Of the Abyss (4 page)

One of the soldiers nudged Baryte onto his back, and his head lolled to the side, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Cadmia tried not to imagine what his spirit gazed upon as his mortal eyes clouded. Even for a Sister of the Napthol, that was a contemplation best avoided.

 

CHAPTER 4

W
hen Xaz woke, she was certain it was not for the first time.

She was bathed in sweat, and felt flushed and feverish. Turning her head to the side to try to see where she was made the world swirl, so it was difficult to make out any details of the rough room in which she found herself. All she knew for sure was that she was not in a cell. Curtains covered most of the nearby window, but they weren't thick enough to completely block what seemed to be midmorning sunshine.

She was wearing a man's shirt, a sleeveless, shapeless piece with eyelets at the throat empty of lacing. It fit her loosely, but she was more concerned with who had stripped her than she was with her modesty.

As she tried to recall anything of how she had come to this place, her hand went instinctively to her stomach. Tugging up the hem of the shirt, she discovered bandages wrapped around her torso.

She was alive—­how? And where? And almost as important,
why
?

Xaz struggled to her feet, conscious of the twinge of pain in her guts but not knowing what to do about it. She couldn't stay here, no matter where
here
was.

She barely managed to stand before blackness encroached on her vision and she needed to catch herself on the bedside table, sending several items that had been on it to the floor with a tremendous clatter. A small hand-­mirror shattered as it hit the ground.

The door opened from the outside before Xaz tested whether or not she could take a step.

An ancient-­looking woman wearing a loose nightdress stepped inside. Her gaze fell to the mess on the floor, and she shook her head. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Xaz had little choice but to agree, since she did not have the energy necessary to remain standing. The old woman wasn't overtly threatening, except that Xaz was so exhausted it was an effort to sense her own power, making her feel helpless and jumpy.

The woman put a hand on Xaz's forehead. “You're still feverish,” she said.

“How did I get here?”

The woman shrugged. “I found you hurt.”

Animamancer?
Xaz wondered. There were four kinds of mancer—­five, if you were willing to believe myths and whispers. Abyssumancers and Numenmancers gained their power from the Other realms. Necromancers were rumored to disturb the dead for power to extend their own lives and achieve control over other mortals. Animamancers were healers.

According to the Quin, the seemingly benign ability had a dark price. They claimed animamancers healed by siphoning healthy energy from the living into their patients.

It might even be true; to her knowledge, Xaz had never met one of the healers before. If they were anything like Numenmancers, the power still needed,
demanded
to be used. Maybe one of them had stumbled across Xaz, and nature—­if there was anything natural about a mancer's power—­had taken over.

“You should eat while you're awake. Is there anything particular I can get you?”

Again, though the woman said nothing specifically indicating she was a sorcerer, or asking if Xaz was, the question was telling. The different kinds of mancer each had their own tools, their own sources of power, and their own needs. In her discreet way, the old woman was trying to ask what Xaz was.

“I don't think I could eat anything right now,” Xaz answered. Her stomach was churning, perhaps from the wound or the fever, but perhaps from pure terror. She had never been identified before, much less captured. The fact that this woman did not seem to be about to turn Xaz over to the Quin did not mean her intentions were benign.

“I'll let you rest, then,” the woman said. “If you need anything, you can ring, or if you're strong enough to walk, you can come out to the parlor.” She leaned down, bracing herself on the bed, to retrieve the bell that had previously been on the table. No wonder it had all made so much noise, falling.

“I'm sorry,” Xaz said.

The words covered much.
I am sorry I broke your mirror, and made you bend down to care for me. I am sorry I cannot trust you enough to answer the questions I see in your eyes. I am sorry I need to do this. . .

She reached up, and with what little power she could muster, she pushed at the woman's mind.

“Thank you for helping me while I was ill.” She sent an image of sickness, but not injury. There was nothing suspicious about a fever in the fall. In return, she felt the edge of a secret; this woman had told someone else the same lie. Hopefully she'd also had the sense to hide Xaz's bloody clothing. “I will repay you in any way I can.”

The old woman's eyes unfocused for a moment, then she nodded. A chill swept over Xaz briefly, a break in the fever accompanied by new droplets of sweat that appeared on her brow, before the sensation of heat returned.

“It's my way,” the old woman said. “You sleep now. Ring if you need anything, and Cinnabar or I will be right in.”

As she turned away, Xaz saw the shoulder of the woman's nightgown had slipped a little, revealing a scar that could only be one thing—­the brand. How had she escaped execution? Had there been a time in this woman's long life when a branded sorcerer had been allowed to leave the detention cells alive?

Xaz's eyes were not sharp enough, but her power could see where the edge was marred. This branding had been done in haste, and it had been imperfect.

It wasn't much of a crack, but it might have been enough to allow the Numini to whisper in her ear and send her after one of their mancers. Their ability to manipulate her, however, did not mean she would be sympathetic to Xaz's plight; having escaped execution once did not mean she would be willing to risk herself now for a stranger. Thankfully, she would now give no more thought to odd injuries, or to how swiftly her guest healed.

The moment Xaz was alone, she put both hands over the wound, shut her eyes, and went into deep trance. She was no animamancer, but she could encourage her own flesh to return to its proper form.

Her power responded sluggishly, alarmingly so, and as she tried to work around the wound pain shot through her.

Poisoned.
The knife the Abyssumancer had hit her with had been steeped in power that was the antitheses of hers. Unfortunately, the ritual needed to purify her magic would be more complicated than she could afford to do here. She forced the healing enough to function, but then she stopped, obeying her body's warning signs.

Using so much power while she was already weakened left her starving.

Still a little unsteady, she managed to walk to the door. She had intended to keep walking and find something more solid to wear along the way home, but the rush of warmth, the aroma of cooking food, and the sight of a handsome man with a violin locked her in place. The man plucked at each violin string in turn, eyes half-­closed as he listened to the note brought forth and occasionally adjusted a tuning pin.

The man was lounging against several of the mass of pillows that filled almost the entire floor save for a sensible distance around a large, cast iron wood-­burning stove. He was wearing loose-­fitting slacks and nothing else, comfortable in his own home. His skin still held onto summer's tan and his muscles remembered a season of hard labor, possibly aboard a ship. Yet those chapped, hard-­worn fingers started to pull a haunting tune from the violin. He was still picking at the strings instead of using the bow, but it was clear he had finished tuning the instrument and was now testing it with a deliberate melody.

Watching his hands, Xaz noticed the ring on his smallest finger, which boasted the symbol of A'hknet. That might explain why he hadn't asked too many questions when the woman had brought Xaz home. Members of the Order of A'hknet followed a philosophy of, “Do what you wish, and accept the consequences.” They were as likely to help a stranger as rob her . . . which reminded Xaz she had no idea where her clothes or possessions were.

The musician looked up with an amused half smile, and remarked, “Normally, when a woman stares that long, her next question is ‘how much do you cost?' ”

Xaz jumped and felt her face flush as she realized how long she had been standing there, watching him. “I'm sorry,” she said, hoping the blush would be mistaken for a product of the fever. Yes, he was an attractive man, but it wasn't like her to be captivated by a pretty form. “I didn't mean . . .” She wasn't sure how to finish the sentence.

The man unfolded gracefully, leaving the instrument propped against the wall as he said, “Sit down. You're shaking like a leaf. Mother made me prepare some tonic for you, and leave some hot and put some out to cool. Given how flushed you are, I imagine you would rather have something cold.”

She nodded, grateful he had forgiven her rudeness and decided to change the subject.

“My name is Cinnabar,” he said, when he returned. “I think I've seen you working near the main docks' marketplace. Am I right?”

“That's right.” The work she did there—­whatever needed doing, really—­should be inoffensive to the Order of A'hknet, unless this particular member objected purely because it was legal.

She sipped the tonic he had provided, welcoming the cold the way she normally did heat when she had worked too much magic.

“Mother brought you in during the middle of last night,” Cinnabar said. “What were you doing out alone in this kind of condition?”

“I didn't realize how sick I was,” Xaz lied, effortlessly. She had been providing excuses for her behavior for as long as she could remember. “I went to the market to buy tea.” Halfway through the explanation, she remembered she hadn't had any money on her, a fact most followers of A'hknet were unlikely to miss. “I must have been delirious. I don't think I even brought my purse. Did I faint? Where did your mother find me?”

“Not
my
mother; that's just what we all call her,” Cinnabar replied. “She takes long walks sometimes, when nightmares trouble her. She found you near the upper market.”

Nightmares.
Probably the Numini whispering to her. They must also have hidden Xaz from searching Quin guards, since otherwise they would have discovered her when they tried to find the knife the Abyssumancer threw.

“She gave you her bed, which means she's in mine,” Cinnabar added, with a raised brow, “so I can't invite you back there even if you
are
feeling well enough.”

Apparently he
hadn
't
decided to ignore her earlier stare. The only safe answer seemed to be, “Pity,” before she took another large sip of the tonic. He and Mother had taken her in, saving her life in the process, so there was no need to tell him she would sooner swim in the frozen Mars harbor than engage the ser­vices of a prostitute.

That the Numini objected to such practices was only part of her hesitation. The other part was pure resentment: despite Quin disapproval, prostitution remained legal.

The Order of A'hknet was a small, foreign sect that stood in the face of almost everything the Quin believed, but it was a powerful force in Tamar, one of Kavet's major trade partners. Without Tamar, there was no rice, tea, or coffee, not to mention a variety of luxury goods. There were no mancers in Tamar, or Silmat, or even the Wild Islands or anywhere Xaz had heard of.

Therefore, the freedom of the Order of A'hknet had been carefully safeguarded, while the laws that made a mancer's life ever more difficult—­such as restrictions on the use, possession, or trade of key spell components—­were constantly refined and expanded. Occasionally Xaz daydreamed about hopping on a Tamari or Silmari ship and traveling to one of those other countries, but passenger rooms were exorbitantly expensive and few hired foreigners.

“I need to get ready to head out,” Cinnabar said, glancing to the clock ticking on the mantel. “You are welcome to stay a while longer, if you need the rest.”

“I think I can make it home now.”

Cinnabar looked skeptical, but it wasn't the Order's way to interfere if someone wanted to be stupid. He was right that Xaz would not be able to walk far in her condition, but she needed to get out of this house and away from these strange, prying eyes, and thought she could manage as long as she took it slow.

“You'll want your belongings, then. Let me go see where Mother put them.”

He disappeared into the next room, and emerged again several minutes later with a clean set of clothes in about Xaz's size. There was no sign of the knife. She fervently hoped it had slipped from sight, as Abyssumancers' tools tended to do until called back by their owners.

 

CHAPTER 5

C
aptain Feldgrau of the 126 listened diligently as Cadmia reported word-­for-­word what the mancer had said to her before his black magic caught up to him.

“What is your opinion?” he asked, before voicing any thoughts of his own.

She took a deep breath, passing the mancer's statement through her mind again. As Baryte had said, it was her duty to remember and meditate upon a man's last words, which meant her training had prepared her to recall and reproduce those words exactly.

“Baryte was angry,” she said. “He felt the Abyssi he was working with had betrayed him, and he wanted to thwart whatever plan he believed it was trying to enact. The fact that they silenced him implies they did not want him speaking.” With a mental shudder, she added, “That they
could
silence him, even though he was branded and in a warded area, is a little frightening. They shouldn't have been able to do that.”

Feldgrau nodded, slowly.

“He mentioned having a knife, which the Abyssi made him throw away. Has anyone found it?”

“The guards who arrested him say the mancer produced another knife when he woke,” Feldgrau confirmed, “but they did not see what happened to it, and we have been unable to locate the item.” Unsettling. Anyone could have picked the knife up, in which case what might it be doing to them? “Do you believe the Abyssi could be planning something?”

Cadmia shook her head. “I was taught Abyssi
can't
plan. My guess is that Baryte assigned human motivations to creatures incapable of such forethought, but I'm not comfortable dismissing his words entirely.”

Feldgrau nodded again. “I'll confer with the other captains about what precautions they think we should take. Thank you for your counsel.”

“Of course.”

She wished she had not been the one called. All her study supported what she had told the captain; Abyssi were not creatures of rational thought. They were powerful, bloodthirsty monsters, but they lacked the ability to scheme. So why were her instincts still telling her something was deeply awry?

She had barely stepped out of the Quinacridone Compound when she was confronted by another individual from the Order of A'hknet. This one was not a run-­down mancer but an exhausted monger, as that order called its members who engaged in the trade of questionable goods and ser­vices. He was dressed in the loose, casual pants, shirt, and vividly colored vest he favored. His fashionably-­long hair, which Cadmia knew was naturally a weathered straw color before an application of henna turned it rich, chocolate brown, looked like it had been hastily tied back without the benefit of a mirror. For Cinnabar of A'hknet, who took pains with his appearance as a professional asset, that was positively unkempt.

Cadmia smiled in greeting while instinctively putting a hand on her small purse. “Were you looking for me?” she asked. There was no other reason for Cinnabar to loiter outside the Quinacridone Compound, within sight of four members of the 126.

Noticing her distrustful gesture, Cinnabar said, “I wouldn't steal from family.”

“We are
not
family,” she pointed out.

“Not by blood, thank Numen,” he replied with a flirtatious smile that was as engrained a habit for him as breathing—­and which still made her blush. “You look good, Caddy.”

Cadmia stifled the impulse to check her own hair and clothes self-­consciously, even though she was confident the wavy, strawberry-­blond hair Cinnabar had once admitted to envying was held primly back with wooden hair combs and the plum-­violet robes of her order were neat and modest.

If he had been a stranger or a distant acquaintance it would have been easier to meet his eye and respond as a Sister of the Napthol should, but she was keenly aware the nearby guards were watching her. It didn't matter that they didn't know her history with him.
She
knew.

“What do you need with the Order of the Napthol, Cinnabar?”
If he teases, I'll just turn my back and walk away. That's all.

“I need to show you something,” he said, all flirtation leaving his face and tone. “Can we go inside?”

She led the way into the Cobalt Hall. Only once over its threshold did Cinnabar begin to relax.

“I lifted this from a guest we had recently,” he said. “I took it because it looked like silver. I didn't examine it until she was gone.” He flipped the disk onto the table between them, using the end of his sleeve to keep his hands from touching it directly.

The round disc was about the size of Cadmia's palm around, but thin as a coin. The upward-­facing surface was marked with elaborate geometric designs that shifted and made Cadmia's eyes water as she tried to make sense of them.

When she picked it up, cold flashed up her arm as far as her shoulder. It spun twice before falling to the floor with a bell-­like ring.

That kind of cold could only come from the Numen. The divine realm was supposed to be the destination for good souls when they died, but Numenmancers were not content to wait. They manipulated the Numen and disturbed the peaceful dead to command the Numini and achieve more power in mortal life. Though not as physically brutal as Abyssumancers, Numenmancers were in some ways more dangerous, as they altered the nature of divinity and so could endanger not just this life, but the next.

“I came to you because I know you'll trust me it isn't mine,” Cinnabar said, his voice soft and desperate. “Mother got up last night after one of her nightmares, and brought back a woman who looked half-­dead. I figured it was ship-­fever, something like that, until I saw this. She was
in my house,
Caddy. She was alone with Mother.”

Mother Avignon was one of the oldest and most respected members of the Order of A'hknet. She had lived through the revolution, or so ­people said, though she never spoke on those days. Cadmia had left that order and joined the Napthol when she was seventeen, but she still shared Cinnabar's instinctive outrage that a mancer had come so close to Mother.

“I know Mother probably will not wish to, but both you and she are welcome to stay here until the mancer is identified and captured,” Cadmia said. No one knew why mancers could not enter the Hall, but Cadmia had seen one faint trying. She did not question the blessing, but appreciated that there was one safe place in the city. “Can you give me a description of the woman?”

“Description, name, workplace,” Cinnabar answered. “I've seen her around before—­
not
professionally,” he was quick to add. “She's moderately attractive, a bit on the thin side, average height, brownish-­auburn hair, brown eyes. Well-­spoken when called to be, but she keeps her head down. She calls herself Dioxazine—­Xaz—­and she works down at the docks market almost every morning. I don't know where she lives, but I'm sure someone there can tell you. I can't believe I—­” He broke off. “Just
find
her, please.”

“Would you be willing to come with me to make this report directly to the One-­Twenty-­Six?” Cadmia asked, because she was expected to, though she was certain the fear that had driven Cinnabar here would never get him across the threshold of the Quinacridone Compound. She didn't bother to ask if he wanted guards posted near Mother's home.

Cinnabar shook his head and said, “I trust you to do what needs to be done.”

So it was that Cadmia crossed to the compound for the second time in one day, and found Captain Feldgrau conferring with one of the guards that Cadmia recognized as one of Pearl's favorites. Bole had a daughter near Pearl's age, and so had a soft spot for the orphan girl who lived at the Cobalt Hall.

Tiredly, she said to Captain Feldgrau, “I think I have another one for you.” She handed over the disc, now carefully wrapped, and said, “A monger just brought this to me. He stole it from a houseguest, then realized that it is obviously a Numenmancer's tool. He said the woman's name is Dioxazine, and that she works down at the docks.”

“Did he say what she looks like?” The soldier who interrupted them appeared alarmed. “Pardon me, Captain.”

Captain Feldgrau indicated for Cadmia to continue, so she repeated Cinnabar's description, and watched the soldier go pale.

“Do you know her, Bole?”

The soldier nodded. “I know her. She moved in to the river way in the south district about a year ago.”

“Near Lieutenant Viridian?” the captain asked.

“Right next door to his childhood sweetheart.” Bole grimaced. “With your leave, I'd like to go warn him immediately.”

Feldgrau shook his head. “We don't know if she might be watching him. Sister Paynes, thank you for the information. We will handle this from here.”

Cadmia returned to the market square feeling unsettled. It seemed like mancer activity had been steadily increasing in the last few years, despite every effort to control the threat. Of course, the 126's efforts were sabotaged by the fact that every paranoid farmer and fishwife cried sorcery whenever anything went wrong, so the few soldiers with the sight were constantly running around trying to determine if slaughtered chickens were the result of mancers or foxes.

That wasn't to say mancers weren't far more dangerous than foxes. They had the ability to stop a person's breath with a touch. The power was addictive, and just like a man who had fallen to Tamari crystal elation or even something as mundane as alcohol, those who meddled with sorcery seemed to need more and to become more irrational about how they supported that magic.

The power gets hungry,
Baryte had said, to explain why he had committed murder.

The soldiers will deal with it,
she told herself.
That is what they are for.

She spotted Cinnabar again in the market, this time with one hand on an empty wooden pull-­cart as he spoke with a honey merchant, his famous smile no doubt getting him a deep discount. If he was still worried about the mancer, it didn't show—­but then again, a man in his profession had to be good at hiding his thoughts while appearing to be an open book.

He glanced up and noticed Cadmia watching him, and raised a hand in a half wave, half salute.

This time she managed to school her face. As a Sister of the Napthol, especially with her specialty counseling individuals who had fallen on the wrong side of the law, it was expected that she knew all types of ­people—­even an Order of A'hknet prostitute. Others who observed them had no way to know Cinnabar was also the man to whom she had lost her virginity long before Kavet's legal age of consent.

“The Quin stole Mother's cart,” he explained as she approached, patting the worn wooden handle. “It took a while to get them to give it back to me. Did you . . . get everything sorted out?”

She appreciated that he kept the question intentionally vague to avoid being overheard and causing a disturbance. She nodded, and told him the only part he would care about. “It will be dealt with. I didn't need to use your name.”

“Thanks.” He smiled again, and this time she thought it was genuine. “Do you want to walk down with me? You haven't come to visit us in ages.”

“I used to come to visit Mother—­
my
mother,” Cadmia reminded him. Scarlet Paynes had died two years prior, caught in the middle of a fight for her affection between two men who would have forgotten her within the day. Cadmia had never known her father, so Scarlet's death had meant the last of her blood family was gone, and with it the last of her responsibility to visit with those who followed A'hknet.

“She isn't the only one who looked forward to your visits,” Cinnabar said, softly.

“Have a good day, Cinnabar,” Cadmia said, trying to disengage from the conversation.

“If I asked for your counsel—­”

“If you put in a request for counsel, I will be sure to send one of the Brothers.” It was more common for men interested in religious study to dedicate themselves to the Quinacridone and become monks, but there were a few among the Napthol as well.

Cinnabar quirked a brow, reminding her wordlessly that his flirting wasn't limited to women. Despite Kavet laws and Quin norms that made same-­sex relations strictly illegal, Cinnabar willingly worked both sides—­he was just a little more careful not to get caught when his clients were male.

Her scowl made him say, “You used to be fun.”

He turned away, and Cadmia found herself relieved and disappointed to see him go—­and fighting the urge to
watch
him go. Cinnabar had been awkwardly cute when they were younger. Now that he had grown into his broad shoulders and sharp, dramatic features it was clear how he was so successful in his chosen line of work.

It might have been easier to stoically toe the “no sex outside marriage” line both the Quin and the Order of Napthol held so dear if Cadmia had been as naïve as most initiates were when they took vows, but Scarlet Paynes's daughter had needed to start fighting off amorous intentions, often from sailors twice her age, when she was twelve or thirteen. Though only a ­couple years older, Cinnabar had taken it upon himself to become her protector, which included sleeping beside her with a dagger in his boot. They had become lovers when she was fourteen.

When she was seventeen, Tamari slavers had beaten Cinnabar senseless while attempting to claim him and Cadmia. She had put Cinnabar's dagger in the slaver's back, carried Cinnabar to the Cobalt Hall for healing, and dedicated herself to the Order of Napthol on the spot.

She only occasionally regretted the decision.