.

‘I think you made a friend,’ Faise said, finally.

‘I’m using my charm.’

‘I can tell.’

‘I’m s—’

‘If you say sorry,’ Faise said, suddenly angry, ‘I will not buy you apples.’

Ayae laughed, but there was little humour in the sound. She heard again Gaerl’s words,
the Captain of the Ghosts was arrested
, and knew that she should have killed him then and
there, before he walked away.

‘Do you always sleep with trousers on?’

He did not open his eyes. ‘Only in brothels.’

‘That’s funny.’ She did not laugh. Instead, her hand touched lightly the leg of his trousers – the left leg, the bad leg. ‘There is a man outside for you,’
she said.

‘A fat man?’ The Captain of the Ghosts opened his eyes: the morning’s sun slanted through the small window at the top of the room. The girl, her pale blonde hair almost lost in
the light, murmured ‘yes’ as she traced the ring of blood around his leg. ‘There is a Keeper, as well,’ she said. ‘The Soldier.’ ‘Good.’

Slowly, he rose, his steel leg falling heavily to the wooden floor.

‘Does it hurt?’

She had fallen forward, onto the warm, rumpled sheets he had lain on. Her bare feet stretched down to where his head had lain. ‘You get used to it,’ Heast replied, picking up his
jerkin. ‘Like all pain.’

Her smile was slight. ‘Do you want a knife?’

He ran a hand through his grey hair, shook his head.

‘I have two.’

‘They’re not a threat to me.’

‘What if you are a threat to them?’

‘You don’t need a knife for that,’ he said. ‘Do you plan to come down?’

She shook her head and he left her there, wrapping herself in the unmade sheets of his bed.

Sin’s Hand was quiet, the morning’s light illuminating the black stains left from candles, the sooty remains of the evening and its transgressions and transactions. Downstairs, he
passed a man cleaning the bar, a woman sweeping the floor, and a pair of large guards waiting at the front door for him. They were unarmed, but for one, who held Heast’s sheathed sword. He
handed it wordlessly to him as he approached.

Outside, Sinae Al’tor and two more unarmed guards stood before Benan Le’ta and Xrie. Half a dozen blue-mailed guards stood on either side of the two men, but Le’ta stood easily
between them in an expensive mix of browns and blacks, and a heavy cloak to shield him from the ocean’s cold wind. Yet it was the other man who drew Heast’s attention.

‘Captain Heast.’ The Soldier’s voice was strong, assertive. ‘I am afraid I must return you to Wila.’

‘For what reason?’

‘Your safety, of course,’ Le’ta interjected smoothly. ‘Commander Bnid Gaerl and I are duly concerned that some of his men have not reported back. We fear the worst and we
are afraid that people will blame the Mireeans.’

It was not what he expected to hear. ‘What does that have to do with me?’

‘We are merely concerned that the law will be taken into another’s hands.’

He tossed the sheathed sword to the Soldier. ‘You’re welcome to check it for blood,’ he said. ‘There’s none there. I just buy things now.’

‘Yes,’ Le’ta replied blandly. ‘I’ve heard.’

‘Enough.’ Xrie did not check the blade, but did not return it, either. ‘I have not the time, nor the inclination for this. Captain Heast, it is not exactly as Benan Le’ta
is explaining. Bnid Gaerl has accused you of being responsible for the loss of his men. You must know this because you let me know you were in Ghaam.’

‘I expected Gaerl to be here with his accusations.’

‘
Commander
Gaerl –’ Benan Le’ta was the first to emphasize his title – ‘is a law-abiding citizen. He believes in allowing justice to take its course.
The soldiers who disappeared were part of an investigation by the Traders’ Union into land purchases that have threatened Yeflam’s economic stability.’

‘I don’t own any land,’ Heast said. ‘I never have.’

‘Captain—’

‘The Captain,’ Xrie cut in, ‘surely understands that going to Wila is as much for his own safety as it is a response to the charges.’

He told them that of course he did, and let himself be led to a carriage. At the door, Heast waited for Benan Le’ta to seat himself. He glanced behind him to Sinae, who gave a slight nod
of his head, before Heast stepped into the carriage. The Soldier followed, closing the door to the carriage behind him. A whip cracked and the carriage shuddered into movement. Around it,
blue-armoured riders spread out and fell into orbit for the slow journey to the island.

After a while, Benan Le’ta said, ‘You seem quiet, Captain. Could it be that the extent of your situation is dawning on you?’

‘I was thinking of a young woman I know,’ he said. ‘I thought that the Soldier might know her.’

‘There are many people in Yeflam,’ Xrie replied. ‘But I think I know the one you mean.’

‘Might you pass on a few words for me, then?’

Across from him, the merchant’s smile strained, but he said nothing else, not even after the two had finished talking. He did not even bid Heast farewell once he arrived at the ramp that
led down to Wila.

Seventeen years had passed since Ce Pueral had last held an official rank, a captaincy. She had just past two and forty at the time and her body had begun to struggle to carry
the weight of the heavy gold-edged armour of the First Queen’s Guard. Two years later, she was one of many to convince the Queen to replace it, to have the gold rims melted down with the
steel, and a lighter, but darker plate and chain used. She did not like the weight of it, either, but she bore that uncomfortable fit in stoic silence when she wore it. It was not the fault of the
armourer: it was the fault of the body, of the woman who, as she aged, preferred the weight of fabric to leather, leather to chain, and chain to plate, and whose unofficial rank led to an
unofficial uniform that supported the first best.

She had been called the Queen’s Justice, the Queen’s Fist and the Queen’s Teeth: there were more, new titles every year – as many flattering as insulting – but she
had always thought of herself as the Eyes of the Queen.

The First Queen herself had given her that title after the death of the exiled Hundredth Prince, Jehinar Meih. He had returned to Cynama unexpectedly and Pueral had moved quickly to correct the
mistake she had made. After all, it had been she who had delivered him and his followers to the slaver. She had not thought he would escape, but the story of it, when it was told, had drawn a smile
from her. A blood slave had rescued the Hundredth Prince. Meih had been immune to that irony – indeed, all irony – which perhaps explained why it had been so easy for Pueral to convince
the men loyal to him to turn on the promise of an ill-defined forgiveness for them.

‘You are wasted in your position.’ The First Queen had stood over the bodies of the Prince and his followers, frail even then. ‘You have been told that before,
Captain.’

‘Your Highness,’ Pueral had said, ‘I am but a humble woman, of no notable past.’

The Queen’s hand had reached out, brushing the gold edges of her armour. ‘I have need for eyes like yours. In the morning, you will begin to earn a different birth if you wish, one
in which this – this will not be ornament.’

She had not lied.

Seventeen years later, in dark red trousers, a shirt of crimson and black, and soft leather boots of the darkest red, Ce Pueral came to the door of the First Queen’s chamber. She knocked
twice before entering.

The door opened into a large room, filled with chairs and tables and books. Of the latter, the majority were thick volumes of a leather-bound diary, the recollections of the First Queen over
three hundred years, written in a hand that had been reborn. Yet it was always her hand: the shape of it might change, the length of the fingers might alter, but the Queen, just like all of the
five Queens, was forever. She would be reborn after her death. As would her children. They would rule until she could do so again. Until she was able to open the books in the room. Pueral had never
read any of the volumes: they were for the Queen herself to read, but she had often wondered how the words were, within. Did her hand waver in its prose, going from thick, to thin, to cursive to
printed? Did the First Queen look back at her own words and wonder who had written them, or did she remember the circumstances of all that was contained?

The First Queen had not said, but Zeala Fe would not. At five and sixty, she once said that she had long ago learned the cost of intellectual weakness.

She had paid the price of physical weakness, as well, but she had paid that without ease for decades. At the back of the chamber, the First Queen sat in a deep red-cushioned chair, a fire beside
her, and a thick blanket across her thin knees. The chamber felt warm the moment Pueral stepped in, uncomfortably so by the time she drew before the Queen. There, the fire highlighted the thinness
of her washed-out black skin, revealed the shape of her skull, and the lightness of her hair, white and frail with age.