“Now. Practice.”
The Shahiid’s first lesson was in simple pickpocketry. He took a clinking purse from a table and tied it to his belt. He then schooled the novices on several ways his monies might be filched, each named more fancifully than the last. The Deadlift. The Jackanapes. The Juliette. The Gigolo. With a walking stick in one hand, Mouser picked a random acolyte to try and steal his prize. Carlotta, the slavemarked girl who swayed like a snake, and moved almost as quick. Big Diamo, whose sledgehammer hands proved faster than they looked. Those novices too slow were rewarded with a crack across the knuckles. Too heavy-handed? Crack. Too obvious? Crack. Too clumsy?
Crack, crack, crack.
Ashlinn seemed a deft hand at the game, and Jessamine and Hush were her equals. The pale, blue-eyed boy still refused to speak—he used his piece of chalk and charboard to service any question that couldn’t be answered by a nod or shake of the head. But he was quick as maggots on a corpse, and deathly quiet.
Mouser went through several costume changes, flipping through the racks of clothing and explaining how each might be overcome. He dressed as a marrowborn don, with a well-cut frock coat and a fat purse inside. Then a senator in purple-trimmed robes of office, with a hidden pocket to conceal his coin.1
“And next,” Mouser announced, rummaging through the clothing racks once again, “a breed that hangs on to their coppers like dogs to their bones.” The Shahiid slipped a heavy white robe over his head, fastened a golden chain at his neck. “Your good old-fashioned, god-fearing priest of Aa.”
Mouser raised his three fingers in blessing, shifted his voice an octave deeper.
“May the Everseeing keep you always in the Light, O, my children.”
He raised his voice over the chuckling. “Now, now, laugh if you will, acolytes. But this is genuine gear. Belonged to a minister in Godsgrave I met briefly in my younger years. Though he enjoyed the meeting less than I.” He scanned the faces of the assembly. “Now, whom shall we put to the …”
Mouser’s brow creased in a frown.
“… Acolyte, are you well?”
All eyes turned to Mia. The girl was standing as if rooted to the spot, gaze locked on the medallion around Mouser’s neck. The suns were wrought of different metals—rose gold for Saan, platinum for Saai, yellow gold for Shiih—and at the sight of them, she felt sick to her stomach. Sweat on her face. The light from the stained-glass windows refracted off those three circles of precious metal. Burning her eyes. Mister Kindly was recoiling in her shadow, panicked, shivering, so filled with fear he was unable to drink her own. But it was more than simple terror that gripped Mia at the sight of the Trinity. It was actual physical pain.
“I …”
“Come, child, it’s only a priest’s dress.”
Mouser stepped forward. Without warning, Mia stumbled back, fell to her knees, and spewed her mornmeal all over the floor. The other acolytes recoiled in disgust. The three suns were blinding her, and as Mouser took another step toward her, she actually hissed as if scalded, scrambling away behind one of the tables, one hand up to blot out the blinding light only she seemed to see.
Tric reached for her, eyes wide with concern. Jessamine was smirking, Ash looking on dumbfounded, confused murmurs rippling among the other novices.
“Get out, all of you,” Mouser ordered. “Lessons are done for the turn.”
The group hung uncertain, gawping at the terrified girl.
“Get out!” Mouser roared. “Now!”
The mob filed out of the hall, Tric hovering about Mia like a worried nursemaid until Mouser shouted at him to leave. When the hall was cleared, the Shahiid stripped off the vestments and threw them aside. Approaching Mia like a frightened animal, hand outstretched.
“Are you well, child?”
With the Trinity out of sight, Mia found it easier to breathe. Heart calming in her chest, the pain and nausea receding. Mister Kindly had collected himself, coiled in her shadow and drinking her fear. But her hands were still shaking, her heart still pounding …
“I’m … I’m sorry, Shahiid …”
Mouser knelt beside her. “No, it’s me who owes apology. The Revered Mother told me of the trick you played on Solis in the Hall of Songs. And bravo, by the way …”
The Shahiid’s smile vanished as Mia failed to share it.
“… But she told me what you are. I was careless. Forgive me.”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Before I cut his throat, the man who wore that Trinity was a primus of Aa’s ministry. That medallion was sanctified by a grand cardinal. Blessed by the Right Hand of Aa himself.”
“… Duomo?”
Mouser shook his head. “His predecessor. But it’s not the man, child. Or his clothes. It’s his faith in the Everseeing. The cardinal who blessed those suns was a believer. A true disciple of the God who banished the very Night from our skies. Aa grants his most devout servants some measure of his strength—the Luminatii and their sunsteel blades are the most obvious of the lot. But the most pious of his priests can instill some measure of that strength in other things they touch. I should’ve guessed such a thing might be a bane to you.”
“But why?”
The Shahiid shrugged. “You are touched by the Mother, Acolyte. Marked, for good or ill, I’ve no knowing. But I know the Light hates his bride. And he hates those she loves just as much.”
Mia blinked, nausea still swimming in her gut. She’d felt it, sure as she could feel the stone beneath her now. Looking into those three burning circles and feeling fury. Flame. Malice. She’d felt the same, once before. Light burning in her eyes. Blood on her hands. Blinding.
Don’t look …
Mouser patted her gently on the knee.
“I’ll keep the Trinity out of sight in future lessons. Apologies once again.”
The Shahiid helped her to her feet, made sure she could stand. Her legs were wobbling, and she felt a little light-headed. But she nodded, breathing deep.
“Have you ever seen Lord Cassius react like that to the Trinity?”
“I’ve not been foolish enough to wear it in his presence,” Mouser smiled.
“I’d like to speak to him, if I may. I’ve never met an—”
The shake of Mouser’s head killed the question on her lips.
“Lord Cassius is no longer in the Mountain, Acolyte,” the Shahiid said. “He will return for your initiation, but I doubt we’ll be graced by his presence before then. Whatever answers you seek, you will have to find them alone. Would that I could tell you more, but Cassius is the only darkin I have ever known, and the Lord of Blades keeps his counsel to himself.”
Mia nodded thanks, made her way out of the Hall of Pockets. Her tread was still unsteady. Hands yet shaking. She stopped outside the double doors, eyes closed, listening to that ghostly choir singing in the gloom. The dark behind her eyelids still swum with three burning circles, her mind still swimming with the knowledge that she’d somehow earned the hatred of a god. She had no idea how. Or why. But whatever the reasons, no one in this Church seemed to have any real answers.
Maybe …
She headed off into the dark, still queasy, the burning circles in her eyes slowly fading. Thinking perhaps there might be one within these halls who had the answers she needed. But when she arrived at the athenaeum’s towering doors, she found them firmly closed. She knocked, called loudly for the chronicler. Met only with silence.
Sighing, Mia slumped back against the doors. Fishing a thin silver box out of her sling, she lit a cigarillo. Breathed gray.
Three suns burning behind her eyes.
Questions ever burning in her mind.
But if she were to find the truth of herself, it seemed she’d have to find it alone.
The shadow stirred at her feet. A soft voice whispered in the dark.
“… never alone …”
CHAPTER 14
MASKS