Kitabı oku: «The Nevernight Chronicle», sayfa 9

CHAPTER 9
DARK

The old man straightened her nose out as best he could, wiped the blood from her face with a rag soaked in something that smelled sharp and metallic. And sitting her down at a little table in the back of his shop, he’d made her tea.

The room was somewhere between a kitchen and a library. All was swathed in shadow, the shutters drawn against the sunslight outside.^fn1 A single arkemical lamp illuminated stacks of dirty crockery and great, wobbling piles of books. Mia’s pain slipped away as she sipped Mercurio’s brew, the throbbing mess in the middle of her face rendered mercifully numb. He gave her honeyseed cake and watched her wolf down three slices, like a spider watches a fly. And when she pushed the plate aside, he finally spoke.

‘How’s the beak?’

‘Doesn’t hurt any more.’

‘Good tea, neh?’ He smiled. ‘How’d it get broken?’

‘The big boy. Shivs. I put my knife to his privates and he hit me for it.’

‘Who told you to go for a boy’s cods in a scrap?’

‘My father. He said the quickest way to beat a boy is to make him wish he was a girl.’

Mercurio chuckled. ‘Duum’a.’

‘What does that mean?’ Mia blinked.

‘… You don’t speak Liisian?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I thought your ma would’ve taught you. She was from these parts.’

Mia blinked. ‘She was?’

The old man nodded. ‘Long time back, now. Before she got hitched and became a dona.’

‘She … never spoke of it.’

‘Not much reason to, I s’pose. I imagine she thought she’d left these streets behind for ever.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyways, closest translation of “duum’a” would be “is wise”.You say it when you hear agreeable words. As you might say “hear, hear” or suchlike.’

‘What does “Neh diis …”’ Mia frowned, struggling with the pronunciation. ‘“Neh diis lus’a … lus diis’a”? What does that mean?’

Mercurio raised an eyebrow. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘Consul Scaeva said it to my mother. When he told her to beg for my life.’

Mercurio stroked his stubble. ‘It’s an old Liisian saying.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘When all is blood, blood is all.’

Mia nodded, thinking perhaps she understood. They sat in silence for a time, the old man lighting one of his clove-scented cigarillos and drawing deep. Finally, Mia spoke again.

‘You said my mother was from here? Little Liis?’

‘Aye. Long time past.’

‘Did she have familia here? Someone I could …’

Mercurio shook his head. ‘They’re gone, child. Or dead. Both, mostly.’

‘Like Father.’

Mercurio cleared his throat, sucked on his cigarillo.

‘… It was a shame. What they did to him.’

‘They said he was a traitor.’

A shrug. ‘A traitor’s just a patriot on the wrong side of winning.’

Mia brushed her fringe from her eyes, looked hopeful. ‘He was a patriot, then?’

‘No, little Crow,’ the old man said. ‘He lost.’

‘And they killed him.’ Hate rose up in her belly, curled her hands to fists. ‘The consul. That fat priest. The new justicus. They killed him.’

Mercurio exhaled a thin grey ring, watching her closely. ‘He and General Antonius wanted to overthrow the Senate, girl. They’d mustered a bloody army and were set to march against their own capital. Think of all the death that would’ve unfolded if they’d not been captured before the war began in truth. Maybe they should’ve hung your da. Maybe he deserved it.’

Mia’s eyes widened and she kicked back her chair, reaching for the knife that wasn’t there. The rage resurfaced then, all the pain and anger of the last twenty-four hours flaring inside her, the anger flooding so thick it made her arms and legs tremble.

And the shadows in the room began trembling too.

The black writhed. At her feet. Behind her eyes. She clenched her fists. Spat through gritted teeth. ‘My father was a good man. And he didn’t deserve to die like that.’

The teapot slipped off the counter with a crash. Cupboard doors shook on their hinges, cups danced on their saucers. Towers of books toppled and sprawled across the floor. Mia’s shadow stretched out towards the old man’s, clawing across the splintering boards, the nails popping free as it drew ever closer. Mister Kindly coalesced at her feet, translucent hackles raised, hissing and spitting. Mercurio backed across the room quicker than she’d imagine an old fellow might have stepped, hands raised in supplication, cigarillo hanging from bone-dry lips.

‘Peace, peace, little Crow,’ he said. ‘A test is all, a test. No offence meant.’

As the crockery stopped trembling and the cupboards fell silent, Mia sagged in place, tears fighting with the anger. It was all crashing down on her. The sight of her father swinging, her mother’s screams, sleeping in alleys, robbed and beaten … all of it. Too much.

Too much.

Mister Kindly circled her feet, purring and prowling just like a real cat might. Her shadow slipped back across the floor, puddling into its regular shape, just a shade too dark for one. Mercurio pointed to it.

‘How long has it listened?’

‘… What?’

‘The Dark. How long has it listened when you call?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

She curled up on her haunches, trying to hold it inside. Screw it up and push it all the way down into her shoes. Her shoulders shook. Her belly ached. And softly, she began to sob.

O, Daughters, how she hated herself, then …

The old man reached into his greatcoat. Pulled out a mostly clean handkerchief and held it out to her. Watching as she snatched it away, dabbed as best she could at her broken nose, the hateful tears in her lashes. And finally he knelt on the boards in front of her, looked at her with eyes as sharp and blue as raw sapphires.

‘I don’t know what any of this means,’ she whispered.

The old man’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. With a glance towards the cat made of shadows, Mercurio drew out her mother’s stiletto from his coat, stabbed it into the floorboards between them. The polished gravebone gleamed in the lantern light.

‘Would you like to learn?’ he asked.

Mia eyed the knife, nodded slow. ‘Yes, I would, sir.’

‘There’s no sirs ’round here, little Crow. No donas or dons. Just you and me.’

Mia chewed her lip, tempted to just grab the blade and run for it.

But where would she go? What would she do?

‘What should I call you, then?’ she finally asked.

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘If you want to take back what’s yours from them what took it. If you’re the kind who doesn’t forget, and doesn’t forgive. Who wants to understand why the Mother has marked you.’

Mia stared back. Unblinking. Her shadow rippled at her feet.

‘And if I am?’

‘Then you call me “Shahiid”. Until the turn I call you “Mia”’.

‘What’s “Shahiid” mean?’

‘It’s an old Ashkahi word. It means “Honoured Master”.’

‘What will you call me in the meantime?’

A thin ring of smoke spilled from the old man’s lips as he spoke. ‘Guess.’

‘… Apprentice?’

‘Smarter than you look, girl. One of the few things I like about you.’

Mia looked at the shadow beneath her feet. Up at the sunslight glare waiting just beyond the shutters. The Godsgrave. The City of Bridges and Bones, slowly filling with the bones of those she loved. There was no one out there who could help her, she knew it. And if she was going to free her mother and brother from the Philosopher’s Stone, if she wanted to save them from a tomb beside her father’s – presuming they buried him at all – if she was going to bring justice to the people who’d destroyed her familia …

Well. She’d need help, wouldn’t she?

‘All right, then. Shahiid.’

Mia reached for her knife. Mercurio snatched it away, silver-quick, held it up between them. Tiny amber eyes twinkled at her in the gloom.

‘Not until you earn it,’ he said.

‘But it’s mine,’ Mia protested.

‘Forget the girl who had everything. She died when her father did.’

‘But I—’

‘Nothing is where you start. Own nothing. Know nothing. Be nothing.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

The old man crushed out his cigarillo on the boards between them.

His smile made her smile in return.

‘Because then you can do anything.’

In years to come, Mia would look back on the moment she first saw the Sky Altar and realise it was the moment she started believing in the divinities. O, Mercurio had indoctrinated her into the religion of the Mother. Death as an offering. Life as a vocation. And she’d been raised a good god-fearing daughter of Aa before all that. But it wasn’t until she looked over that balcony that she embraced the probability of it, or began to truly understand where she was.

She and Tric were led up another of the Church’s (seemingly endless) flights of stairs by Naev and other robed figures. All twenty-eight acolytes had decided to take supper, quiet conversations marking their climb, the mix of accents reminding Mia of the Little Liis market. But all conversation stilled as the group reached the landing. Mia caught her breath, pressed one hand to her chest. Naev whispered in her ear.

‘Welcome to the Sky Altar.’

The platform was carved in the Mountain’s side, open to the air above. Tables were laid out in a T, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread kissing the air. And though her stomach growled at the presence of food, Mia’s thoughts were consumed entirely by the sight before her.

The platform protruded from the Mountain’s flank, a thousand-foot drop waiting just beyond the ironwood railing. She could see the Whisperwastes below, tiny and perfect and still. But above, where the sky should have burned with the light of stubborn suns, she could see only darkness, black and whole and perfect.

Filled with tiny stars.

‘What in the name of the Light …’ she breathed.

‘Not the Light,’ Naev slurred. ‘The Dark.’

‘How can this be? Truedark won’t fall for at least another year.’

‘It is always truedark here.’

‘But that’s impossible …’

‘Only if here is where she supposes it to be.’ The woman shrugged. ‘It is not.’

The acolytes were shown to their places, gawping at the black above. Though it should have been howling at this altitude, not a breath of wind disturbed the scene. Not a noise, save hushed voices and Mia’s own rushing pulse.

She found herself seated with Tric on her right, the slight boy with the ice-blue eyes on her left. Seated opposite was the pair Mia had guessed were brother and sister. The girl had blonde hair plaited in tight warbraids, shaved in an undercut. Her face was pretty and dimpled, smattered with freckles. Her brother possessed the same round face, though he didn’t smile, so no dimples made appearance. His hair was a crop of snarled spikes. Both had eyes blue as empty skies. Their cheeks were still crusted with blood from the baptism ceremony.

Mia had already received one death threat since she arrived. She wondered if every acolyte in this year’s crop would be an opponent or outright enemy.

The blonde girl pointed to Mia’s cheeks with her knife. ‘You’ve got something on your face.’

‘You too,’ Mia nodded. ‘Good colour on you, though. Brings out your eyes.’

The girl snorted, grinned lopsided.

‘Well,’ Mia said. ‘Shall we introduce ourselves, or just glare the whole meal?’

‘I’m Ashlinn Järnheim,’ the girl replied. ‘Ash for short. This is my brother, Osrik.’

‘Mia Corvere. This is Tric,’ Mia said, nodding at her friend.

For his own part, Tric was glaring down the table at the other Dweymeri. The bigger boy had the same square jaw and flat brow as Tric, but he was taller, broader, and where Tric’s tattoos were scrawled and artless, the bigger boy’s face was marked in ink of exquisite craftsmanship. He was watching Tric the way a whitedrake watches a seal pup.

‘Hello, Tric,’ said Ashlinn, offering her hand.

The boy shook it without looking at her. ‘Pleasure.’

Ashlinn, Osrik, and Mia all looked expectantly at the pale boy on Mia’s left. For his part, the boy was gazing up at the night sky. His lips were pursed, as if he were sucking his teeth. Mia realised he was handsome – well, ‘beautiful’ was probably a better word – with high cheekbones and the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen. But thin. Far too thin.

‘I’m Mia,’ she said, offering her hand.

The boy blinked, turned his gaze to the girl. Lifting a piece of charboard from his lap, he wrote on it with a stick of chalk and held it up for Mia to see.

HUSH, it said.

Mia blinked. ‘That’s your name?’

The beautiful boy nodded, turned his stare back to the sky without a sound. He didn’t make a peep throughout the entire meal.

Ashlinn, Osrik, and Mia spoke as food was served – chicken broth and mutton in lemon butter, roast vegetables and a delicious Itreyan red. Ashlinn handled most of the conversational duties, while Osrik seemed more intent on watching the room. The siblings were sixteen and seventeen (Osrik the elder) and had arrived five turns prior. Their mentor (and father, it turned out) had been far more forthcoming about finding the Church than Old Mercurio, and the siblings had avoided any monstrosities on their way to the Quiet Mountain. Ashlinn seemed impressed by Mia’s story of the sand kraken. Osrik seemed more impressed with Jessamine. The redhead and her cunning wolf eyes was seated three stools down, and Osrik couldn’t seem to tear his stare away. For her part, the girl seemed more intent on the thuggish Itreyan boy seated beside her, whispering to him and occasionally staring daggers at Mia.

Mia could feel other furtive glances and lingering stares – though some were better at hiding it than others, almost every acolyte was studying their fellows. Hush simply stared at the sky and sipped his broth like it was a chore, not touching any other food.

Mia watched the Ministry between courses, noting the way they interacted. Solis, the blind Shahiid of Songs, seemed to dominate conversation, though from the occasional bursts of laughter he elicited, Mouser, the Shahiid of Pockets, seemed possessed of the keenest wit. Spiderkiller and Aalea, Shahiid of Truths and Masks, sat so close they touched. All paid the utmost respect to Revered Mother Drusilla, conversation stilling when the old woman spoke.

It was halfway through the meal that Mia felt a queasy feeling creep into her gut. She looked about the room, felt Mister Kindly curling up in her shadow. The Revered Mother stood suddenly, the Ministry members about her swiftly following suit, gazes downturned.

Mother Drusilla spoke, eyes on the acolytes.

‘All of you, please rise.’

Mia climbed to her feet, frowning softly. Ashlinn turned to her brother, whispering with something close to fervour.

‘Black Mother, he’s here.’

Mia realised a dark-haired man was standing at the Sky Altar’s balcony, overlooking the shifting wastes below – though for the life of her, she’d not seen him actually enter the room. She felt her shadow trembling, shrinking, Mister Kindly curling up at her feet.

‘Lord Cassius,’ Drusilla said, bowing. ‘You honour us.’

The man turned to the Revered Mother with a thin smile. He was tall, muscular, clad in soft dark leather. Long black hair framed piercing eyes and a jaw you could break your fist on. He wore a heavy black cloak and twin blades at his waist. Perfectly plain. Perfectly deadly. He spoke with a voice that made Mia tingle in all the wrong places.

‘Be at peace, Revered Mother.’ Dark eyes roamed the new acolytes, still standing as if to attention. ‘I simply wished to admire the view. May I join you?’

‘Of course, Lord.’

The Revered Mother vacated her seat at the head of the Ministry’s table, the other Shahiid shuffling about to accommodate the newcomer. Still smiling, the man stepped to the Mother’s seat, soundless as the sunsset. His movements were smooth, flowing like water, sweeping aside his cloak as he sat in the Revered Mother’s chair. The sickness in Mia’s belly surged as the strange man glanced directly at her. But as he lifted a cup of wine, the spell of utter stillness he’d seemed to have cast over the room softly broke. Hands scuttled to set a new place at table, the Ministry sank slowly into their seats, acolytes following. Conversation began again, cautious at first, relaxing by inches until it filled the room.

Mia found herself staring at the mysterious newcomer throughout the meal, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, his throat. She was sure it was a trick of the light, but his long raven hair seemed as if it were almost moving, his eyes glittering with some inner light.

Mia looked for Naev, but the woman was seated with other Hands, too far away.

‘Ashlinn,’ she finally whispered. ‘Who is that?’

The girl blinked at Mia. Her brother Osrik raised an eyebrow.

‘Maw’s teeth, Corvere, that’s Cassius. The Black Prince. Lord of Blades. Leader of the entire congregation. More bodies on him than a Liisian necropolis.’

‘What’s he doing here? Is he a teacher?’

‘No.’ Osrik shook his head. ‘We’d no idea he’d be here this eve.’

‘Da always told us Cassius stayed away from here,’ Ashlinn said. ‘Keeps his comings and goings well secret. No disciple of the Church knows where he’ll be until he gets there. Only attends the Mountain for initiation ceremonies, they say.’

Osrik nodded, glanced to the students around them. ‘Some acolytes only lay eyes on him once in their life. The night he declares them full-fledged Blades. If you’re chosen, he’ll anoint you just as the Revered Mother did tonight at the baptism.’ The boy pointed to the dried gore on Mia’s cheeks. ‘Only it’ll be with his own blood. The blood of the Lord of Blades. Right Hand of the Mother herself.’

Mia found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the man.

Ashlinn flashed her a dimpled smile.

‘For the leader of a cult of mass murderers, he’s not hard on the eyes, neh?’

Mia dragged her fringe from her lashes, heart in her throat. Ashlinn wasn’t –

‘Keep staring at me, koffi,’ said a deep voice, ‘and I’ll cut out those pretty eyes.’

Mia blinked in the sudden still, turned back to her table. She realised the big Dweymeri boy was speaking to Tric, contempt in his gaze.

Tric rose, roastknife clutched in his hand.

‘What did you call me, bastard?’

‘You name me bastard?’ The big Dweymeri laughed. ‘My name is Floodcaller, thirdson of Rainrunner of the Seaspear clan. What is your clan, koffi? Did your father even give your mother his name when he was done wiping her stink off his cock?’

Tric’s face paled, his jaw clenched.

‘You’re a fucking dead man,’ he hissed.

Mia put a restraining hand on his arm, but Tric was off, diving towards Floodcaller’s throat. The bigger boy was on his feet, leaping across the table and knocking plates, glasses, and both Mia and Hush aside in his haste to get to Tric. Mia fell with a curse and a smash of crockery, her shoulder knocking the pale boy’s breath loose in a spray of spit.

Floodcaller caught Tric in a bearhug as they crashed to the floor, pottery and glassware shattering. He outweighed Tric by a hundred pounds – he was easily the strongest person in the room. Bigger even than the Shahiid of Songs, who turned blind eyes to the melee and roared, ‘YOU BOYS, ENOUGH!’

The boys were having none of it, flailing and punching and spitting. Tric landed a good blow to Floodcaller’s face, mashing lips into teeth. But Mia was astonished at how easily the big Dweymeri dominated Tric, flipping him over and landing blow after blow into the smaller boy’s ribs, more against his jaw. The acolytes gathered around the brawl, none moving to help. Mia pulled herself off Hush and was set to step in when she saw Shahiid Solis kick back his chair and march towards the melee.

Though the man appeared utterly blind, he moved quick and sure. Clapping one hand on Floodcaller’s shoulder, he dropped a hook like an anvil on the boy’s jaw, sent him sprawling. Tric tried scrambling to his feet, but Solis buried his boot in the boy’s gut, knocking the wind and fight out of him with one blow. Turning on Floodcaller, the Shahiid stomped on his bollocks hard, curled the Dweymeri boy up in a squealing ball.

It’d taken only a handful of heartbeats, but the Shahiid had whipped both boys like disobedient puppies, pale, sightless eyes turned to the sky all the while.

‘Disgraceful,’ he growled, seizing both groaning boys by their scruffs. ‘If you must fight like dogs, you can eat outside with the rest of them.’

The Shahiid of Songs dragged Tric and Floodcaller to the balcony. Gripping each by the throat, the big man pushed them against the railing, the thousand-foot drop yawning behind them. Both boys were choking, clawing at the Shahiid’s grip. The man’s blind eyes showed no pity, the boys just a heartbeat away from death on the rocks below. Mia’s hand was on her dagger when the Revered Mother spoke.

‘Enough, Solis.’

The man tilted his head, turned milk-white eyes towards the sound of her voice.

‘Revered Mother,’ he said.

Floodcaller and Tric both collapsed to the deck, gasping for air. Mia could scarcely breathe herself. She looked for Lord Cassius and found he was simply gone, an empty chair marking the place where the Lord of Blades had sat moments before. Again, she swore she’d never even seen him move. Mother Drusilla stepped out from behind her table, drifted to where the boys lay coughing and sputtering.