Nevernight (25 page)
“Shahiid Solis and the Revered Mother don’t seem to share your enthusiasm.”
Ashlinn made a face, spat a sliver of cheese rind off her tongue. “Solis is a bastard. Just a mean-spirited, brutal shit.” The girl leaned closer, spoke in conspiratorial tones. “You know the meaning of his name, aye?”
Mia nodded. “It’s Ashkahi. Means
the Last One
.”
“And you’ve heard of the Philosopher’s Stone, aye? The prison in Godsgrave?”
Mia swallowed. Nodded slow.
Don’t look.
“… I grew up in Godsgrave.”
“So you know how overcrowded the Stone used to get, before it got gutted. Every few years, they’d thin the numbers. Consul Scaeva thought up the idea, back when he was just a pup in the Senate. Called it—”
“The Descent.”
Ashlinn nodded, talked around another mouthful of cheese. “Empty the place of all its guards. Tie a ladder to the highest tower and berth a rowboat at the bottom. Tell the prisoners that one of them will be allowed to row ashore and rejoin the world, no matter their crime. But only when every other inmate in the place is dead. Turns out about twelve years back, the good Shahiid of Songs was just another down-on-his-luck thief locked in the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“Solis,” Mia whispered. “
The Last One
…”
“That’s what they called him. Afterward.”
“How many did he…”
“Lots. And blind as a newborn pup, too.”
“Daughters,” Mia breathed. She could feel his blade shearing through her arm. The snapping muscle. The searing pain. “And I stuck my knife in his face…”
“Maybe he’ll respect you for it?”
Mia glanced at the sling around her wounded arm. “And maybe not.”
“Look on the bright side. At least they won’t make you attend Songs until your wing’s better. Maybe you can win him over with flowers or something in the meantime.”
“Drusilla told me Shahiid Aalea will tutor me until I heal.”
“Ooooh,” Ashlinn grinned. “Lucky you.”
“Why lucky? What does she teach?”
“You really don’t know?” Ashlinn laughed. “Maw’s teeth, you’re in for a treat.”
“You going to spill your guts or just crow all night?”
“She teaches the gentle arts. Persuasion. Seduction. Sex. That kind of thing.”
Mia almost choked on her mouthful. “… She teaches sex?”
“Well, not the basics. Presumably we all know that much. She teaches the
art
of it. Da said there are two kinds of men in this world. Those who’re in love with Aalea, and those who haven’t met her yet.” Ash raised one eyebrow. “Black Mother, you’re not a maid, are you?”
“No!” Mia scowled. “I just…”
“… Just what?”
Mia frowned, trying to cool the heat in her cheeks. “I just haven’t … had many.”
“What about Tric?”
“No!” Mia growled. “Daughters, no.”
“Why not? Strapping lad like him? I mean the tattoos are awful but the face beneath is fine enough.” Ashlinn nudged Mia’s elbow. “And they all look the same in the dark.”
Mia glanced at Mister Kindly. Down at her feet. Stuffed more chicken in her mouth.
“… How many have you had, Corvere?”
“Why?” Mia mumbled around her food. “How many have
you
had?”
“Four.” Ashlinn tapped her lip. “Wellll, four and a half. If we’re getting technical. But he was an idiot so I’m saying he doesn’t count. We all get a do-over.”
“One,” Mia finally admitted.
“Ah. Loved him, did you?”
“Didn’t even know him.”
“How was he?”
Mia made a face. Shrugged.
“Ah. One of those. And now you can’t understand what all the fuss is about, or why you’d ever want to do it again?”
Mia chewed her lip. Nodded.
“Shahiid Aalea will teach you. It gets better, Corvere. You’ll see.”
“Mph.” Mia slumped down on the table, chin on her knuckles.
Ash stood. Brushed the cheese crumbs off her lap.
“Come on, we’d best be off. We’ve got Pockets morrowmorn. If you’re lucky, you might even squeeze some time in with Aalea.”
Ashlinn started making kissing noises.
“Shut up,” Mia growled.
The kissing noises became interspersed with soft, throaty moans.
“Shut
up
.”
The girls stole off into the darkness, a cat who wasn’t a cat following silently.
When they were gone, a boy stepped from the shadows. Pale skin. Black leather. Most would’ve called him handsome, though beautiful was probably a better word. He had high cheekbones and the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen.
A boy named Hush.
He was holding a knife. Watching Mia and Ashlinn slip away into the dark, and running one slender fingertip over the razored edge.
And he was smiling.
1. Though declared a heresy, in the absence of complete eradication by the Luminatii, the Red Church
has
struck something of an accord with various authorities across the Itreyan Republic. Due to the power of Aa’s Church and the recent and infamous attempt on Consul Scaeva’s life during the Truedark Massacre, very few members of Godsgrave’s nobility have direct dealings with the disciples of the Night Mother. But in more cosmopolitan vassal states of the Republic—such as the court of the Vaanian king, Magnussun IV—the Red Church is openly recognized, and a disciple held on permanent retainer.
The benefits of this arrangement are twofold; good King Magnussun can of course rid himself of his enemies quietly should the need arise, but more important, while he retains the services of a Church Blade, the king also has no fear of a rival hiring a Blade to dispatch
him
. This is a golden rule of Red Church negotiations, and one that has seen them rise in favor over other murderers for hire; while employing a Blade, one’s life is considered off limits to other Blades of Niah.
Of course, the fees to employ one of the finest assassins in the Republic on permanent retainer are so pants-wettingly exorbitant that only a king can afford it for long. Still, it can be said that of all Itreya’s rulers, Magnussun IV probably sleeps the soundest, his slumber only occasionally disturbed at yearsend by nightmares about the impending arrival of the Church’s bill.
2. The Itreyan week consists of seven turns, one for each of Aa’s four daughters, and one for each of his three eyes. Niahan heretics speak of a time before the Maw was banished from the sky, when Aa claimed only one turn in the week for himself, and granted another to his bride.
The heretics make no mention of who the seventh turn may have belonged to.
CHAPTER 13
L
ESSON
“As my ex-wife used to say,” smiled Shahiid Mouser. “It’s all in the fingers.”
The acolytes were gathered in the Hall of Pockets, standing in a semicircle around the Shahiid. The hall was vast, lit with a vaguely blue light from stained-glass windows above. Long tables ran the room’s length, littered with curios and oddities, padlocks and picks. The walls were lined with doors, dozens upon dozens, each set with a different style of lock. And off at the light’s edge, Mia could see racks lined with clothes. Every cut and style imaginable from all corners of the Republic.
Mouser himself was dressed in common Itreyan garb—leather britches and a split-sleeve doublet—his foreboding gray robes nowhere to be seen. He still wore his blacksteel blade, the golden cat-headed figures on the hilt entwined in each other’s arms. Mia was again struck by the Shahiid’s eyes—though he seemed a man barely in his thirties, that deep brown gaze betrayed the wisdom of a man far older.
“Of course, my first bride wasn’t the brightest of flames. She married me, after all.”
The Shahiid walked among the novices, hands behind his back, nodding like some marrowborn toff out for a stroll. He stopped abruptly in front of Ashlinn’s brother, Osrik. Held out a hand, “Hello lad, what’s your name?” The blond boy shook the offered hand, and Mouser tossed him a small knife, hilt first. “You dropped this, I think.”
Osrik checked the empty sheath at his wrist. Blinked in surprise. Mouser turned to the acolytes with a wink.
“It’s in the feint,” he said.
The Shahiid wandered along the line, stopped in front of Tric. The boy’s bruises from Floodcaller’s knuckles and Solis’s boots were still etched in livid blue.
“How’s the jaw, lad?”
“… It’s well, Shahiid, thank you.”
“Looks nasty.” Mouser reached up, brushed a gentle hand across Tric’s face. The boy recoiled, lifted his hand to push the Shahiid’s away. In a blinking, Mouser tossed the boy a ring Mia instantly recognized—three silver seadrakes, intertwined.
“You dropped this, I think.”
Tric double-checked his now bare finger. The ring in his palm.
Mouser looked to the acolytes again.
“It’s in the feel,” he said.
The Shahiid meandered down the line again, finally stopping in front of Jessamine. Mouser flashed the redhead his silverware smile and stepped closer. The girl met his gaze with bright, hunter’s eyes and a playful grin, doing her best to out-smolder the Shahiid. The stare-off was broken by Mouser lifting a golden bracelet and twirling it around his finger.
“You dropped this, I think,” he said, tossing it back to the girl.
He turned to the acolytes with a wink.
“It’s in the eyes.”
Without a word, Jessamine stepped forward and kissed Mouser square on the mouth. Shock and amusement rippled among the novices as the Shahiid’s eyes widened. As he stepped back, raising his hands to ward the girl away, Jessamine grasped the hilt of his blacksteel blade and drew it out with a flourish. Smiling still, she pointed it at the Shahiid’s heart.
“It’s in the lips,” Jessamine said.
Mouser paused, glancing at his own sword pressed against his chest. Mia held her breath, wondering if his displeasure would take the same shape as Solis’s. But then the Shahiid laughed, long and loud, giving the redheaded girl a low, courtly bow. “Bravo, Mi Dona, bravo.”
Jessamine returned the sword, curtseyed with imaginary skirts.
Ashlinn shot a glance to Mia, who gave a grudging nod.
She’s good
…
Still, Mia couldn’t help but rankle at the injustice. She’d shown up a Shahiid and got her arm hacked off for it. Jessamine had got a round of bloody applause …
Mouser turned to the group. “As our enterprising acolyte here has demonstrated, the game of Pockets is a game of manipulation. A theater. A dance in which your mark must be off step at all times and you, one step ahead. Romancing purses or the art of remaining unseen may seem a small thing compared to the ‘art’ of bashing a fellow’s skull open or killing him with his own goblet of wine. But sometimes all that lies between you and your mark is a single door, or a password on a slip of paper in a watchmaster’s pocket. The path isn’t always paved in blood.
“Unfortunately, the former love of my life
did
come close to the mark. Your fingers are your livelihood in this game. And the only way to get good with them is practice. So, this is what we do here. Practice.”
The Shahiid pointed to a pile of thin scrolls on one of the tables.
“By way of motivation, each Shahiid holds a contest every season. All of you are to take one of those lists. On it, you’ll find a series of items within the Quiet Mountain, a number beside each. These are the marks accrued if you successfully acquire the item and bring it to me
without getting caught by the owner
.”
Mouser looked around the room, meeting each novice’s eye.
“Understand, I take no responsibility for the consequences if you’re caught acquiring these treasures. And if you’re sprung wandering the halls after ninebells in breach of the Revered Mother’s curfew, Black Mother help you. This is a game, children. But a dangerous one.” He waggled his eyebrows. “The only kind worth playing.
“At yearsend, whichever acolyte has acquired the most marks shall finish top of this hall. Each other Shahiid will be running a similar contest; Songs, Masks and Truths. Presuming no dismal failures in other areas of study, the students who finish top of each hall are virtually guaranteed to graduate the Red Church as full-fledged Blades.”
Murmurs rippled among the acolytes. Mia met Tric’s eyes across the room. Ashlinn was grinning like a cat who’d stole the cream, the cow, and the milkmaid to boot. A near-certain guarantee to become a Blade? To avenge her father? To stand on Scaeva’s tomb? Maw’s teeth, that was a prize worth pinching a few trinkets for …
Some acolytes had already begun snatching up the scrolls. The one-eared boy, whose name was Petrus, got into a brief scuffle with Diamo as they both grabbed the same one. Tric’s scroll was snatched out of his hand by a smiling Ash. Mia pushed through the throng to grab her own. She cracked the wax seal, perused the handwritten list:
A kitchen knife
—1 mark
A poleaxe from the Hall of Songs
—1 mark
A personal item belonging to a fellow acolyte
—2 marks
Jewelry belonging to a fellow acolyte
—3 marks
A book from the athenaeum (stolen, not borrowed, smartarse)
—6 marks
A mirror from the Hall of Masks
—7 marks
Chronicler Aelius’s spectacles
—8 marks
A face from the weaver’s rooms
—9 marks
Shahiid Spiderkiller’s ceremonial knives
—20 marks
A keepsake from Mother Drusilla’s study
—35 marks
Shahiid Solis’s empty scabbard
—50 marks
And so on. Dozens upon dozens of items listed down the page, each more outlandish than the last. It looked like this “contest” was going to start an all-out thievery war among the acolytes, which was probably what Mouser wanted. They’d be on edge at all times, now. Always looking for an opportunity. Constantly watchful.
Constantly practicing.
Clever
.
At the bottom of the list, Mia saw the final item. The most difficult of all.
