Shivs glared at the old man, down at his bleeding comrade. And with a black curse, he hefted the Dona Corvere’s stiletto and hurled it at Mercurio’s head.
It was a fine throw. Right between the eyes. But instead of dying, the old man snatched the blade from midair, quick as the stink on the banks of the Rose.3 Tucking the stiletto inside his greatcoat, Mercurio took hold of his walking stick, and with a crisp ring, drew a long, gravebone blade hidden within the shaft. He advanced on Shivs and Worms, brandishing the sword.
“O, Liisian rules, aye? Old school? Fair enough, then.”
Shivs and Worms glanced at each other, panic in their eyes. And without a word, the pair turned and bolted down the alley, leaving poor Fleas unconscious in the muck.
Mia was on her hands and knees. Cheeks stained with tears and blood. Her nose felt raw and swollen, throbbing red. She couldn’t see properly. Couldn’t think.
“Told you that brooch wouldn’t be naught but trouble,” Mercurio growled. “You’d have done better listening, girl.”
Mia felt a heat in her chest. Stinging at her eyes. Another child might have bawled for her mother, then. Cried the world wasn’t fair. But instead, all the rage, all the indignity, the memory of her father’s death, her mother’s arrest, the brutality and attempted murder, stacked afresh now with robbery and an alley scrap she’d been on the wrong side of winning—all of it piled up inside her like tinder on a bonfire and bursting into bright, furious flame.
“Don’t call me ‘girl,’” Mia spat, pawing the tears from her eyes. She pulled herself halfway up the wall, slumped back down again. “I am the daughter of a justicus. Firstchild of one of the twelve noble houses. I’m Mia Corvere, damn you!”
“O, I know who you are,” said the old man. “Question is, who else does?”
“… What?”
“Who else knows you’re the Kingmaker’s sprog, missy?”
“No one,” she snarled. “I’ve told no one. And don’t call me ‘missy,’ either.”
A sniff. “Not as stupid as I thought, then.”
The old man looked down the alley. Back at the marketplace. Finally, to the bleeding girl at his feet. And with something close to a sigh, he offered his hand.
“Come on, little Crow. Let’s get your beak straightened out.”
Mia wiped her fist across her lips, brought it away bloody.
“I know you not at all, sir,” she said. “And I trust you even less.”
“Well, those’re the first sensible words I’ve heard you hatch. But if I wanted you dead, I’d just leave you to it. Because alone out here, you’ll be dead by nevernight.”
Mia stayed where she was, distrust plain in her eyes.
“I’ve got tea,” Mercurio sighed. “And cake.”
The girl covered her growling belly with both palms.
“… What kind of cake?”
“The free kind.”
Mia pouted. Licked her lips and tasted blood.
“My favorite.”
And she took the old man’s hand.
“And I said I’m not wearing that!” Tric bellowed.
“Apologies,” said Mouser. “Did I give the impression I was asking?”
At the simplest mountain’s foot, Mia was doing her best to keep a level head. The churchmen were gathered by the cliff face, each with an armload of gear or a weary camel in tow. Mouser was holding out blindfolds, which he’d insisted Mia and Tric wear. For some inexplicable reason, Tric had grown furious at the suggestion. Mia could practically see the hackles rising down the Dweymeri boy’s back.
Though she felt no remnants of the strange cocktail of rage and lust that had filled her earlier, Mia thought perhaps her friend might still be under the influence. She turned to Mouser.
“Shahiid, our minds weren’t our own when we arrived …”
“The Discord. A werking placed on the Quiet Mountain in ages past.”
“It’s still affecting him.”
“No. It discourages those who arrive at the Church without … invitation. You are now welcome here. If you wear blindfolds.”
“We saved her life.” Tric gestured to Naev. “And you still don’t trust us?”
Mouser tucked his thumbs into his belt and smiled his silverware smile. His voice was as rich as Twelve Cask goldwine.4
“You still live, don’t you?”
“Tric, what difference does it make?” Mia asked. “Just put it on.”
“I’m not wearing any blindfold.”
“But we’ve come so far …”
“And you will go no farther,” Mouser added. “Not with eyes to see.”
Tric folded his arms and glowered. “No.”
Mia sighed, dragged her hand through her fringe. “Shahiid Mouser. I’d like a moment to confer with my learned colleague?”
“Be swift,” the Shahiid said. “If Naev dies on the very doorstep, Speaker Adonai will be none pleased. On your heads be it should Our Lady take her.”
Mia wondered what the Shahiid meant—the kraken wounds were fatal, and Naev was already a dead woman. But still, she took Tric’s hand, dragged him across the crumbling foothills. Out of earshot, she turned on the boy, infamous temper slowly rising.
“Maw’s teeth, what’s wrong with you?”
“I won’t do it. I’d rather cut my own throat.”
“They’ll do that for you if you keep this up!”
“Let them try.”
“This is the way they do things, so this is the way it’s done! Do you understand what we add up to, here? We’re acolytes! Bottom of the pile! We do it, or they do us.”
“I’m not wearing a blindfold.”
“Then you won’t get inside the Church.”
“Maw take the Church!”
Mia rocked back on her heels, frown darkening her brow.
“… he fears …,” whispered Mister Kindly from her shadow.
“Shut up, you blackhearted little shit,” Tric snapped.
“Tric, what are you afraid of?”
Mister Kindly sniffed with his not-nose, blinked with his not-eyes.
“… the dark …”
“Shut up!” Tric roared.
Mia blinked, incredulity slapped all over her face. “You can’t be serious …”
“… apologies, i was uninformed i’d been relegated to the role of comic relief …”
Mia tried to catch Tric’s stare, but the boy was frowning at his feet.
“Tric, are you honestly telling me you’ve come to train among the most feared assassins in the Republic and you’re afraid of the bloody dark?”
Tric was set to yell again, but the words died on his tongue. Gritted teeth, hands curling into fists, those artless tattoos twisting as he grimaced.
“… It’s not the damned dark.” A quiet sigh. “Just … not being able to see. I …”
He slumped down on his backside, kicked a toeful of shale down the slope.
“O, sod it …”
Guilt welled up in Mia’s chest, drowning the anger beneath. She knelt beside the Dweymeri with a sigh, put a comforting hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry, Tric. What happened?”
“Bad things.” Tric pawed at his eyes. “Just … bad things.”
She took his hand and squeezed, acutely aware of how much she was growing to like this strange boy. To see him like this, shivering like a child …
“I can take it away,” she offered.
“… Take what away?”
“Your fear. Well, Mister Kindly can, anyway. For a little while. He drinks it. Breathes it. It’s what keeps him here. Makes him grow.”
Tric frowned at the shadow-creature, revulsion in his eyes.
“… Fear?”
Mia nodded. “He’s been drinking mine for years. Not enough to make me forget common sense, mind. But enough to make me stand tall in a knife-fight or snatch-job. He makes me strong.”
“That makes no sense,” Tric scowled. “If he’s eating your fear, you never learn how to deal with it yourself. That’s not strength, that’s a crutch …”
“Well, it’s a crutch I’m willing to loan you, Don Tric.” Mia glared. “So instead of lecturing me on my faults, I’d rather you said ‘thank you, Pale Daughter,’ and got your sorry arse inside the Church before they slit our throats and leave us for the kraken.”
The boy stared down at their clasped hands. Nodded slow.
“… Thank you, Pale Daughter.”
She stood, pulled him to his feet. Mister Kindly didn’t need to be asked—simply flowed across the join where their shadows intersected. Anxiety began eating Mia’s insides immediately, cold worms gnawing at her belly. But she did her best to stomp on them with her boots, as Tric marched her across the broken ground toward Mouser.