When the Heavens Fall (17 page)

Think!

Parolla looked up at the eaves of the building across from her. She might be able to scramble up onto one of the rooftops, but what then? She could hardly leap from roof to roof, and if she were fool enough to try, the dactils would surely see her.

From along the alley to her right came a faint snuffling sound, and she froze. A three-legged dog was limping toward her—the same animal she'd observed outside Shroud's temple? It stopped a few steps from the doorway where she hid and looked at her. Baring its teeth, it growled.

Parolla smiled.
The White Lady's own luck.

She had to act swiftly, though, if she was to take advantage of its arrival. Summoning her power, she weaved a shadow-spell about the dog and watched its form blur. Almost invisible in the gloom of the passage. The Huntsmen would soon discover the deception, of course, but not before she was far away.

A kick sent the dog shuffling off with a yelp.

More shouts came from somewhere to her right, shrill with excitement, and a horn emitted a braying note. Apparently the
magus
had sensed his new target. Parolla's priority now was to put as much distance as possible between herself and the dog, and for once she did not have to think long over which direction to take. The Inner Wall was visible over the roofs of the buildings to the north—follow it east, and it would soon bring her to the Water Gate.

Simple.

She dashed off in the opposite direction to that which the dog had taken, ducking into the first passage she came to.

Keeping the Inner Wall to her left, she zigzagged through the alleys. The clamor of the Hunt fell farther and farther behind.

An uneventful half-bell later she passed through the Water Gate and entered the Mount. The dirt roads gave way to paved, tree-lined avenues, the squat slums to mansions set in immaculately groomed gardens. From behind the safety of gates, private guardsmen watched her stride by. They were, she realized, the first people—barring the Huntsmen—she had seen since leaving Shroud's temple.

There were sounds of life ahead now: the lowing of temlocks from the cattle markets; the cries of a
jadi
seer screaming his promise of apocalypse. No horns. No hoofbeats. Parolla could not afford to relax just yet, though, for the Antlered God had many followers, and not all of them wore antlered helms. Ceriso di Monata had recognized her as being marked by his Lord, but he had not said
how
. Would all of the immortal's servants be able to identify her?

She raised the hood of her cloak.

A scattering of people were still abroad: slaves mostly, judging by the tattoos on the backs of their hands. Eyes downcast, they scurried through the lengthening shadows. If Parolla set a bearing north she would stumble on the river eventually, but perhaps she could risk asking someone the quickest route. A young girl, barefoot and wearing an ill-fitting yellow robe, was coming along the pavement toward her. As the girl walked, she brushed the fingers of her left hand against the trunks of the trees that lined the avenue. On seeing Parolla approach, she made to cross to the opposite side of the road.

Parolla raised a hand. “Please,
mestessa,
” she said in the common tongue. “I will not detain you long. I seek directions to the river.”

The girl's gaze was fixed on the ground. She was no more than ten years old, Parolla judged, but someone had tried to make her look older by painting her lips red. When she did not respond, Parolla repeated her question in Xavellian. The girl hesitated before pointing to a side road. On the back of her hand was a tattoo of an antlered deer.

Even as the significance of that detail sank in, Parolla saw the girl's gaze flicker to her face. Her golden eyes widened, and she turned to run.

Wait!
Instinctively, Parolla snatched out and grabbed her sleeve. She felt a jolt as sorcery passed like a shock between them, crackling up the girl's arm. Light flashed behind the slave's eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a moan. For a moment she remained upright on watery legs. Then she collapsed, her sleeve slipping from Parolla's grasp.

Her head bounced off the pavement with a crack.

Parolla stomach knotted as she crouched beside her.
No,
mestessa
! I didn't mean …
Blood trickled from the girl's nostrils, and her eyes gazed sightlessly up at the sky. Parolla shook her shoulders, but her body was limp. A urine stain spread across her robe round the thighs and knees. Seizing one of her hands, Parolla released her power in a flood through the contact. A flicker of a heartbeat was all she needed, the smallest flame to fan to life.
Breathe,
mestessa,
breathe!

The girl's body jerked as if she were having convulsions. Parolla could
see
her heart beating, rippling the cloth of her robe as it thundered in her chest. At her neck, her skin twitched with an irregular pulse. But Parolla knew it was only her sorcery that sustained the illusion of life. The girl's soul had already fled to Shroud's keeping. After a time the girl's skin grew warm to the touch, then uncomfortably hot. Parolla saw her beautiful golden eyes start to melt, her hair to curl at the roots. The air filled with the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh.

Letting go of her power, Parolla lifted the girl's body and hugged it to her. Her eyes misted.

Why, damn you?

A servant of the Antlered God.

A girl!

Parolla had only wanted to prevent her from escaping. Instead her tainted blood had come surging up, and she had been unable to hold it in check. How many more would die before she learned control? Why did Shroud's Gate always seem to remain so far out of reach for her, yet so close for those she came into contact with?

She rocked the slave in her embrace.

Forgive me,
mestessa.

Parolla did not know how long she knelt with the girl in her arms. Finally a noise made her look up. A man was watching her from along the street, half hidden behind a tree. Another servant of the Antlered God? Parolla no longer cared. As their gazes met, the stranger turned and bolted.

A needlefly alighted on the dead girl's cheek, and Parolla waved a hand at it. The
magi
of the Hunt would have sensed her sorcery, gained an insight into what she was capable of. Would they now see sense and keep their distance? She suspected not. Once unleashed the Hunt could not be recalled. Worse still, the high priest would now know where Parolla was. Perhaps he would even deduce her destination from the direction she was heading in. Her thoughts turned again to the river. The promise of escape, and an end to the killing.

She had lingered here too long.

Blinking back tears, Parolla lowered the girl to the road, then rose and set off again.

*   *   *

Luker was beginning to suspect it hadn't been mere luck that he'd found this table empty when he arrived at the Gate Inn. The sawdust on the floor below looked like it'd been brushed recently, but spatters of blood and other fluids remained, and the air stank of excrement. To Luker's left, Jenna sat staring at him like she thought he'd made the smell. In her fingers she rolled a blackweed stick, which she lit from one of the wall torches. Chamery sat across from them, stroking the fluff on his chin that passed for a beard.

Luker used a nudge of the Will to catch the innkeeper's attention, and the man heaved his bulk toward them through the press of people in the common room. He took their order, then snatched up the coin Luker put on the table and bit down on it. Evidently satisfied, he dropped it into a pocket.

“Keep the change,” Luker said. The emperor was paying, he could afford to be generous.

His gaze swept the room. He had never set foot in this place before, but he was already starting to understand the reason for its colorful reputation. Along the wall to his right, a young man with bloodred tattoos on his scalp was fluttering his fingers over one of the wall torches. His lips moved soundlessly as shapes began to twist in the flames. Over by the door, meanwhile, a squad of Bratbaks was drinking away their pay. A serving-girl had just arrived with the next round, but when one of the soldiers ran his hand up her skirt, she started and dropped the tray of drinks. It fell to the floor with a crash, spilling ale to the sawdust. The men jeered.

The Bratbaks weren't the only soldiers present, Luker knew. The others might not have been wearing uniforms, but he'd crossed swords with enough scarred veterans in his time to pick them out in a crowd. A number of sets of hooded eyes studied him from the shadows at the edges of the room. Some of the watchers stared at him blankly; others returned his gaze with unspoken challenge. Not so long ago, no one would have dared hold the eye of a Guardian. Or maybe it was just Luker.
Good times.

Chamery's lisp interrupted his thoughts. “Fascinating place the tyrin has chosen for us, wouldn't you say?”

“Seems Merin Gray wants an eye kept on us.”

“Hah! It is
we
who should be watching
him
! Something's going on, you know it as well as I do. We're not even clear of the city and already the scheming has begun.”

Jenna blew out a mouthful of blackweed smoke. “A mage accusing someone else of double-dealing? Did I just imagine the Betrayal when it happened?”

Chamery sneered. “And what would you know about it?” He looked back at Luker. “History is always written by the victors. The real treachery that night was committed
against
the Black Tower. Do you deny this, Guardian?”

“No,” Luker said. He had long since come to realize that the emperor's quarrel with the mages' Conclave two years ago had been engineered by Avallon to give him an excuse to approach the Guardians for help. It had been a clever ruse, all things considered. An informer among the mages' ranks had alleged the Black Tower was seeking to make contact with the empire's ancient nemesis, the Augerans—like the Conclave was some fatted calf gone searching for the butcher's ax. And while the emperor had been careful to appear skeptical about the claims, his demand that the High Mage surrender himself for questioning was delivered just provocatively enough to raise the mages' hackles.

Looking back now, it was hard to believe there had been so many Guardians prepared to throw their weight behind Avallon, but the seriousness of the accusations, together with the intransigence of the Conclave, had left most of the order feeling they had no option but to give the emperor their support. The night of the Betrayal had weakened both the Black Tower and the Sacrosanct. Indeed, the only winner had been Avallon himself, for with one fell stroke he had succeeded in decimating the ranks of two of the factions that might have put a check on his power. And, conveniently, the subsequent disappearance of the informer had left the emperor's detractors with no way of proving he'd masterminded the affair.

For a few heartbeats Chamery was taken aback by Luker's admission. Then the sneer returned. “And yet the Guardians sided with Avallon.”

“Not all of them.”

“You think your opposition absolves you from blame? You were part of the attack on the Black Tower, weren't you? The blood of the Conclave is as much on your hands as it is your colleagues'.”

Luker shot him a look. “Aye, I was there. Kanon was there too. You think I should have hung my master out to dry like you did yours?”

Chamery's face went white. “You dare accuse me … I was in Trote on a shadow-sending.”

“Of all the days, eh?”

“Fortunately for you.”

“You think the result would've been any different if you'd been there? You'd have bled as easy as the others.”

“But I did not! And I will make sure the emperor comes to regret that I survived!”

Luker leaned in until his face was a few handspans from Chamery's. “Careful,” he said, looking meaningfully over the mage's shoulder at the common room. “Someone else here might be stupid enough to take your threats seriously.”

“You think I care?” Chamery replied. But he had lowered his voice all the same.

The innkeeper returned with a bottle of juripa spirits, two chipped goblets, and a glass of red wine for the mage. Jenna snatched up the bottle, filled a goblet to the brim and passed it to Luker. Already regretting his decision to let the assassin order for him, he took a sip and winced as the fiery liquid seared the back of his throat. “Tell me,” he said to Chamery. “Did anyone from the Black Tower go north with Kanon?”

The mage paused before answering. “No.”

Figured. Kanon enjoyed company about as much as Luker did. The mage's hesitation made him curious, though. “Why not?”

“Because we knew nothing of his quest at that time. And I suspect we never would have done, had your master been successful.”

“You're saying Avallon wants the Book for himself?”

“You tell me. You're the one taking his orders.”

A scuffle had broken out between a Bratbak and one of the inn's other patrons. As the soldier's companions stood by cheering, the Bratbak took an upper cut from his opponent that sent him tumbling over a table. The innkeeper waded in brandishing a cudgel.

Luker said, “For the emperor to have wanted the Book he had to have known about it first. So who told him?”

Chamery's voice betrayed his uncertainty. “Mayot Mencada. It must have been.”

“Mayot tells Avallon about the Book, then snatches it for himself? That makes sense.”

“It was Mayot! No one outside the Black Tower could have known the Book was there.”

“You wanted it kept secret? Why?”

The mage sipped at his wine, but said nothing.

“Meaning you don't know.”

“Of course I know! The Book of Lost Souls has been hidden at the Black Tower since before the Exile. After the death of my master, it was I who spun the wards to keep the Book quiescent.”