Eulogy Page 7

The woman cradled a bundle of rags to her chest as she moved through the market with jagged, lurching motions, like a puppet with one clipped string. Yet she didn't pose a threat. She simply ambled up to a fruit vendor and purchased an apple.

  Kipra hurried on.

  Bran will know what to do. He'll know what to think. Demon-damned Ark!

  Haral had asked her to stop at Stonehands' Forging to pick up an order, and the smithy belched heat as she approached. The scent of coal and grime and oil filled her nostrils, and steady clangs rang across the air. Krayr, the older of the two blacksmiths, smashed his hammer against a red, glowing length of metal.

  His son shaped a flat shield at another anvil.

  She'd grown closer to Bran than she ever would've imagined. The feel of any man's hands forced her to shiver, but the young blacksmith never threatened her with a chance touch, never tried to overstep the boundaries she set. He kept his distance, offering friendship and nothing more. He was a rock to lean on, a brother she'd never had.

  Void knows he's better than Kleni.

  Bran wore a thick leather smock, and blackened holes covered it. His hands were worn but strong, his face kind but serious. He placed his hammer on a nearby table, pulled the smock over his head, and offered a sad smile.

  "Early morning?"

  She motioned him away from the forge, ignoring Krayr's disapproving stare. Once beyond the heat and noise, she said, "You should've been there. It would've done you good."

  "I can't, Kipra. You'd have me there every day if you could, but I've got too much work to do. Your father wants half-a-dozen blades for an order he sold two weeks ago, and—"

  "I know what Haral wants, and I couldn't give two shits if he gets it. He'll sell what you make to Crest, and we both know what he'll do with your work." She poked her friend in the arm. "You need to train more."

  "I know, but—"

  "Bran, I saw something last night, and again this morning."

  He licked his lips.

  "It wasn't natural," she continued. Her fingers twitched, and she clamped them together and twisted. "It almost looked human. Almost. But, void take me, Bran, it wasn't human. None of them were."

  "The Parched Ones," he said, a note of steadiness in his voice. "I call them the Parched Ones."

  She nodded slowly. Parched Ones... that seemed right. "You've seen them?"

  "Three months ago was the first. I've seen more since then."

  "And you—"

  "I tried to tell my father of them, and my mother. They didn't believe me, said I was a coal-stuffed fool. So I watched and waited, and I didn't want to talk to you or Ark about them." He cracked a sheepish smile. "I didn't want you to think less of me."

  "I wouldn't have," she said, matching his smile for a brief second. "Ark, however, is a twice-knotted, void-forsaken fool, and he—"

  "Kipra!" His face hardened to match the forge, and he held the expression for several seconds—angry, afraid. Then it softened, his sharp edge dissipating like a cloud amongst clouds. "Have you seen him today?"

  "Of course I've seen him. The fool was on the western slopes, and he—"

  "You talked to him?"

  She tilted her head. His sadness, his hesitation, dancing around the discussion as if it were a delicate lady and he a clumsy stablehand.... "Why?"

  Words fled him in a breathless whoosh. "His father was murdered yesterday. We found out when we returned from your shop. Crest's men did it."

  Thoughts of the Parched Ones vanished.

  What could she say to that? She'd just seen Ark, and he hadn't told her. Didn't he trust her? The bastard—

  She cursed under her breath. She hadn't given him a chance. She'd called him an idiot.

  Damned fool woman!

  "There's more," Bran said, and he matched her curse. "We've got a new trade minister. Council brought him on two days ago. They must've figured the murder of our captain wasn't bad enough, so they hired some councilman's brother, Nekaron Rellik. He's Crest's man."

  "What?"

  "The price of an iron bar doubled overnight," Bran said. "And there's a plague in Rippon, so we can't ship the steel north. Can't do a bloody thing. Now we don't have a choice but to sell to Crest—not that we had much of a choice to begin with—or we'll starve by winter. Your father knows it, as does mine."

  Crest was strangling the city. With Eenan Ark's death, he now owned both the guard and the trade. Soon he'd own the council. She and Bran and Ark knew it, but no one else saw what Crest was doing. Maybe they simply didn't care.

  Yet they'd killed Eenan Ark, the only man with the clout to do anything.

  "You could try not to sell to him. Send a message to King Kinslek and tell him what's happening." She pursed her lips, unsure if that would work. Kinslek must've known, and so he'd simply chosen not to act. "Or, if all the craftsmen and merchants banded together, you could force the new Minister to your wishes. Don't let him dictate how the city runs."

  He remained silent.

  "Does Ark know?" she asked.

  "I hadn't planned on telling him."

  "Demon-damn, he'll find out, if he hasn't already."

  "Indeed, but it's better to hear the news from you." Bran glanced over his shoulder to his father. "We think he'll listen to you. Stubborn bastard won't listen to a word we say. Just smiles and nods and walks away."

  She gritted her teeth. "I don't want to see him, Bran. Once a day is enou—"

  "He won't stay in the city long," he said quietly. "He'll find another place to go."

  She froze, and a tingle swept across her. Ark had taught her, but he'd done far more than that. She understood him, in a way, for he'd also lost his mother, and now his father. He also tried to find his place in the city. Could she live without that?

  Yes! If I have to, I'll do it and never look back.

  But hesitation remained, and she said, "How can you know that?"

  "I've seen it in his eyes."

  "Then you think—"

  "He'll find a way to leave. Not today or tomorrow, but it will happen soon."

  She clenched her jaw.

  "He's boiling, Kipra. A man doesn't lose his father without anger, and that anger is consuming him. He sees it on every corner, in every word. Crest grows more powerful, and that drives him deeper into rage. He doesn't know how to stop it, so he'll run."

  "He could kill Crest."

  "He won't, and you know it."

  She rolled her eyes. "Too honorable. Too chivalrous, like a child with his favorite fairytale. He holds to it as if it can save him, but it can't. It's bullshit, and you know it."

  Krayr smashed hammer against anvil again, the clangs reaching far beyond the forge, and Bran stepped closer to her. He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, and she jerked from his hand. He was gentle, foolish, and kind, but he should've known better.

  "You're not making it better," he said.

  "How am I supposed to make it better? You want me to take him to bed?" She spat. "No! I want him to teach me to use a blade. Nothing more. I don't want... I don't need—"

  "Bran!" Krayr shouted.

  "No one is asking you to take him to your bed, much less anything else," Bran said, careful to keep his voice low. "I'm asking you to accept him. Respect him. If you don't, then he'll leave." He glanced back to his father. "I've got to work."

  "Bran, I'm sorry."

  He offered a soft smile. "I know."

  "What do we do about the Parched Ones?"

  "What can we do about them? Nothing. We can't do a demon-damned thing. No one will believe us. I've watched them for three months, Kipra, and they've made no aggressive moves. They just... live. It's almost like they don't know what they are."

  He pivoted, ambled back to the anvil, and took up his hammer. Twin clangs rang out as father and son bent over their work, their faces wrinkled in concentration.

  They were good men.

  Kipra walked three blocks before realizing she'd forgotten to ask about the order for Haral. It
didn't matter. He would get them when they were finished. They'll just go to Crest, anyways.

  So she roamed, not wanting to return to the shop and face Haral's annoyance.

  Parched Ones filled the streets, almost half the numbers of normal folk. Some wore threadbare tunics and leggings, little more than rags, but others wrapped themselves in expensive wool, imported from the Inner Empire. They'd slithered into every part of the city, all the way to the nobility.

  And no one would believe her. Ark certainly hadn't.

  Yet, just as Bran had said, they simply lived. They didn't attempt to grab her or talk to her. They moved through the market just like everyone else, purchasing bread and vegetables, and the richer of them bought slabs of beef from the butchers.

  They don't matter. None of them matter!

  Maybe they were unnatural, even warped. However, they couldn't account for this unease, this churning anger that gripped her gut. So why the churning? Crest's methodic takeover of the city? He would kill Farren's people with their own weapons, but the fools would let him.

  This was more than simple anger. It was fear, and fear was worse than all things.

  Ark would leave.

  Bran had been right. Ark couldn't handle his own rage, or maybe he truly couldn't live without her touch. Whatever. It didn't matter any more than the Parched Ones, but she couldn't tell herself that and expect it to be true.

  She smashed the base of her fist into a wall as she passed.

  Would Ark stay if he found vengeance against Crest? What if she let him closer? Just an inch. Maybe. But if he stayed, did it equal the price—the tingling skin, racing thoughts, billowing fear?

  I've got to try.

  Chapter Nine

  Farren's northern district smelled like shit.

  Flies swarmed, landing on anyone with a pulse, and anything without—the corpse of a rat, a pile of feces. Their greedy mouths narrowed and widened until they sucked their fill, then they leapt upward in search of another target.

  Kipra swatted them as she walked, but they buzzed back the instant her hand passed.

  A vulture hopped across the cobblestones, a bit of unknown flesh lodged in its beak. It snapped the meat down its throat, peered at her, and unleashed a piercing caw. She ignored it and struggled onward.

  No Parched Ones were huddled in this alley.

  That's something, at least.

  Brick walls towered to either side of her, their closeness pressing as if to crush her. Grime coated the alley's walls, so thick she could've carved her name, and heaps of trash littered the ground—a mound of rotted vegetables, a broken cask of foul, green water.

  Other things also lay there, too decayed to recognize.

  She pressed forward, hopped over the vegetables and skirted the cask. The flies, vulture, and trash... they belonged. This was Farren's northern district, a place she'd never returned to after her mother died. She hadn't found a reason to come back, nor had she cared to look.

  This was Kleni's domain.

  Not long after Haral and Paien took Kipra in, her sister had vanished. In a way, the loss had stung, but only at first. Then, because of another midnight discussion between her new parents, she'd discovered the truth.

  Her sister was a whore. Kleni pleasured men for money.

  Void take me, how can she stand to live here?

  Kipra couldn't turn to anyone else in this. Haral would've simply wrung his hands and echoed Bran's words. They couldn't do anything, but her sister dwelled within Crest's world. Did Kleni understand the man? Would she know how to disrupt his plans? It was a thin hope, but sometimes those were stronger than iron.

  So Kipra marched past the taverns of cackling men, hugging the shadows as others strode through the streets. She covered her nose at the stench and slipped across stacks of garbage, all while trying to ignore her disgust and anger.

  Ark made her do this. The arrogant bastard probably wouldn't even realize why it hurt to come here. Would he even care? The shit and piss, the howling men.

  He should know what I'm giving up. Bloody Ark!

  Those reasons were weak, but Kipra held to them as if they'd somehow crawl away. She couldn't let them vanish, for then she'd be left with nothing. No anger. No clash of blades or lessons. No happiness. Just this bleak place.

  And it must've been a place similar to where Ark now dwelled.

  I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I didn't....

  The brothel's entrance burrowed into the alley's end, and stairs descended to a shadowed door. A sign hung beside the door, the bold, black words nearly scratched away. They'd been written with an elegant, flowing hand, as if these stairs led to a glamorous theatre of singing and dancing.

  She loosed a held breath. There were no grand plays or sophisticated audiences here, only performances for maggots and leeches, and her sister sang and danced on center stage.

  She nudged the door open, expecting an overwhelming stench of... what? Men? Women? Sex?

  The scent of lavender wafted from a candle. She pressed the door further and slipped within.

  Her shadow wavered on the walls, thin and dark and silent, and the door squeaked shut at her back. No garbage lay on the ground. No cracks in the paint or scuttling insects. A hallway stretched before her, with three curtained openings to either side. A tall desk stood at the end, and yet another curtain—thinner than silk, with the glow of a candle shivering behind the fabric—hung over an opening behind it.

  Two bouncers loomed to either side of the desk, their thick arms crossed, their gazes caressing her. The man to the right grinned, revealing two shattered teeth.

  These bastards laughed at her. Laughed!

  Kipra forced her hands away from her blades. She hadn't come here to fight.

  A woman lounged behind the desk, and Kipra shuffled forward, finger to hilt, eyes to everything. Someone moaned—deep and visceral, soft and gentle—behind the curtain to her left, and she forced a wad of saliva down her throat.

  "Pleasure?" the woman asked.

  "Where's Kleni?"

  The woman's mouth twitched into a frown. Silence. The bouncer on her right offered a tense, uncertain shrug.

  "Who?"

  Kipra opened her mouth to speak, clicked it shut. That bouncer's shrug had been filled with recognition and fear, almost terror. How could a whore like Kleni frighten a man like this?

  "You know who." She glared down at the woman. "She's my—"

  "Sister."

  The voice—light, winsome, delightful—had floated from beyond the curtain. But it sank deeper than just those things. It was a memory of playing with ragged dolls, waiting in a hovel for their mother to return, imagining what their lives would be.

  Ah, but look how far we've come. Kipra twisted her lips. I'm an adopted daughter, swordswoman, and a bitch. At least you're a matron. That counts for something, doesn't it? You'll know more about Crest.

  "Let her pass," Kleni murmured.

  Kipra moved around the desk, careful to keep wide of the two bouncers. They skittered back, seemingly happy to be rid of her, and she brushed the silky curtain aside to enter the back room. She'd need to remain wary, for a woman didn't rise to power in a place like this without a reason.

  Delicate candleholders ringed the walls, nearly reaching Kipra's chest. Frosted globes perched atop the holders, dull glows dancing within, the scent of lavender escaping their crowns. A red and golden rug covered the floor, its threads spongy beneath her boots. She'd seen luxury before, but this was more than what the nobles displayed. The rug alone must've sold for more coins than she'd ever held.

  And the candles. Void take me, the candles.

  A massive, round bed dominated the room's center. Blankets, blue and white and spiraled in an intricate design, spread from side to side, and smooth pillows lay beneath an oak headboard.

  Kleni lounged in the center of it, propped on one elbow. "You've been gone too long. Four years?"

  "I never left. You did."

  "Ah, but tho
se things are unimportant."

  Black, gossamer fabric flowed across Kleni's body as she sat up. It did little to hide her skin, and her nipples jutted beneath the fabric, her breasts gentle and round. She was a few years older than Kipra, but her skin was smooth, her arms slender.

  Kipra spun away, unable to face her sister's nudity.

  Kleni released a throaty chuckle. "You never could take it."

  "I—"

  Someone shifted in the far corner, little more than a lump of arms and legs, and Kipra clamped her mouth shut. The person was too deep in the shadows to see, close enough to feel. No one should've been here to witness her shame. More than that, they'd hear her questions about Kylen Crest.

  "I'd rather speak to you alone."

  "Lerrin won't repeat anything," Kleni said, and again she chuckled. "Play us a song, my lovely, something light, but with a hint of sadness. I've always found reunions to be a little... what's the word?"

  "Embarassing."

  "Ah, that's it." She snapped her fingers. "Lerrin?"

  Lerrin scurried into the light, knelt to reach beneath the bed, and tugged out a leather case. Scars criss-crossed his face. Burn-marks lined his arms. A threadbare robe covered his body, rough wool against his flesh. He pressed his lips together as he extracted a violin and wand, then he played. Music merged with the flickering candles, mingled with the lavender. It wove, laughing and crying, like a child amidst a summer storm.

  Kipra struggled to find a word. She hadn't imagined this.

  "I'd wanted to bring you here," Kleni said. "It's peaceful, in a way. I'm lulled to sleep by the sound of love, and I awaken to its touch. Have you ever felt it? A man's hand, a woman's lips?"

  A shiver swept across Kipra. "That's not why I've come. I don't care—"

  "Ah, of course you haven't. Still too innocent, aren't you? A little too pure." Kleni's laugh matched the violin. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and pushed them higher, as if she were aware of her sister's discomfort. "You'll find it soon enough, and then you'll... what? We'll just have to see. Why did you come, if not for that?"

  Lerrin swayed back and forth with the music.

  He doesn't matter, and I'll hack off his balls if he talks. Only finding a way to stop Crest matters. Ark matters too.