Chapter VII

  Motions of Fate

  They returned to S?xe by road. It wasn’t feasible to transport a full complement of guards on a river boat, and Idan wouldn’t let the Patrician travel with an assassin accompanied by less. It was quicker to simply overtake the highway one segment at a time, shuttling all traffic aside so that they could cover spans without stopping.

  Idan rode in the same wagon as Maeral, Lorent, and Nina Silverhand.

  It was a tense wagon.

  Nina spent most of the time smiling toothily. Not only did she seem unbothered by her capture, she nearly looked like she relished it. Nearly, Idan thought, because her eyes were far too dead to suggest she enjoyed anything. His skin crawled if he looked at her for too long.

  He had to keep looking. If she attacked the Patrician, he needed to respond.

  But that empty, sharp-toothed smile made looking a struggle, and Lorent held his sword’s pommel so tightly that his gauntlet groaned.

  “This would be your bride?” Idan hissed to Lore.

  “She’s making an intimidating show, isn’t she?” asked Lore, who had no trouble looking at Nina. He never stopped gazing at her. “Theatricality is underrepresented in contemporary political arts. I can already tell she would be an excellent noble.”

  “You can’t possibly think that. Who knows how many she’s killed?”

  “Oh, and is that so different from the average war-mongering Northern politician!”

  “Yes! Because she tried to kill you,” Idan said.

  “I can hear you speaking about me,” said Nina. “I’m right here.”

  “Are you? I don’t know if you’re alive when you sit around like that,” said Lore. “As far as I can tell, you’ve finally succumbed to your own poison and we’ll have to hide your body.”

  Nina shrugged. “I forget to change my face when I draw into my mind. I am lost in thoughts but frozen in body. There is no real menace to my empty smile.”

  “Is it some kind of strange mental condition?”

  She laughed, and the noise made Idan try to draw his sword. Lore reflexively grabbed his arm before the blade could be bared. “Yes, a strange condition,” said Nina. “Calm yourself, Captain Idan. I’m working for Patrician Lorent, and I don’t double-cross anyone as a policy. A deal is a deal.”

  “What happens when that deal is concluded?” asked Idan. “How long do we have to shield our throats from your daggers?”

  “I’ll give you a head start,” she said pleasantly.

  * * *

  Sin?os S?xe was sleepy around midnight. The rural roads were empty, the brushy desert was still, and Lorkullen’s slitted eye gazed upon a valley nobody traveled besides the convoy. It was equally quiet inside the village. Almost everyone was indoors working, drinking, or both.

  But the mood in the xilcadis was off-kilter. Half the city staff was muttering to each other in the mujan, under the stars, glancing toward the higher levels as though expecting to see a ghost. They jumped when carriages came clattering up the ramps and through the palace gates.

  The river ran off as a misty waterfall at the edge of the Lord Mayor’s gardens, spilling down into a sin?os pond, and the rush of water was loud as the coming storm’s wind. That was where Lady ?anveswe met their caravan. She wrung her hands anxiously as the soldiers spread out and Patrician Lorent emerged from his carriage.

  She clung to her son’s sleeves. “Where have you been?”

  “Seeking justice, or something like it,” Patrician Lorent said.

  “But you weren’t with him,” moaned Lady ?anveswe. “You didn’t protect him!”

  Lorent’s heart leaped. “Protect who? What happened?”

  He forgot about everything except his family as Lady ?anveswe drew him upstairs.

  The Lord Mayor’s bedroom overlooked his garden, and the windows were thrown open that Night to let in the waterfall’s roar. Lord Mayor Círin was bleeding in bed. Arrayed around the far walls, healing choirs that harmonized with the elements could not seal open wounds on his chest and belly. His eyes were shadowed pits in his sweaty pale face.

  For a wild moment, Lore wondered if Nina had done it.

  “Círin was hunting,” said Lady ?anveswe. “He was due to stay within the designated hunting grounds, but he caught a trail and strayed south. You know rangers have been disappearing in marshes, you know he shouldn’t have gone—”

  “A rebel? Orkar?” interrupted Lore.

  “A tusked ratchen,” she said.

  “He couldn’t have gone that far south.”

  “They’re migrating north. The ratchen were at the salt pond, and they found your father’s favorite hunting blind.” Tears shook her shoulders. “The healers can’t do anything.”

  Numb, empty, Lore said, “Does Lady Niamna?a know?” It was all he could think, even though he knew his mother would not appreciate mention of Círin’s other wife at such a time.

  “Niamna?a knows,” snapped Lady ?anveswe. “She chose not to be here. She never loved him as I did!”

  “I know, Mother. I know.” He pulled her into an embrace and tried to decide how he felt. Sadness was present. But it didn’t really fill him up the way he would have expected. The pale àlvar in the bed was not his father, hale and frightening and only ever distantly present. Círin was fading into death as easily as any other old buck. A mortal after all.

  * * *

  Xilcadis S?xe was the grandest in the Sou’eastenlands of Disunam?. Sturdy juniper trees interspersed with fluttering black oak supported a massive mujan, where artisans from every corner of the Republic held Guilds.

  It was also the site of the Assassin’s Guild. Nina Silverhand took a hidden door leading into the trunk of one scaly-barked juniper. The tunnel on the other side bored down to the sin?os, dropping her directly through an open floodgate in the sewers to find their door guard.

  Nina flashed a hand signal.

  The guard flashed another in return. “You entered the xilcadis in custody,” said the guard. “Were you followed here?”

  “No,” Nina said. It had been trivially easy to slip Captain Idan.

  The guard stepped aside.

  A dark, narrow hole permitted Nina to jump down a level. She followed marks on the walls down a dry dirt path to another door and another guard.

  The Assassin’s Guild was buried under the shallowest roots of an oak holding the palace. Politics above and blood below. There were no windows, and the Abazena who headed the Guild had been stingy supplying their seamy little manse with lanterns. Nina navigated with no more visibility than she’d had in the sewer.

  She only found the resident guild members once she reached the dining hall. It looked like a church. Tables radiated away from an altar for Dus?rwe, murals of Eduser were painted between the pillars, and candles had been lit near several prayer mats.

  A chef served a rich rabbit stew from the fire. “Hungry?” he asked, offering Nina a bowl as she passed.

  “If I survive this chat with Mimander,” she said.

  Mimander was the current Abazena, the master assassin. She was a Halfling with two fistfuls of rings that glimmered in the candlelight. Each patch on her leather corset had been stripped from a target’s back. She took delicate bites of stew and her eyes flicked upward when Nina swept a leg over the opposite bench on the table.

  “Blessings of Dus?rwe,” said Mimander. Curls hung loose to her shoulders and dark-brown freckles spattered her cheeks. Her mouth was bracketed by deep lines, her eyelids were sagging, and she was tattooed from the neck down. A Halfling was hardly a third the height of an àlvar, but their adults were hard to mistake as children. Mimander looked more a grown doe than Nina.

  “I have the Guild’s commission for the failed assassination of Lorent,” said Nina, dropping her satchel next to the candle.

  Slowly, Mimander took another bite. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin before speaking. “How did you get paid for failing?”

  “I attacked the middle man and took his satchel.”

  Mimander smothered her face with a hand. “Nina, what’s rule seven?”

  “Don’t attack the middle man and take his satchel. I could prove to a Minder that he started it. He tried to kill me first.”

  “Don’t they always?” asked the Halfling.

  Presenting authentic stamped gold bars to pay the Guild’s commissions convinced Mimander to support Nina.

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  “This is Great House Vulasir’s stamp, you know,” said Mimander, turning over one bar and peering closely at its flat side.

  Very few àlvar worked metal. It was looked down upon as a lesser trade preferred by limited minds. Even so, the nobility didn’t mind using certain metal artisans; stamped bars came directly from xilcadis treasuries. In the hands of creditors, those bars would quickly be processed into crowns and their fractional currency, talons.

  “Yes, I think the Patrician’s assassination was financed from within his House,” said Nina. “Or someone who works for them. A close partner.”

  “If you find the traitor who ordered the breach of contract, bring me the liar’s tongue,” said Mimander. “He will never make a contract with another.”

  Nina left the Assassin’s Guild with one gold bar, a small sack of Dwarrow jewelry, and a belly filled with rabbit stew. The sky was beginning to lighten with the onset of morning. She needed to appear contrite in the nearest Osurmit before Captain Idanedien started trying to kill her again.

  She slipped out of the Guild through a grate a full span away from the entrance, then hopped onto the nearest juniper to crawl up its bark. Nina slithered between ropes to climb onto the mujan.

  When she got to her feet, she found herself face-to-face with an angry kerotera.

  Rivor was still dressed for travel. He’d likely been searching for Nina since she disappeared, determined to get her alone. Away from the others. Somewhere that Rivor could properly murder Nina.

  Somewhere like the quiet, dark edge of a mujan in the predawn hours.

  “Hello again,” said Nina. “I trust you’ve been waiting for me.”

  Rivor said, “You want to provoke me into attacking you. You want me to entertain you with my vengeance.”

  “I recall saying something like that, yes.”

  “You killed my Lady Enura,” said Rivor. His voice was so hard. So angry. “Had you not taken the contract, then another would have. Killing you will not sate me. I must seek the same enemy as you and Patrician Lorent.”

  Nina’s head tipped to the side as she looked over Rivor’s narrow figure. He was very threatening. That wasn’t easy, given the fact his hips and shoulders were near equal width, his skinny legs had been whittled own by running, and he had features as threatening as a mouse’s. “I’ve always liked keroterase,” said Nina.

  “You have?”

  “I had a few in my time,” she said. “I admire those who can still care about something enough to fight for it—or for her, in your case. I sense a personal connection between you and the late Lady Enura.”

  “I did care for her,” said Rivor. “I think. It was complicated.”

  “As are all relationships,” said Nina. “The friction points are where we build memories together. Choosing whether we are willing to change our shape to fit another defines the aftermath.”

  A frown tugged at Rivor’s mouth. “If you had keroterase, then you used to be a noble lady. You had virtue to protect. Your family expected you to be bred. You may have been a mother, or you could have become an assassin to evade such a fate.”

  “I’ve been a lot of things.”

  “There is a piece of me that shrieks for your death, looking upon you now,” said Rivor. “Here I stand before a resurrected specter of the worst day of my life, with my fingers itching for violence, and I try to calm it all by claiming there is someone more culpable than she who bled Enura.”

  “Why hold back?” asked Nina.

  Rivor wavered. He considered his words a long time before saying, “Enura was a horrible doe from a horrible family. They worked on the border between our territory and those of the Ork.”

  “Then your morals weigh our actions and find they draw equal.”

  “I will fulfill my oath by felling the tree responsible for destroying the family at Liverwort Manor,” said Rivor. “I shall not risk my life to kill someone who, like keroterase, is only fulfilling a contract, playing out scripts written for us by society.”

  “Yet you’ve hunted me here anyway,” said Nina.

  “To ensure you fulfill promises made to Patrician Lorent.” He took her arm—not roughly, but firmly, with strength that seemed far greater than his lean hands should muster. Even Nina was surprised. “You’re coming back to the xilcadis, and I’m not leaving your side until you’ve satisfied all of us.”

  It had been a long time since Nina felt such a flutter in her lower belly. She submitted readily, following without a fight, her face gone blank. Her mind was spinning. Her body was yearning.

  Rivor was oblivious to her sudden attraction. He marched her onward to duty.

  * * *

  Nobody worked or rested in the last hours of Lord Mayor Círin’s life. Xilcadis S?xe was suspended in a vigil. Lorent spent this time pacing in his father’s office, a short walk away from his father’s death bed, observing his vigil in the way that he observed everything else: with far too much energy. He was a caged beast. “I should have been here,” said Lorent. “I should have been with him when the ratchen attacked.”

  “The Lord Mayor didn’t invite you hunting.”

  “He wouldn’t have turned me away if I joined him!”

  “Your mother scheduled a party to help you find a wife,” said Iden. “There’s no chance you could have been with him hunting. But you can be with him now, if you want.”

  “No. Lady Niamna?a and Earinon finally arrived. My persence would disturb them.” Lore stopped pacing. “Am I monstrous if I say...I don’t care enough? I am the Lord Mayor’s son and heir. I would assert my right to my father’s bedside if I wanted it. I don’t think I do. I don’t think I care.”

  “You’re no monster. Lord Mayor Círin hasn’t been much a presence in your life.”

  “Nor was he in Earinon’s,” said Lore. “Father clearly preferred the company of Lady Niamna?a and cared nothing for either of the children he begat. He spent all his paternalistic urges upon his si?e.”

  “There are worse legacies to inherit,” said Idan.

  “How will I ever compare? I’m often well-received in S?xe, but a Lord Mayor is responsible for dozens of xilcadise. It’s been centuries since I did my evxabu.” A time when young lords became wards of other Houses to grow bonds with allies. “I haven’t taken any of their children as wards. I barely know any of them. I can’t be sure they’ll all accept me—and why would anyone ever pay taxes to me? I’m not authoritative.”

  “You’ll learn all this. It’s work you’re capable of performing.”

  “Do you think? Because I’m no good with my numbers and figures.”

  “You have advisors, staff,” said Idan.

  “Then what am I? Just a pretty face? A beautiful orphan without a father everyone can rally around?” asked Lore.

  Idan took Lore’s wrists in his hands. “You’re not breathing nearly enough.” He lifted Lore’s hands, saying, “Breathe in.”

  “No, you can’t make me breathe. I won’t do it.”

  Idan lowered Lore’s hands. “Breathe out.”

  “I hate breathing,” said Lore.

  “And I love you, my dear friend,” said Idan gently. “You’re heartbroken and confused and guilty all at the same time. I see it in your eyes; I know how the Regrets gnaw at your innards. Experience your misery because you must. But you also must breathe.”

  A tear streaked Lore’s cheek. Idan lifted and lowered his hands again, urging him to breathe, and Lore did not fight it.

  “I’m a terrible Patrician,” whispered Lore. “I’ll be a terrible Lord Mayor.”

  “Everything feels terrible when you’re hungry. Come, let’s go to your mother’s dining hall. The food will go to waste otherwise. She’s too busy with the council to eat.”

  They left his office holding hands as they did in childhood. Leaving their armor behind made them both slenderer figures, lanky as saplings. Sweat made their hair hang in heavy clumps. Their stockinged legs were dirtier where their armor’s joints had been. The informality of their presentation made it easy to pass through the hallways without attracting notice. All others were entranced, swaying in their reveries near windows and outside archways, gazing up at the Everhalls. Waiting to see if Lord Mayor Círin’s voi would show its path toward the All-Mother’s hearth.

  Lore and Idan turned a corner to find Nina Silverhand and Rivoras an Danoras exiting the entry hall.

  “Rivor,” said Idan, startled.

  “Nina,” said Lore, breathless.

  “The assassin is meant to be confined to quarters,” said Idan. He didn’t realize that Nina and Rivor had evaded any sort of orientation by leaving the palace for the Assassin’s Guild. They didn’t even know where their quarters were.

  “I am hungry and seeking a meal,” said Nina. “Rivor is courteously providing his services in guarding the xilcadis from me.”

  “We were going to eat in my mother’s dining hall,” said Lore. “Join us. She won’t be there. Plenty of food.”

  “I’m not sure—” began Rivor.

  Nina interrupted. “We accept your gracious invitation.”

  The food intended for Lady ?anveswe and company was prepared by the most prestigious chef in the si?e. There was ample mutton served with a delicate sauce, thoughtfully encircled by figs and woodhen. The enormous soup pot could have fed a xilcadis. An entire table was dedicated to an assortment of fruit, tree nuts, and small vegetable pies.

  “You’re staring, Rivor,” said Nina.

  “Liverwort Manor didn’t eat nearly so well,” he said. “The noble family survived on turtle and reedroot. Occasionally there were cranberries. The Lady of the House won’t object if we eat this?”

  Lore reassured them again. “It will go to waste otherwise.”

  Their mismatched group gathered around the table to eat. The kneeling cushions were so plush, they nearly swallowed the legs of smaller figures like Nina. She still looked deadly, like she could have escaped the downy mass quickly enough to kill them all, except she was choosing not to do it because she liked the dinner rolls.

  “You’ve got such a distinctive look about you, Lady Nina,” said Lore. “I can’t place your features. Those enormous eyes, the pleasing curve of your nose, and your ears...!” Hers were long as Patrician Lorent’s, but they did not aspire to conform to the curves of her skull; they stuck nearly straight out in either direction. “Beautiful ears,” Lore added dreamily.

  Idan met Rivor’s eyes across the table. They had not known each other for longer than a few hours, but it was enough to see the silent pain they shared.

  Both realized they had to bear witness to Patrician Lorent trying to court his own killer, and neither of them wanted to endure it.

  “They haven’t made àlvare who look like me in a lifetime,” said Nina. “It only takes a couple generations before the get of colonizers and colonized are no longer identifiably indigenous; I came from a time before all the Taproot was bred out of the line. My mother, wife of a Northern noble, came from the Rim.”

  “The last Taproot bands were driven out of the Rim almost five thousand years ago,” said Lore.

  “Yes. I am over four thousand years old,” said Nina, swirling her glass of wine and smiling.

  “Four—thousand? Thousand?” asked Lore.

  “You couldn’t be,” said Idan.

  She tossed her head back as if she could bask in the shock. “Four-and-five hundred. Not precisely, but who can keep counting after so long?”

  The àlvare could live a long time, but so few of them did. Does usually died younger—often attempting to have a second child—and bucks died in conflicts against Dwarrow or to outbreaks of Wasting. To be over a thousand years was to have arrived at midlife; most were considered to be getting elderly midway through their third millennium, and few lived to see three thousand years.

  Nina was four and a half thousand.

  “You’ve seen so much happen,” said Lore. “You would have seen two—no, three Magistrates.”

  “Five. Amalvin, Coredid, Eri?kidon, Amalen, and of course our blessed Magistrate Navar? Kovenor.” Her tone remained smooth as she listed the names, but a hint of discordance touched “Kovenor.”

  “How many wars against the Dwarrow have you seen?” he asked.

  “It is all one war with blurred edges, from my perspective,” said Nina. “The Jawchaw Accords are not the first treaty with the Mountainhomes; I do not expect it to be the last, though I should hope not to see the next.”

  “Then you’re well past the age of producing heirs,” said Idan pointedly. “You would no longer be a sensible mate for any lord.”

  Lore didn’t listen to him. He was gazing at Nina anew, and he wasn’t the only one. Rivor was staring over the rim of his goblet too. Nobody knew exactly what to say. It wasn’t common to meet a living antique like Nina—much less one who was still deadly with the very knife she held to cut her roast skab.

  This left Lore blissfully quiet, for a time. Rivor and Idan shared looks of relief. Everyone ate without drawing daggers. It was almost a pleasant dinner, if one didn’t mind the context.

  Xilcadis refers to a city-palace complex, but *also* the entire area surrounding it (affiliated village and farmlands). You can think of a xilcadis as a grand city, and also a county.

  A sin?os is a village attached to a city and palace. That's where most Low Elves live. Every palace in a xilcadis also has a sin?os. But there are rural villages that are not sin?ose, too.

  Si?e is a larger area, like a state or province. There are at least 2-3 xilcadise in a si?e; there are several si?e within a single Republic.

  There are several Republics within the Empire. Each Republic encompasses a continent. These continents are divided by ocean that almost nobody can cross, so the Empire isn't very rugged at the moment. The Republics are isolated and nearly sovereign at this point.

  The Empire is currently ruled by Xenetos from Xaxen Tuv, which we won't see in this book. It's too far away. Totally irrelevant. I don't even know why I told you that, honestly.

  Clear as mud!