CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AIRSPUR
THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

THE SETTING SUN DRAGGED RILTANA TOWARD A MEETING SHE both dreaded and gleefully anticipated. Her stomach couldn’t quite decipher her emotional state, so settled on feeling queasy.

Her rescuers were still in the pawnshop, but she expected they’d emerge soon. She’d insisted they wait until dark before visiting Carmenere. The woman wouldn’t appreciate seeing Riltana again, and would be even less happy to find her estranged friend in the company of two rough-looking men on her doorstep in the full light of day, where any passerby could see.

So they’d relaxed, though the pudgy shop owner had been overexcited at the possibility of meeting the queen. When Riltana proved too taciturn to respond to his ever wilder guesses about how likely they were to actually set foot in the audience chamber, he retired to his room above the shop for a nap. Demascus had busied himself looking through some old books Chant had shown him.

Riltana had decided against returning to her apartment to wait out the waning afternoon. Instead she found a place to sit and put up her boots in the square outside the shop. Chant’s pawnshop was beyond the edge of the Darkled Depths, far enough from the overhanging motes that a portion of the plaza enjoyed late afternoon sunlight.

She’d spent part of that time wondering about Demascus. Riltana was wary of surface judgments. Too much of her own life depended on manipulating how people saw her and reacted to her. So for her to believe Demascus had lived many lives, and that he was the reincarnation of someone who once rubbed shoulders with gods … Well, it was going to require more evidence than the man’s claimed memories and hints spelled out on a scarf, no matter how impressive a name it had.

Of course, Kalkan’s murder attempt made the whole thing too personal to ignore. If Kalkan was coming for Demascus again, Riltana would be hiding nearby, so she could slip a length of sharpened steel into his kidneys.

So she’d watched the comings and goings through the square. Genasi were a colorful people, but Riltana was used to the flashy dress of her fellow citizens, often chosen to further highlight the particular color and pattern of szuldar energy lines that marked most genasi’s faces.

It was the ones that took no particular effort to make themselves stand out that Riltana’s attention was automatically drawn to. She’d seen one such fellow a few times, apparently a windsoul by the glimpses she saw of his shimmering skin, though he was mostly covered by threadbare wraps. He spent several bells sitting near the square’s entrance. A wide-brimmed hat sat on the street before him, accepting coin from benevolent strangers. From what Riltana could see, he’d made fairly decent custom.

Finally the sun dipped beneath the Akanawater Falls where the facing cliffs of Airspur came together. The light shone with brilliant gold for a couple instants, then gave way to the spreading twilight.

She stood. Lounging in the square wasn’t as comfortable without the sun’s warm caress. Her neck was stiff from reclining, so she rolled her head around in slow circles.

Demascus emerged from the shop. He scanned the square with a worried frown until he saw her. She nodded greeting.

“Did you get any rest?” he said.

She nodded again.

“Good. So did we. Let’s go see your friend.”

“All right. Hold on.” Riltana pushed past Demasus into the shop.

The pawnbroker was hunched over his counter, chopping jerky with a cleaver. Fable was winding around his legs meowing as if she hadn’t eaten in a tenday.

Chant glanced up as Riltana entered. He said as if embarrassed, “She won’t eat if the pieces aren’t small enough.”

“Of course. Say, shopkeep?”

“Yes?”

“What kind of weapons do you have on hand? Besides that cleaver, I mean. I lost my short sword beneath the Sepulcher. And a handful of daggers too.”

Chant looked at Demascus, who had followed Riltana back into the shop. “Can you finish this?”

“Uh, sure.” The tattooed man picked up where the pawnbroker left off, though with less speed and precision. Fable’s meows grew more pitiful and strident as she was forced to endure waiting even longer. Oh, the abuse! thought Riltana, and smiled.

The human directed her to a case containing a battle axe, a crossbow, and a set of matching long swords with lacquered handles. She opened her mouth to patiently explain the difference between a dagger and a battle axe, but Chant pulled open one of the wide, narrow drawers beneath the display to reveal five short swords.

She closed her mouth and examined the hardware. A couple pieces were clearly decorative, but three were real weapons. A sword has to be designed for its intended use. The three she’d identified were all no-nonsense lengths of steel, but one was pattern-welded, and it tapered in thickness from the base of the blade to the point in a way that told Riltana, at a mere glance, that it was a fine piece of workmanship. Its hilt was tightly wrapped with leather that may have once been dyed white, though hard use had caused the color to darken. A snowflake was etched into the blade near the guard.

“Does that engraving have any significance?” she said.

“The fellow who pawned it didn’t say so; he’d have pointed it out if the blade possessed some kind of enchantment. ’Course, it’s possible the blade was stolen. Maybe it does mean something.” He shrugged.

She plucked it from the drawer and gave it a few experimental swings and thrusts. “I’ll take this one,” she said.

“Good choice.”

He closed the drawer, and opened another one a few down from the first. A random mess of daggers cluttered the compartment. None were decorative; all were equal opportunity lengths of death. She smiled, and selected twelve.

“And how about restorative backup; got any more of those potions? I always like to carry at least one.”

Chant nodded, and produced a vial filled with a thumb of blue liquid. She palmed it, and the elixir disappeared.

“Light sources?” she asked.

The man motioned to a rack of candles, lanterns, sun-rods, and torches. She grabbed a sunrod.

“How much for everything?” she said as she secreted the daggers in the various concealed sheaths stitched into her armor.

Chant named a figure, she made a counteroffer, and so it went until she finally sheathed the short sword in her over-the-shoulder scabbard. The pawnbroker grinned and accepted her last proposal.

Fully equipped again, she thought. Let Kalkan find me now!

Demascus finished chopping. He scraped the litter of jerky into a bowl and set it on the floor, though Fable nearly knocked it flying as he brought it down.

They left.

Twilight was normally Riltana’s favorite time of the day. The thousands of lights dotting the facing cliffs and twinkling on the floating motes of the magnificent cliff city were a wonder. But she looked inward, and relived the scene of her last interaction with Carmenere. It was a memory she tried not to brood upon constantly. Thinking about other things had proved to be a skill, and one that she’d improved at.

Except with the night’s trip destined to end at Carmenere’s door, that terrible night came crashing back down on her.

She’d been in her loft, enjoying a delicate wine from a renowned cellar somewhere west of the Sea of Fallen Stars. Carmenere stormed in.

When Carmenere was upset, she yelled, her face flushed, and her hands fluttered like birds. Riltana had seen it enough to know the woman’s harsh words were a temporary squall. Carmenere was high-strung, but she was always willing to be mollified by words of contrition and quiet companionship.

That time Carmenere did not come through the door with her arms waving and her face red with emotion. She was pale and quiet, as if drained of all emotion. Her face was expressionless as a cliff face.

Oh shit, thought Riltana.

“How could you?” said Carmenere. Her voice was dull with fatigue.

“How could I what?” said Riltana.

But she knew what. Guilt rose like bad wine in the back of her throat. Carmenere knew. Riltana swallowed and tried to formulate her next words. It was important she get each one of them right—

“How could you trade on our friendship like that?” said Carmenere. “I thought we were …” The woman trailed off. She didn’t scream, she didn’t yell. She just dropped her head in resignation. That tiny movement spoke volumes.

Denials leaped to Riltana’s lips, but she couldn’t force them out. It wouldn’t do any good.

Carmenere had obviously discovered that the painting of the first queen of Akanûl was missing from the foyer of the royal court. She’d apparently assumed that Riltana was the one who’d taken it.

And she was right.

Riltana’s eyes teared up. Carmenere would never forgive her. But she had to try to make it right.

“I can explain!” said Riltana, her voice taut. “I was going to bring it back! I just borrowed it for a fortnight, so we could study the style and get it just right; my friend Threneth and I were going to surprise you …”

Carmenere just stared at her, her expression boring into Riltana like a waterwheel-powered drill bit. The woman said, “You were never my friend. All we had was a charade, and one I was foolish enough to fall for. The very tenday I show you around the royal court, and you steal something. You’ve been using me all this time. It was your plan all along.”

“No, it’s not like that! I didn’t even know who you—”

“I don’t want your excuses, Riltana. I’ve heard them all before. I thought your tiny thefts were exciting; daring. They made you dangerous. I’d never had a friend like that before. More importantly, you seemed to like me for who I was, not who I was related to. I’m such a fool.”

Riltana swallowed again because her words had stopped. She could well imagine how it looked to Carmenere. Anything she said would sound hollow, a made-up pretext. If things had gone as she’d planned, her activities would have culminated in something wonderful.

Of course something had gone wrong, and instead of only spending a night outside the royal court, the famous painting of the first queen had gone missing. That bastard Threneth had run off with it! She’d spent the two previous evenings looking for him in all his favorite haunts.

“Carmenere, please, I was going to bring it right back, you’ve got to believe me! I was going to commission a series of two more pieces, after the style of the first, and I wanted it to be a surprise!”

“Then where is it?” Carmenere’s voice remained dead.

“I … I lost it. But I’m looking, and I’ll get it back. I promise!”

Carmenere’s blank expression never wavered. She said, “I never want to see you again. Don’t contact me. If you do, I’ll report your theft to the royal guard.”

And that had been that.

If you live long enough, she thought, you’ll accumulate memories you’d give anything to erase. The hollow feeling she’d spent months ignoring expanded, and she put a hand to her chest in real pain.

Her boot caught on the curb, and Riltana angrily jerked her hand back to her side. She’d been walking without paying any attention to her surroundings.

The night was cloudless and cool. Demascus and Chant were still following her. Because of the roundabout way she’d decided on, they had the narrow street almost completely to themselves.

We’re halfway to Carmenere’s place, she thought, and shivered.

“You all right?” said Demascus.

She glanced back to nod, then spied a figure passing into the illumination cast down by a high window. It was the beggar she’d seen soliciting coin earlier in the square outside the pawnshop. The hat he’d used to collect the generosity of others was on his head, the brim pulled low.

“Hold on,” she said, and pointed.

Chant and Demascus both glanced backward.

Demascus said, “What?”

The beggar saw her gesture. He hurried toward them.

Riltana whispered, “That fellow was begging in the square. Now he’s following us.”

The human stiffened. “Sharkbite!” he cursed.

Demascus said, “Do you know who that is?”

“I hope not,” Chant said.

The beggar drew near and doffed his hat, bowing with such exaggerated grace Riltana realized it was mockery. She pegged the man as a windsoul, though she couldn’t be certain in the dim light.

“Greetings,” said the stranger in a gravelly voice. “My name is Inakin.”

“The rumormonger?” said Chant, his voice uncertain.

Riltana paced forward until she was even with Demascus and Chant, three to one.

“The same,” said the newcomer. “Though I’ve got something more substantial to pass on than idle speculation, Chant Morven.”

The human pulled his dagger from its sheath and gripped it so that the point of the blade was directed at the ground. He said, “And what’s that, you slimy piece of pig offal?”

Demascus jerked his head to stare at the human. The invective surprised Riltana too. She prepared herself for trouble.

Inakin adjusted the hat and smiled. He said, “I can tell you’ve figured out why I’ve chosen to speak with you here, far from your home and away from peacemaker patrol routes. So, do you have it? You’re behind again. This is the third time.”

“Get out of here,” said Chant. “I told Raneger I’d have it in a tenday!”

“Yes, but—I get a bonus if I can shake it out of you earlier.”

Demascus stepped forward. “Listen. We don’t have time for foolishness. Why don’t you—”

Inakin grabbed Demascus by the throat. The movement had been so fast that Riltana hadn’t seen the hand move; one moment Inakin’s hand was at his side, and the next instant it was squeezing Demascus’s neck. The deva made a choked sound of surprise.

Riltana swore, and flipped up into the air on a breath of air. As she came down, she kicked out with all the mass of her descending body behind it, aiming at the crown of Inakin’s head.

At the last possible instant, Inakin interposed the struggling Demascus between himself and Riltana. Her boot slammed home with a vicious crack, directly into Demascus’s head.

Riltana alighted, but stumbled and nearly fell with the shock of knocking her ally senseless. She’d kicked hard.

Inakin laughed and tossed the limp form of his captive aside, and drew his blade with his other hand. Demascus toppled to the ground like a rag doll.

She swept her new short sword from its scabbard and spared a glance at Demascus, who wasn’t moving, then at Chant. The pawnbroker stood his ground, dagger at the ready. But indecision clearly racked him.

“Help me put this blood blister down!” she yelled.

Chant said, “It’s more complicated than that …”

Inakin laughed and said, “Don’t involve yourself in this fight, Riltana. Dear Morven hesitates for a reason. If you don’t want to be similarly enmeshed in things you don’t understand, walk away.”

She didn’t give a yellow squirt about becoming …

Her mouth fell open as the full import of his words hit her. She said, “You know my name?”

“I know many people in Airspur, though they don’t know me. It’s why my ‘rumors’ so often prove accurate. Like I said before, thief, step away, or everyone’s going to know your name, not just me.”

Riltana hesitated. Her persona as a lowly messenger for the Airstepper’s Guild was a facade she depended on for her livelihood. This Inakin, if that was even his real name, was threatening to strip it from her.

That pissed her off.

“You think you can make me do what you want?” she said. “Then you don’t know me at all.”

She advanced, short sword at the ready. She whirled the tip, trying to draw Inakin’s eye as her other hand smoothly drew and flung a dagger.

Inakin jumped back, and the spinning blade only clipped him instead of finding the meat of his shoulder.

She said, “Chant, help me!”

The pawnbroker grimaced, and said in a defeated voice, “If we hurt Inakin, someone close to me will pay. Don’t attack him.”

Understanding hit her like a bucket of cold water. This man, or someone Inakin worked for, was holding a hostage against Chant’s good behavior.

“Well, shit,” she said.

Inakin laughed. “Now you see, dear Riltana. So step aside. I have business with your overweight friend.”

She ground her teeth, and considered stabbing the condescending bastard in the stomach regardless of the consequences.

She said, “Chant says he doesn’t have whatever you’re looking for. If you want to get to him, you’ll come through me.”

“Riltana!” said the pawnbroker in a kind of panic.

Inakin grinned. A spark of electricity blazed under the man’s hat brim, tracing his szuldar and sparking in his eyes. He was no windsoul, as he’d been trying to project; Inakin’s heritage was the storm!

“Don’t worry, Chant,” said the man. “I don’t mind disposing of this garbage before we talk about your account. Don’t interfere, and Jaul won’t come to any harm. The wench, on the other hand …”

Wench! She decided that Inakin would have to die.

Inakin raised a hand and a thunderbolt flashed out, quick as thought, and struck her. She cried out within the discharge of nerve-burning power, and fell onto the cobbles, but thankfully behind the cover of a rain catchment barrel. The wooden vessel stank of stagnant water.

Her clothes were smoking, and she couldn’t feel the right half of her body. She retained her sword, but only because she couldn’t make her hand unclench itself; her arm flopped nearly uselessly.

She regretted her bravado. Inakin was obviously more of a player than she’d recognized. Carmenere always said that Riltana’s temper would be the death of her.

“Where are you hiding, little birdie?” sang Inakin.

She blew out a breath, palmed a dagger, and waited.

Inakin came up, just a little too close, as she’d hoped he would. Blowhards were usually alike in their overconfidence. She’d made the same mistake herself.

He opened his mouth, probably intending to brag about how easily he’d taken her down. Riltana scissored her legs and spun onto her back. Then she drew both legs to her chest, kicked upward, and caught the rumormonger square under his jaw. He grunted and stumbled back several paces as she rolled to her feet.

The dagger she’d palmed was already in flight, but the pain of her wound fouled the aim. Instead of burying itself in his throat, the dagger skittered along Inakin’s ribs.

He raised his hand, as if preparing to loose another bolt.

Riltana’s eyes were drawn from Inakin by movement in the darkness beyond him.

Something else was in the alley.

A shadow—no. A man made of shadow wielding a sword studded with faint gleams. His eyes were pits, his nose a cruel slash, and his face a mask that might well frighten a demon.

The shadowy man took a step into darkness, and reappeared a dozen paces closer, right behind Inakin.

The man … was Demascus! Even as she recognized him, the film of dimness slipped away, as Demascus cast the Veil in a nooselike loop around Inakin’s neck.

Inakin’s confident expression shattered as his eyes popped with surprise.

Demascus whispered into Inakin’s ear, “I said we didn’t have time for you.”

Chant called, “Don’t kill him!”

The deva didn’t hear, or chose not to. His hands were like steel springs engineered for a single task.

“Demascus!” Chant yelled, “Stop it!”

The plea finally penetrated. Confusion chased across Demascus’s face. It almost seemed as if the man woke from a dream.

He let go one end of the strangling fabric, and Inakin collapsed to the ground. The rumormonger’s eyes rolled around in their sockets as he drew in gasping breaths.

A scalding pain breached her consciousness. An ugly black wound, only half cauterized and still oozing blood, stretched down her right side. Oh, crap.

The leechson had seriously hurt her!

She limped over to Inakin with the intention of giving him a swift kick to the ribs.

Chant got there ahead of her and held out his hands. “No. Please.”

She growled, “If I ever see you again, you ill-bred measle, I don’t care what anyone says; I’ll flay you. Or let my friend here finish what he started.”

Inakin pushed himself to his feet and stumbled away. At least the man had the good sense not to say anything provocative before he disappeared.

Riltana narrowed her eyes on Demascus. The deva massaged his temple as if it ached. She said, “So … what the Hells was that? You said you couldn’t remember anything. But I just saw you neutralize Inakin like an elite royal peacemaker would take down a highway robber.”

“I … It felt so natural. I just let myself go. It was exhilirating! I felt such a sense of mastery. But now … it’s gone again.”

“Good,” said Chant. “I didn’t much like what I saw.”

Demascus seemed to blanch.

Riltana sniffed. What lurked in the deva’s past? Something even more deadly than Kalkan, apparently—Demascus himself. The news just gets better and better, she thought.

She pointed an unsteady finger at the pawnbroker. “So, why’s the rumormonger after you?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“I beg to differ,” she said. Anger made her voice shrill. “I feel half-cooked!”

The human looked at the street. “I owe a man named Raneger a fantastic sum of money. I’m on a ‘repayment plan,’ but his interest rates guarantee I’ll never succeed.”

“Raneger?” she said, and shook her head. That was someone you definitely did not want on your bad side. “What kind of hold does he have over you?”

“Raneger’s got my son.”

She sighed. Pretty much what she figured. Worrisome that Raneger’s hired muscle had known her name too, but she supposed that in some circles, Riltana the Thief had a reputation. Circles that included dung-eaters like Inakin, apparently.

Chant said, “I didn’t mean to involve either of you.”

Demascus seemed to get hold of himself. He clapped Chant on the shoulder and said, “You’ve risked your life to help me. I’m not sorry to help you in return, whatever the danger.”

“Thank you.”

Riltana considered offering a similar sentiment, but decided Chant could probably figure it out for himself.

“Let’s get out of this alley,” Chant said. “It’s not like Inakin to travel alone, without backup. Only his arrogance made him think he could single-handedly cow us. He’s probably gathering his hirelings as we speak.”

“Right,” said Riltana, and winced as her burn flared. “Carmenere doesn’t live far from here.”

They resumed their journey. After only a few steps, the pain of her wound grew so overwhelming Demascus took her left arm to help support her.

“Drink your curative,” Chant said, his voice worried.

She shook her head. “This is not a small burn. It’s going to require more attention than a single restorative potion.”

Demascus looked worried. “Then what?”

“We keep going,” she said. “Carmenere can help.”

By the time they arrived, her skin felt as if it was on fire, and she was panting. They entered a narrow walk behind the main way, a little-used entrance she’d used often in the past.

The patio door to Carmenere’s flat was flanked by two planters. Jasmine and sage grew in them, and their combined scent made Riltana forget her pain a moment. How many times had she and Carmenere emerged in the cool night air to look up and watch the stars? The stars and moons, which Carmenere so loved.

Chant rapped on the door.

“Give it a moment,” she whispered.

They waited, and Demascus helped her sit in one of the two wooden chairs.

The door scraped open and a splinter of light cut across the patio. A silhouette in the doorway hesitated. A woman in the robes of a silverstar cleric of Selûne.

“Who is it?” came Carmenere’s voice.

Chant said, “It’s your friend Riltana. She’s hurt.”

The door opened, and Carmenere emerged.

“Rilta?” said Carmenere. Her brows furrowed with concern. Just seeing the earthsoul lightened the pain. A little.

“Heya. I … I’m sorry to bother you. But it’s important. See—”

Carmenere bent over and hugged her. In surprised reaction she tried to return the hug, but the embrace brought fresh torment to her burn, and she cried out.

“What’s wrong?” said Carmenere.

The pawnbroker said, “It’s my fault. A creditor came looking for me. He ambushed us, and I’m afraid your friend was caught in the crossfire.”

“A bastard stormsoul jacked me with lightning,” Riltana confirmed in a weak voice.

Carmenere laid a hand on Riltana’s forehead. Her palm was cool, and the touch all by itself soothed her feverish skin. Carmenere whispered, “Selûne, give this one peace.” Moonlight spilled from Carmenere’s hand, and washed Riltana in silvery radiance. It was like a gulping a tumbler of cool water after an afternoon of toiling in the dusty sun. The pain dwindled over several heartbeats, until it was a mere ache.

Riltana clutched Carmenere’s hands in silent thanks.

“I’m so glad you found her,” Carmenere said to Chant and Demascus.

Demascus nodded slowly, as if still distracted by Carmenere’s display of divine magic. He said, “We had to; she had something I needed.”

What had Carmenere meant, she thought, about finding her? How had Carmenere known she was missing? She said, “Uh … what’s going on here?”

Carmenere said, “I found your note at the loft, Rilta.”

“You found it? But Demascus and Chant said …”

The earthsoul shook her head. “Word reached me that someone was looking for a windsoul thief in a black bodysuit and mask. I knew it had to be you. I thought it might have something to do with the … the painting. I was worried you’d gotten into real trouble. So I stopped by your place. When you didn’t answer, I let myself in, and saw your note, and that you hadn’t been back …”

“We were the ‘someone’ looking for you,” said Chant. “Carmenere found us, and gave us the note.”

The earthsoul said, “I told them you’d gone missing. And … if they found you, not to mention my name.”

“Oh. Why did you tell them that?”

The earthsoul looked at her for what seemed like a full song, her eyes dark.

Which was answer enough. Just because Carmenere was worried, she thought, didn’t mean Carmenere has forgiven me.

Riltana figured she should say something, but didn’t know what. She was afraid whatever words tumbled from her mouth would be the wrong ones. Excuses, apologies, or plans on how they could get the painting back; it would only remind the silverstar why they’d fought so bitterly in the first place.

“Oh, Rilta, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you didn’t come to harm,” Carmenere finally said.

It was so good to hear her nickname on Carmenere’s lips. No one called her Rilta but the earthsoul. Regret stung her eyes. She wanted to tell Carmenere how sorry she was, how devastated she was at the way her surprise had turned sour, that it hadn’t been what she wanted. But she’d said all that before, and it hadn’t impressed Carmenere the first time.

Chant cleared his throat.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” he said. “But we actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What about?” The silverstar looked at the pawnbroker suspiciously.

“I know you don’t know us, and this is probably an imposition, but it’s very important—”

Riltana put a hand on Chant’s arm. “Let me.”

She looked Carmenere in the face. “Something shady is going on with the Firestorm Cabal. And my friends might have some insight into what that is. We need an audience with your aunt—Queen Arathane.”