City of Strife Page 7

  “I never forbade her to visit the city,” she said. “Once she finishes her daily tasks, Isra is free to do as she will.”

  Which shouldn’t have included pushing Nevian to go against Avenazar’s orders. Every now and then, Isra got those terrible ideas she couldn’t resist. Without her father’s reputation as one of the best transmuters in Myria, she would’ve paid long ago for her recklessness. How could it last, however? Avenazar’s good mood was ephemeral at best, and Master Enezi couldn’t protect his daughter from so far away.

  “She wasted my apprentice’s time,” he said. “Ruined his important character-building task.”

  Jilssan called upon every ounce of her willpower not to roll her eyes. Forcing Nevian to clean the floor with the minuscule brush she’d downsized for him might amuse Avenazar, but it held no training value. Master Avenazar enjoyed keeping up the front, however, and why would she contradict him? It would only anger him. She remained silent in the hope he would leave it at that—a naive impulse.

  “Oh yes, she’s been a naughty girl,” he said.

  A shiver ran up her spine and stuck in her throat. She dared to glance at him, and her grip tightened on the railing when she saw how he detailed her body, his gaze trailing down the small of Isra’s back. Jilssan imagined his hand crawling up the girl’s leg, under the apprentice dress, and she fought to keep herself calm. Did he really think he could get away with that? Myria was far, but if news reached Master Enezi … Yet as long as Isra’s father didn’t learn of it, Avenazar could do whatever he wanted. No one here possessed the influence or raw power to stop him.

  And right now, what he wanted to do … was Isra. One more way to assert his control and dominance over the Enclave. Jilssan swallowed hard. She couldn’t let that happen. No way—some prices were too high.

  “I’ll remind Master Enezi’s daughter not to interfere with others’ schedules.”

  She hoped the name-dropping would kill his desire. Avenazar turned to her with an excited cackle, the lustful spark never vanishing from his eyes.

  “Oh no, allow me! As an important future member of our community, I feel I must be involved in her education. Besides, I’m curious about why she wanted Nevian to come. Perhaps they have a little something going, you know?”

  “Doubtful.”

  She’d once found Isra kissing a servant girl, most of their clothes unbuttoned or otherwise loosened. On the one hand, it always comforted Jilssan to discover she wasn’t the only one who preferred women. On the other, Jilssan had a lot of experience with what happened to same-sex partners in Myria. She’d made Isra’s mistake of being caught with another girl when she was young. Her lover had been executed for debauchery—she was Isbari, and thus beyond any forgiveness to most Myrians—while Jilssan was forced to swear she would not kiss a woman again. At least Jilssan excelled at vows she didn’t intend to respect. They never caught her after that day, and her occasional interest in men helped alleviate suspicions. Bisexuality had its advantages.

  Isra liked girls, though, and girls only. It would be harder to hide, and Jilssan knew better than to suggest Isra should find a nice boy for cover-up purposes. The teenager did what she wanted, how she wanted, and never bothered with what needed to be done.

  Unlike Jilssan, who’d learned the hard way that what needed to be done should always come first, no matter how distasteful. Today it meant keeping Isra out of Avenazar’s grubby hands. Master Enezi had entrusted his daughter to her. If anything happened, she would be blamed, and she needed his approval if she hoped to gain influence in Myria. Not to mention the very thought of Avenazar touching her apprentice—or any young girl, especially one who disliked men—made her stomach churn.

  She considered drawing attention to herself. Though petite and flat, Jilssan had mastered the art of perceived cleavage and outfits tailored to amplify every curve. Between those, short skirts, and skillful innuendos, it wouldn’t be the first time she led a man to bed for political reasons. Avenazar, however … She feared once she started, he wouldn’t allow her to break it off. Besides, as good a liar as Jilssan was, this particular ploy might be beyond her. A last resort, she decided. Better her than Isra, but she didn’t have to choose yet.

  “Nevian has never shown interest in anything but his studies. You’re lucky to have such a dedicated apprentice.” Avenazar snorted. Everyone knew he wanted Nevian to fail. The poor boy would always be Master Sauria’s apprentice to him—a target for his continued revenge against the wizard who’d dared to insult him. He’d killed her, and now Nevian buffered the rest of his anger. He’d already punished him for going to the city, however, so Jilssan needed another distraction. “Don’t trouble yourself with Isra. We have a war coming! Our favourite elven lord needs all your attention. Someone has to teach him not to intervene with Nevian’s education, or to disrupt our social climb in Isandor, and who better than you?” Avenazar perked up, and his eyes finally left Isra to focus on Jilssan. She thanked Keroth and all other gods watching for his good mood, then continued with forced enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to hear your plans for him!”

  Jilssan never thought she’d find Avenazar’s mean cackle reassuring, but when he laughed and clapped his hands, she knew she’d diverted his attention. Relieving warmth spread through her. With Avenazar’s ire, redirection was often the only solution.

  “I figured we should start with a splendid fire,” he said.

  Fire. He’d involve Varden, then. Not a surprise. High Priest Varden steered clear of Myrian wizards to the best of his ability, focusing on his temple, his duties, and the dozen Isbari slaves on the enclave’s premises. He would not want to take part in this, which in turn meant Avenazar would use every opportunity to shove him in the middle of it. Which was his right as designated leader of their mission. Varden could not refuse.

  Before she could reply, Jilssan noticed Isra had stopped spells that transformed objects and started those which reshaped her body. Of course. She never wasted an opportunity to forego basic training, even though specialization shouldn’t be on her mind so soon. Isra’s hands grew into large claws, and she gave a playful swipe in the air.

  “Isra!” Jilssan called. “I said no shapeshifting spells today!”

  Isra turned to her with a pout. Her hands returned to their normal appearance: pale and delicate, with dark brown painted nails. “I don’t care about the other ones!”

  “Why not? They are versatile. Useful.”

  “Maybe they are, but they don’t make me look fantastic! I prefer spells that let me be whoever I want.”

  Want. As always, she did what she wanted, not what needed to be done. And now she was drawing Avenazar’s attention back to herself. Jilssan withheld a curse. “I fear I must go and talk some sense into the girl,” she said, “but we should continue this discussion over a glass of wine. Especially the part about a beautiful brazier.”

  She apologized in silence to Varden. Focusing Avenazar’s attention on him didn’t please her. She’d rather have Varden’s good will. In two years of subtle hints, however, Keroth’s High Priest had never returned her clear interest in him. She wished he did. Who could resist his haunted, solemn stare? Or the righteous anger boiling inside, trapped by circumstances—raw power he could not unleash without dooming himself. When it came to men, Varden was the stuff she dreamed of. Instead of him, she’d get to spend the evening with Avenazar and dodge his potential desires.

  “A fine plan,” he said. “I’ll expect you at my quarters later, Master Jilssan.”

  After a curt nod, she hurried down the nearby stairs and into the courtyard. Better not to prolong her time in Avenazar’s company. Tonight would bring too much of him already. Once again, she would have to endure the needed before she got what she wanted. But to protect Isra from Avenazar’s lust, it would be worth every minute of painful, dangerous conversation.

  Hasryan’s last assassination had been months ago, but he hadn’t lost his touch. He wiped the blood of his latest victim from his dagger,
satisfied by this simple truth: he was a killer. The best of Isandor. He needed to be—what else would Hasryan have to offer? Brune trusted him for his skills as an assassin, first and foremost. This city didn’t house a lot of folks who needed killing—it wasn’t really the way of Isandor, not like Nal-Gresh—but Hasryan wanted to be prepared. If someone crossed Brune, they would have to deal with him. Or, more specifically, deal with his trusty dagger.

  Hasryan lifted his weapon to admire the beautiful patterns and wave-like curves of its blade. A small spark of electricity ran along its edge, crackling, only to die at the tip. A gift from Brune, ten years ago, as a seal of their new partnership. “As a reminder of what we owe each other. Always carry it, even if hidden,” she’d said. “You can throw it as much as you want, and it will always return to your hand. Just keep it close. One day, having it with you will be a matter of life and death.”

  He had been a teenager then. Sixteen years old, shunned because of his dark elven blood, all based on some over-the-top stories about their ancestors Hasryan would bet had been invented from scraps. He’d entertained sneaking into the dark elves’ protected lands once, to discover how many of the horror tales were lies. Too much travelling. Hasryan thrived—if any part of his life could be called that—in cities and dark alleys. Even as a teenager, he excelled at assassinations. Brune had noticed. She’d trusted him with difficult jobs. When the time had come to build her own mercenary empire, Hasryan chose to be her best, and followed her to Isandor.

  A decade later, everyone in the city’s underlife dreaded the waved-blade assassin. Rumours said he was half-shadow, emerging from the night itself—probably born from his jet-black skin. In his line of work, people’s irrational fear of dark elves helped. Hasryan just wished it didn’t make the rest of his life suck so much.

  He sneaked out of the building where he’d cornered the now-dead merchant, then climbed down a few flights of stairs. Low and heavy clouds had hung in the sky all day, and he expected rain to imprison everyone inside for the evening. In the Lower City, the bridges lacked railings. Water or snow turned them into slippery traps, and most citizens without urgent business stayed safely home.

  For Hasryan, this often meant a perfect occasion to move around unnoticed as he accomplished one shady contract or another. Tonight, however, he had a more mundane activity in mind: a game of cards with the two precious friends he’d managed to make. Way more stressful than sneaking into an inhabited building during the day, locating his target, and slitting his throat before anyone noticed him. Not to mention, Cal wanted to invite a new player today. Worse, he wanted Hasryan to do it.

  As he headed toward Larryn’s Shelter, Hasryan tried to find comfort in Arathiel’s own strangeness. He’d arrived drenched despite the cold weather and with a cut on his arm he seemed to forget, then he’d dumped every coin he had left on the table, asking for a room. After the first night, Hasryan had only seen him once. Larryn said he came out for dinner but otherwise hid away. No wonder. Hasryan had caught the wary looks thrown his way by the other patrons. They didn’t make for pleasant meals. He would know; he’d received the same treatment at first.

  Sympathy pushed Hasryan to give Arathiel a chance, but would he return the favour?

  The first drop of rain fell as Hasryan reached the Shelter. Larryn owned the entire building, along with a floor in one of the two towers. Every evening, he handed out free meals to Isandor’s homeless folk, and when night came, they cleared the tables so people could sleep on the ground. The chimney provided heat, even when cold autumn wind slipped through the crack in the door.

  Hasryan had never questioned where Larryn—a street rat himself—had found the money to keep such a place alive. He had strong suspicions but didn’t care to confirm them. It didn't matter how, only that at the very bottom of Isandor, where the streets stank of sweat and refuse, a small refuge existed where one could eat, drink, and sleep in warmth. One built by the best cook, a young talent unknown to the lordly nobles up in their pristine towers, who served delicious meals to everyone. No questions asked.

  When Hasryan had first visited two years ago, he’d expected the rumours to be lies and exaggerations. ‘Everyone’ never included dark elves. Larryn and Cal had proved him wrong over and over, and they had been playing cards together for more than a year now. Hasryan worried about upsetting this delicate balance with another participant, but the prospect of adding a third friend to his limited roster excited him. How impossible even one friend had seemed three years ago! He'd only trusted Brune before, and that was a professional relationship.

  Inside the Shelter, the aroma of rich cream sauce and apples greeted Hasryan. Whatever Larryn cooked, its scent drifted out, filling the common room and welcoming patrons in. The smell of acceptance—a little different every day, yet always warm and comforting. It didn’t keep a lump of stress from forming in Hasryan’s throat as he crossed the open area, snaking between tables toward the side corridor and private rooms. He stopped in front of door number six, where he knew Arathiel stayed, his knuckles more ready than his heart.

  It would be okay. He’d dealt with rejection before. He could do it again.

  Hasryan rapped the door with his knuckles three times. A surprised cry from inside followed, then the sound of a body collapsing to the wooden floor. He quirked his eyebrows, wondering what their mysterious newcomer was up to in there.

  “Are you all right?” he called.

  A brief silence preceded footsteps coming toward the door. Arathiel opened up, and as soon as his eyes rested on Hasryan, he frowned. Shameful and bitter heat rose in Hasryan’s cheeks, and his tone turned sharp.

  “Don’t break anything. Larryn won’t like it.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I haven’t damaged the room. Yet.” Arathiel paid less attention to Hasryan than to his own hands and arms. As if he checked for wounds? After a moment, he looked back at Hasryan again. “Is something wrong? We’ve never been introduced.”

  “The name’s Hasryan.” He leaned in the doorway and offered his best smile. “I’m a friend of Cal—y’know, the halfling who served you on your first night here? Small, overweight, laughs easily?”

  Arathiel relaxed at the mention of Cal, then stepped aside to let Hasryan into the room, smiling. “I hadn’t met anyone so welcoming in a long time.”

  “Don’t hold it against him,” Hasryan said with a chuckle. “He’s always on the lookout for new players for our card games. Apparently you’re his next target.”

  “Target.”

  Strong distaste tainted Arathiel’s voice as he repeated the word. He pinched his lips together, and Hasryan regretted bringing the topic up this way. Too late now. An awkward silence stretched between them, and he sought something to restart the conversation. As Hasryan’s gaze flicked around the room, he noticed a trail of blood on the ground. Footsteps, going from the bed’s foot to the door, and then a few feet back again … to Arathiel.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Hasryan asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m afraid you will need to find another player. I’m not interested in being the target.”

  Hasryan recognized the strange sadness in his voice immediately. Resignation. The powerful disappointment after expecting better, only to receive the same frustrating treatment as ever. Hasryan recalled his nervousness as he was about to knock, his bitterness when Arathiel had frowned. He’d interpreted it as an adverse reaction to his race, but just this once, he might have been wrong. Arathiel also lived with rejection on a daily basis. He must have been worried, and now Hasryan was confirming his fears. No wonder he didn’t want to be a target.

  “Look, I won’t lie to you. Cal is a professional gossiper, and you caught his eye. But he didn’t invite you just so he could ask questions, and if you tell him to back off, he will. I know him. This is his ‘subtle’ way of making sure you’re all right and have a friend to talk to if things are bad on your end. I’ll admit, I can’t help but share his worry now.” Hasryan’s natural s
mirk slowly came back, and he added with a shrug, “After all, your foot is bleeding quite a bit on the floor, and that’s twice you tell me you’re fine.”

  Arathiel’s eyes shot down, then widened. He mouthed a swear as he noticed the trail of blood around his room, pressed his lips together, and stood there, tense and ready to bolt, refusing to look back toward Hasryan. It reminded him of his many victims, when they finally understood they were about to die.

  “I … couldn’t feel it,” he said.

  Hasryan’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure. As I said, I’m not going to ask. You ought to take care of it, though.”

  “Yes.”

  The words had escaped his lips reluctantly, and Arathiel sat on the bed’s edge before bringing his foot over his leg. He had a fair-sized cut on his heel and clacked his tongue upon seeing it. Arathiel stretched to open his bedside table and removed a first aid kit and a handheld mirror from it. Hasryan wondered where he’d gotten the latter. The glass was clean, shiningly new. Their guest had more money than he’d let on.

  Arathiel wiped most of the blood from the wound before shoving strong alcohol on a cloth to disinfect it. He didn’t flinch as the liquid seeped into his cut, didn’t really seem to notice it at all. Hasryan just stared, amazed at how stoic he was. Then he saw what was under the blood. Dozens of scars crisscrossed Arathiel’s dark foot in a tight net of old cuts and scratches. Every inch had a handful of paler lines, connecting with one another. Hasryan’s determination not to ask questions vanished as his mind tried to wrap around the sight.

  “How the heck did you get all that? Walked a whole week in a deep forest without shoes on?”

  “More like a month,” Arathiel said.

  His voice was soft and serious. Hasryan ran a hand through his hair, unable to imagine. He’d had his share of painful experiences and his own network of scars to prove it, but Arathiel hinted at a slow, daily attrition. A little more pain each day. Renewed stinging with every step. What was the story behind that? How had he been forced to walk for so long without shoes? His gaze went to the trail of blood, and another question surfaced.