Storm and Steel (31 page)

A dagger rested on a bed of purple silk. The weapon was gorgeous, the lamplight shimmering along its silver blade. The handle was white ivory carved to resemble a prowling jungle cat. A small scroll bound in red ribbon
sat beside the dagger. Her instructions, no doubt, for a mission she didn't want to take.
But this is my last chance to do right by the network and possibly alter the fate of the empire.

She closed the box and put it inside her bag along with her tools, feeling the added burden as she slung it over her shoulder. After one last look around the room, she left.

The household staff waited at the bottom of the stairs. Alyra bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling as they quietly spoke their farewells. She silently cursed Dharma's loose tongue even as she melted into one embrace after another. Even Harxes gave her a hearty squeeze as he pressed a small leather purse into her hand. Feeling the coins inside, she tried to give it back. “No, I couldn't. I'm fine, really.”

“Shhhh,” he shushed her. “Take it, my lady.”

She kept her gaze focused straight ahead as she passed the parlor entrance. She thought she heard something from within. Perhaps a glass setting down on a table. Then she was at the front door. Gurita opened it for her. Head down, she left the manor.

Horace reached for the amphora as he heard the front door close. Alyra was gone, possibly for good. He could have tried to stop her. There were a thousand things he might have said to change her mind. Yet he'd chosen to sit in his chair and finish his brandy instead.
She made her choice. I never should have believed she could love me. We were too different, and both of us too damned stubborn to change. Why should I choose between her and Byleth? I never asked her to choose. No, she runs off whenever she wants to pursue her mission, but I'm stuck here, cleaning up the mess.

He tipped the jar and frowned when only a trickle rolled out into his glass. He sighed, not wanting this drunk to leave him, especially now. In fact, he might just stay here all night and keep at it. What was the point in sobering up? He knew what awaited him when the mystical spell of the liquor left him. A world of pain, a life without love or friendship. He pictured
the rest of his days as one long parade of disappointments and failures until, at last, he succumbed to one of his many enemies. There would be no one to remember him fondly, no loving family to visit his grave.

He was considering a call to Harxes for another jar when a light itch nagged at the back of his head. He tried to brush it away, but the feeling only intensified.
It's just the brandy. It'll go away.

Frowning at the traitorous tumbler, he set it down on top of an unlit candle beside the door and went out into the atrium. There was no one there except Gurita standing watch. Horace saluted him with a pleasant chuckle and looked around, wondering why he'd come out here. Then the tickle returned at the nape of his neck. It seemed to want something, and that something was above him.
Perhaps the Prophet is calling me home. Wouldn't that serve Alyra right? Me up and dying on the night she leaves me. Oh, to see her face when she finds out. She'd know right away what a mistake she made. Or maybe not. The woman is as stubborn as a…as a…

He stumbled up the stairs, following the lure of the itch that refused to leave him alone. The steps were trickier to navigate than he remembered, but holding tight to the bannister he eventually reached the top. He heard someone moving around downstairs.
Probably Cook up late. Or Harxes in the larder doing a midnight tally of the house stores. He's a good man. Better than I deserve, like Mezim. Where would I be without them? I should pay them more. Yes! Starting tomorrow they both get double wages! Not just them. All my servants! Because they're more than just servants. They are my family, the only family I've got.

He pushed open the door to the roof. Like many of the homes in Erugash, his had a flat top. The stars wheeled overhead, brighter than he could remember seeing in a long time. Not since he was a boy and his father had taken him boating out on the bay. That night the stars had seemed like magical companions. Their reflections in the inky water had made it seem like they were sailing across the sky even as the familiar constellations floated overhead. The itch pulled his gaze directly to the queen's palace, rising like a blade of a golden dagger from the city's heart.

Horace noticed, distantly, his heart was beating faster. A film had formed over his eyes, blurring the starlight into a vast pale haze. A cool feeling enveloped his right hand. He looked down to see he was holding the orb.

It glowed, filling the rooftop with a deep red-gold brilliance. The swirling patterns he'd seen before were more evident now beneath its surface. Horace leaned closer to watch the play of light and shadow inside the sphere. The itch on his neck vanished, and so too did the headache that had been plaguing him all night. He blinked, realizing he was stone-sober all of a sudden, and a cold tingle ran down his spine.
What in the names of the saints is happening to me?

The manor shuddered, and the orb nearly fell out of his grasp. Horace clutched it to his chest with one hand while fighting to maintain his balance. Then he felt the swell of power, like a chaos storm had erupted right above him. His teeth rattled as the shaking settled. Horace went to the southern edge of the roof and looked down into the courtyard, half-expecting to see a cadre of robed sorcerers outside his door. There was nothing to see except swaying tree branches, dappled with moonlight. Yet in his head he imagined a vast cyclone of lights swirling above the city.

No, not above the city, he realized. It came from underneath, deep down in the ground. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Only stumbling a little, he went back inside to find a drink.

“This reminds me of that time we got conned into protecting that shithole on the border of Haran.” Three Moons swatted at an insect buzzing around his head. “What was it called? Poleez or something like that. You remember we were stuck inside those walls with that urban militia. We hated each other's guts something fierce. Then most of our crew came down with a flux, just shitting and puking their guts out for days. And that's when the raiders decided to hit the town, of course. Had us surrounded for two whole days. We nearly ended up with our heads on sticks before we broke out of there.”

Jirom ducked under a low branch, heavy with moss, and stepped over a pool of murky water. They marched at the tail of the rebel column through the marsh. They had almost arrived back at the main camp. The hills towered
before them, giant masses huddled against the night sky. Moonlight cast moving shadows through the trees.

“It was three days, not two,” he said. “And I remember you were so drunk when the final attack came that you almost couldn't tell us from the enemy.”

“Maybe. Who can say? In any case, this situation is just like that.”

“You're drunk again?”

“Sadly, no. I ran out of my homebrew two days ago, and none of these louts will share. But stop changing the subject. This situation—us and these escaped slaves—it's just the same. We're stuck with allies we can't trust and surrounded by an enemy thirsty for blood. Whatever way we turn, it's gonna get messy.”

Jirom didn't disagree with the assessment. His thoughts had been clouded with visions of Lord Ubar's murder, of the knowledge that he and Emanon were still outsiders. When he saw Neskarig get up from his blankets and hurry off into the trees alone, he had been compelled to follow. And what he'd discovered had shaken his faith. The admiration he'd felt for the rebel leadership was gone, replaced by a cold fury. Emanon had been right.

The captains spoke little on the return journey to the gathering. The General kept a close watch over him and Emanon. Jirom got the impression Neskarig had argued for their executions, along with Lord Ubar's, and it was possibly due to Ramagesh's voice that they were still alive.

They arrived at the northern ridge of the hidden basin just before nightfall. Passing through the picket of sentries on the short climb, Jirom and Three Moons reached the summit. If anything, it looked like more campfires burned below than when they had left. Several bonfires dotted the vast bowl, each surrounded by a crowd of people. The sounds of drums and singing spilled out into the night.

As they entered the camp, Ramagesh told several fighters to seek out the other captains. “We are meeting.” He looked back at Emanon and Jirom. “Now. We have much to discuss.”

Emanon sighed under his breath. “Sounds like it's going to be a long night.”

“Watch your back,” Jirom told him.

“You're not going?”

Jirom watched Ramagesh stalk away. “Better if I don't. I'll get the band ready to travel while you're gone. Best if we leave before daybreak.”

“Aye. Round up our boys. I want them sober and ready to march.”

They parted ways, with Emanon heading toward the council area and Jirom going south along the eastern ridge. He'd wanted to say something to Emanon before they split up but hadn't been sure how to put it into words. Now the moment had passed.

Striding under the drooping branches of the mangrove trees with Three Moons, Jirom watched the throngs of reveling former slaves and wondered if Emanon and he were going to last. It wasn't easy finding a man he could trust with his feelings, someone he could love and respect in a world that seemed to value neither. He cared for Emanon, deeply, but the past few days had made him question how much of that love was returned.

He tried to put Emanon out of his mind as they approached their band's camp. The flames of a feeble fire cast a ruddy glow over the faces of seven men sitting around the hearth.

“Anyone got anything to drink?” Three Moons asked.

The men stood up as they arrived, and a few more faces peeked out of the lean-tos. Longar tossed a bulging skin to Three Moons.

“Where is everyone?” Jirom asked. He only counted two dozen heads in all.

“Mahir and Jerkul took out a few to hunt,” a burly Nemedian slave replied. They called him Red Ox. There was another heavyset northern rebel called Black Ox in their band, but Jirom didn't see him. “And a couple are out at the latrines.”

“The rest left,” Longar said.

“Left? For where?”

“They went off to join some of the larger bands.” Longar pointed his thumb to the west, toward the council area. “Mostly the newer recruits, from what I could tell.”

Jirom scanned the faces around him. They were mainly fighters who had been with Emanon since the army camp or longer. Even counting the hunting party, they had lost at least a score of fighters.

“That's not the worst of it,” Partha said. He looked awful, as if he hadn't slept in days. “A group of Ramagesh's men came by and tried to take the treasure boxes.”

Jirom felt his jaws clench into hard knots.

“Weren't nothing we could do 'bout it,” Partha said. “Until the sellswords came over to back us up. Then the bravos slunk away with their tails tucked.”

Captain Ovar shrugged as he came over. “We weren't about to let someone make off with our pay chest, so we put on a little show of force.”

Jirom nodded, but the news added to the fury building inside him, feeding on his frustrations like they were dry kindling.

“Ah, shit,” Three Moons muttered, lowering the skin's nozzle from his mouth. “I know that look.”

Jirom glanced at Longar. “How long ago did Jerkul's hunting party leave?”

“Before midday. We were expecting them back soon.”

“It can't be helped.”

“What can't?” Partha asked, looking around.

“Everybody get your best killing weapon,” Jirom said. “Red Ox, you stay with Partha to guard the money boxes. If anyone tries to come for them, split their skull open. Everyone else with me.”

“Mind if we tag along?” Captain Ovar asked.

“No, but I'm doing the talking.” When Ovar nodded in response, Jirom looked to Longar. “Make us a path to the council fire. Oh, and Three Moons…”