The Silvered

Chapter Eight

“WAKE! WAKE AS THE STARLIGHT fades and we are given over into the care of the one Sun!”

Mirian jerked her head up off Tomas’ shoulder and stared blearily across the room at one of the Sisters. She thought it might be the Sister who’d let them, in but they’d done such a good job of making themselves “…as similar as the stars in the sky…” that she couldn’t be certain.

“Wake!” the Sister declared again. “And bid the stars farewell!” Overdress flapping, she hung a lamp on the brass hook by the door and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Surrounded by grumbling and wet, hacking coughs, Mirian sat up and yawned. Even as exhausted as she’d been, the sounds coming from the people around her had chased sleep off four or five times in the night. Creaking. Snoring. Moaning. Muttering. Once she’d woken to the sound of wet, ragged breathing moving closer. Tomas had growled, a low rumble deep in his chest she felt as much as heard, and the breathing had moved away.

Tomas didn’t seem to want to meet her gaze as he stiff-armed himself into a sitting position, shoulder blades against the wall, knees up. While he’d offered his shoulder as a pillow, two nights had been enough for her to grow used to the liberties fur allowed. She had a horrible feeling, given the position she’d woken in, she’d crossed the line between keeping her head off the carpet and cuddling.

“I’m very sorry for not allowing you personal space,” she murmured, already so close she didn’t need to lean in or raise her voice.

His cheeks flushed, and he pulled the bedroll out from behind him onto his lap. “You couldn’t put your head on the carpet. I understood.”

“It’s different when you’re in fur. You’re more…” Perhaps more wasn’t the right word. “Or you’re less…” No, that wasn’t right either. She sighed, gathered her skirt up out of her way, and rolled up onto her knees. Assuming that bidding the stars farewell meant it was dawn, the curfew had ended. Only a single bolt secured the door. “We should go.”

“Go?” Tomas looked startled. His head whipped around toward the kitchen door as it opened. “Porridge!” And back to her. “I smell porridge. We should eat.”

Ignoring, for the moment, that it was a long walk to Karis, Mirian couldn’t understand why he’d want to stay. “We can eat while we walk.”

“Eat what? Hunt Pack rules, eat when you can. This is free porridge, Mirian. Porridge doesn’t grow on trees.” He sounded as though he were babbling even though individual words were clipped off short.

“Their church says you’re an abomination,” she hissed under the rise in noise as the three Sisters and their cauldron appeared. “It’s dangerous to stay.”

“It’s stupid to starve!”

Her stomach growled and she sat back down. “If they drag you off to the fire, I’m not going to rescue you.”

“I don’t need you to rescue me.”

“Fine!”

The porridge was terrible. Plain boiled oats with no honey or cream and given the amount of grit, Mirian suspected the Sisters had bought the last sweepings off the millstone. But Tomas was right, it was stupid to starve, and the only money they had to buy food was in the purse taken from the dead soldier. She tried to swallow without tasting, mushing the lumps against the roof of her mouth to save her teeth. Across the room, a man with a long stained beard coughed and splattered porridge over the woman next to him; two of the Sisters had to stop praying to break up the fight.

Four days ago, she’d been eating eggs and kidneys and toast in the breakfast room, wondering how anyone could think of going to the opera when the Imperial army was marching on the border. Her father had already left for the bank and she could hear her mother’s voice in the distance demanding to know where her green silk shawl had gone. The very next morning her mother had called her an unnatural child, and maybe she was because she missed the comfort, but not her parents.

She missed the chaos of the university dining room more than her parents. Or at least the porridge in the university dining room. She’d never been fond of the chaos.

Tomas ate with the bowl balanced on his raised knees, head down, and it wasn’t until he finished that he sagged back against the wall, sighed in what sounded like relief, set the bowl and bedroll aside and stood. “We should go.”

“Go?” If he recognized his tone echoed back to him, he gave no indication. Mirian was tempted to just sit there. To ask the Sisters for seconds. To make a privy run.

Actually…

She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet, and handed him the bedroll. “I’ll be right back.”

To his credit, it only took him a moment to work out where she was going. “What’s wrong with…?”

“It has a door I can close. Bushes don’t.” She had to curl her toes inside her boots to keep the leather from rubbing against abraded skin. Every step over and around other people in the room felt as though she had hot coals pressed against her heels. By the time she reached the privy, she was breathing short and sharp through her nose, in too much pain to appreciate morning air only moderately tainted by old sweat and grime. And if she used the privacy of that closed door to let a few tears fall, well, that was the point of privacy.

When she emerged, Tomas was waiting for her outside the door, standing a little apart from a trio of women who also waited, ignoring a fourth who flashed a gap-toothed smile and pushed out breasts covered in torn cotton as aggressively as any of society’s daughters with all their teeth and clothed in silk. With neither power nor fur, she didn’t stand a chance and Tomas looked bored rather than interested or embarrassed, either of which Mirian could see the woman would prefer.

Their imaginary, blind, one-legged priest from the woods could have seen it.

Aggressive flirting would become aggression in a minute—no one liked being ignored—and aggression directed at Tomas would end up with him outing himself as Pack.

As Mirian saw it, she had two options. She could claim Tomas as her own, redirecting the aggression and probably resulting in having to defend her claim physically, or she could direct the woman’s interest elsewhere.

If you can light a candle…

No.

Air and water; first levels were useless. Putting the woman to sleep would cause new problems. She couldn’t see a way metal-craft, even at second level, could be applied. Pushing the tangle of blackberry canes to bloom and then fruit would require touch and Mirian refused to move closer to the man currently urinating on the garden in direct contradiction to the Sister’s instructions.

Fortunately, before she’d been accepted at the university, she’d had another teacher.

Closing the distance and raising a hand to keep Tomas quiet, she murmured, “I heard the man with the green kerchief say your breasts had to be false. Is that true?”

The woman’s eyes were so bloodshot Mirian almost mistook the red for mage marks. “He said what?”

“That you stuff rags in your bodice.”

“That fucking bastard!” In spite of missing teeth, her snarl was impressive.

“He said they were too perfect to be real.”

“That flaming piece of shi…” Her eyes widened. “Too perfect? Did he now…” Tomas forgotten, she shoved Mirian aside and strode across the garden to apply her charms to the man in the green kerchief. Who cowered in the face of the sudden onslaught of smiles and breasts. He could consider it payback for urinating on the blackberries.

My mother would be so proud.

Tomas merely continued watching her like she was the only thing worthy of his attention in the immediate area. That was so Pack. Arrogant and secure in their power. It seemed she’d have to remind him daily that they weren’t in Aydori and that, although he could still invoke terror in fur, in skin he was only a young man who was going to attract attention for his looks and who couldn’t let anyone know he was Pack and, honestly, what had he been thinking just standing there looking superior?

“I traded the fire-starter for these,” he said, holding up a pair of wooden clogs. When surprise kept her from an immediate reply, he ducked his head and added, “We don’t need it and you can’t walk in those boots.”

Mirian actually felt her mouth open to point out wood didn’t go with her outfit, but managed a slightly strangled thank you before sinking to the ground and struggling with her boots. Wood didn’t go with her outfit? Lord and Lady, that was her punishment for allowing her mother back into her head. Before she could untangle the knots, Tomas knelt at her feet, set the bedroll on the ground, and dealt with them.

“Let me…”

As he peeled the first boot off her foot, she clenched her fists so tightly that the broken edges of her nails cut into her palms. The second either hurt less or couldn’t possibly hurt more.

Her heels looked like raw meat, the scabs scrapped off, the flesh below red and oozing. They felt as bad as they looked. In a just world, they’d at least distract her from her aching legs, but in a just world it was still too early for the maid to have opened her curtains.

“Can’t you…” Tomas waved a hand. “…fix them?”

They looked a lot worse than they had when she’d first exposed them. “No. That’s third level healing.”

“Have you ever tried?”

About to remind him one more time of why she hadn’t been returning for a second year of university, Mirian frowned. In fairness, she hadn’t ever tried. She’d been tested for second levels of everything save metal a hundred, a thousand times, to no effect, but she’d claimed sleep on her own. Twice. And she’d called metal to her. So why not a third level in healing? The damage was a little more than the tiny wounds the students learned to heal on themselves, but the principle was the same and she’d be no worse off if she failed.

Logically, her ability to perform the first level body equilibrium meant she knew her body. She knew it whole and undamaged. Water wanted to be water, her professors had said, and her body wanted to be whole. She could, logically, return it to that condition.

Logic, her professors had also said, is not applicable to mage-craft.

In this case, it seemed they were right.

They were alone in the garden when she looked up and shook her head.

Tomas closed a warm hand around her ankle. “It’s okay…”

She didn’t need to be comforted. She was familiar with failure.

“…the clogs won’t touch your heels. And they’re easy to kick off if we need to run.” He stood and held out his hand. For the second time that morning, she let him pull her up.

The clogs weren’t terribly different than last season’s summer shoes. Wood, rather than leather, and a lot heavier, but easy to kick off was, after all, fashion forward in Aydori. She wouldn’t call them comfortable, but the inside had been worn smooth and, while they were grimy, nothing stuck to her feet. She frowned as she realized the people who took shelter with the Sisters of Starlight had only what they wore and now one of them had even less.

“The fire-starter’s worth more than new clogs,” Tomas told her, as though he’d heard her thought. “We don’t know where to sell it and wouldn’t have the time even if we did.”

The color of the sky said it was no longer dawn, but early morning.

“Out! Out!” One of the Sisters stood in the doorway and Mirian got her first well-lit look at what they were wearing. In the lamplight, all that white had turned their bodies into featureless blobs. Mirian knew they couldn’t possibly be wearing nightgowns under the long white tabards, but the shapeless style was similar. No one would be joining the Sisters of Starlight for the uniform; that was for certain.

The Sister took a step toward them, waving both hands. “You must be gone!”

“Your boots?” Tomas asked, hanging the bedroll over his shoulder.

Mirian glanced down. A pair of well-made boots would no doubt come in handy, but it hurt just thinking of putting them on. “Leave them.”

All three Sisters flapped them through the kitchen and into the outer room where the door stood open and the air was distinctly fresher than it had been.

“What about…?” Tomas paused on the threshold, circling his hand.

Mirian had forgotten entirely about having set the air in motion. She’d been nearly asleep when she’d done it, certain that if the assault on her nose was any indication, Tomas must be truly suffering. Air drifted up the first spiral then across into the second where it spiraled back to the floor then crossed back to the beginning. Both spirals rotated slowly around the center of the room. Technically, the mage-craft was nothing more than blowing out a thousand specifically placed candles, but she had to admit she was impressed by the complexity she’d managed while unable to sleep. Except…“How did you know?”

Tomas tapped his nose. “Even with the door open, the scent’s so strong I can tell when I’m crossing the streams. And the power is unmistakably you.”

That made sense. Mirian had half thought she’d smelled the spirals while crossing them. “I’ll leave it. It’ll run down eventually…” Everything did. “…but until it does, this place needs all the help it can get.”

In spite of the early hour, the street outside the Sisters’ shelter was empty of everyone but a few stragglers heading toward the northeast. Toward the pall of smoke already building. Toward the factories.

“They’re going in the right direction.” Mirian turned on the ball of one foot, the clog pivoting easily over the cobblestones. “We could follow them.”

“Or we could go back to the market to pick up the road we know goes through the city.”

They didn’t know it, not for sure, but she had to admit that the odds were higher. Tomas’ nose was next to useless in the city, and the factories would have guards, and the coach had very certainly not gone by way of the factories unless factories in Abyek came with livery stables.

Tomas rocked back and forth, his clogs ticking against the cobbles. He shifted, created a different rhythm, and grinned as it became the same song the 2nd had been singing on their way to the border. About to ask what he was doing, Mirian realized he was waiting on her decision.

Still, she’d already acknowledged his nose was next to useless here. “Back to the market, then.”

The shelter stood nearly in the center of a long block of two-story houses, white-painted bricks standing out against the red—although most of the red, especially on the upper levels had been blackened by smoke. Mirian hadn’t seen a set of stairs in the shelter, so they were probably behind a door in the kitchen. She wondered if the Sisters used the second floor for arcane rituals or rented it out to pay for the cauldrons of food. She could hear babies crying and a man shouting, could smell food cooking and old urine. Three small children sat on a threshold eating porridge from bowls in their laps, a wet stain against the wall next to them. A pair of small dogs standing in one of the upper windows yapped hysterically at the world until Tomas glanced up, then they tumbled over each other in their haste to disappear.

How did people live like this?

“I owe you an apology.”

Tomas sounded sincere, but Mirian couldn’t think of what he had to apologize for.

“We should have left when you wanted to. Staying…” He waved a hand at the sky, or the buildings, or something Mirian wasn’t aware of. “…that was time we’ll never get back.”

“Yes, we will.”

“First level time travel?”

“What? No!” If he’d been her sister, she’d have poked him for that. As he wasn’t, she settled for rolling her eyes. “If we’d left immediately, I’d be in my boots. Because we stayed, you had time to trade for the clogs. They’re not exactly comfortable, but I’m not crippled in them, so I can move significantly faster.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.” His lips twitched. “That’s very sensible of you.”

“Thank you.” She was rather impressed by how much she made it sound like shut up. After a moment, she added, “It wasn’t the porridge, though, was it? The reason you wanted to stay.”

His cheeks flushed, and he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

“And you still don’t want to talk about it. That’s all right.” Some people needed to ease into mornings. Yesterday, he’d been up long enough to steal clothes before she woke. “My father is always difficult before his first cup of coffee.” She stepped over a glistening gray lump with no idea of what it was. Or had been.

“Your father drank coffee? That’s…”

“An insanely expensive import from exotic lands far to the south that the neighbors couldn’t possibly afford? That’s why my mother insisted on it. And why only my father drank it. I thought it smelled amazing.”

Tomas snorted. “You don’t know what amazing smells like.”

And another chance to mention Jaspyr Hagen passed as they reached the market. The permanent stalls around the edges had already opened, and the first of the barrows were being set up. There were significantly more women around than men. Mirian didn’t know if that was because the men had died during the war or because the Pyrahn army had run for Aydori or because more men worked in the factories. The war itself didn’t seem to have touched this part of the city at all, but, as the newspaper had reported the Lord Mayor had surrendered with only a few shots fired, that was easily explained. Her mother had gone on about cowardice, but her father had only put down the paper and said, “Modern cities weren’t built to be defended. His Grace and the army were on the way to the border and Emperor Leopald wanted those factories in one piece. Smart thing to do. Saved a lot of lives.”

Strangely, there were more men than women in the group gathered around the well and they were visibly stirred up about something. The distance combined with their excitement and their accents made it impossible to understand what all the shouting was about. They looked rough, although Mirian suspected she might not be the best judge of that. From the way others were watching them, they were trouble; she hoped they weren’t fomenting some kind of stupid rebellion because that would draw the soldiers.

“Around or through?” Tomas asked, stepping out in front of her.

Around more than doubled the distance. With the market still almost half empty and the crowd up against the well, they could cross in nearly a straight line. “Through.”

“Stay close.”

“So no wandering off to shop.” When he turned, showing teeth, she raised a hand. “I’m sorry. You didn’t say that. You didn’t even imply that. Assuming that was what you meant was unfair to you.”

“I meant you should stay close.”

“I know. It’s just, there’s people out there. Being out in public, like this…” The shirtwaist cuff protruding from beneath her jacket was stained with a thousand shades of dirt. “…awake enough to be aware of what people are thinking of me, unwashed, unkempt…it’s…unsettling. It makes me defensive.”

“You’ll never see them again. Why do you care?”

She could see he honestly didn’t understand. But then, he was Pack—in fur, in skin, clean, dirty, nothing changed that. If she were Mage-pack, she’d have that certainty, too.

Lord and Lady, Mother, get out of my head!

She didn’t need to be Mage-pack to know who she was. Unwashed and unkempt perhaps, but she was Mirian Maylin regardless. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I don’t care. It’s a long way to Karis; let’s go.”

His nod held nothing but acceptance.

Of course it was one thing to say she didn’t care and another thing entirely not to care. Mirian looked across the square, locked her gaze on the road that would take them out of Abyek, and tried not to think of her appearance. Tried not to think of that old bald man or that woman with the tanned, bared forearms or that gaggle of children watching her and judging. She wasn’t very successful until they came closer to the well and some of the shouted words grew clearer. Suddenly, she wasn’t thinking of her appearance at all.

“…Imperial courier said…”

“…how it is now!”

“Why shouldn’t we get…?”

“…Imperials don’t need the fucking money!”

“…enough to risk…”

“Fuck it, for that much I’d…”

“…abomination!”

Tomas growled low in his throat and Mirian grabbed his hand. “They don’t know.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “Just keep walking.”

But it was already too late.

“There! There it is!” The crowd parted, exposing the man at the well. The farm worker who’d stopped them on the road pointed at Tomas. Still huge and flushed and jowly, but triumphant, not afraid.

Mirian tried to yank Tomas away, but he growled louder, hands going to his jacket.

“Hold him!”

An elbow slammed into the side of Mirian’s head. She stumbled back, fell, and from the ground saw the farm worker clamp one enormous hand down on Tomas’ shoulder and wrap the other around his face as the men who’d been holding him stepped back. Tomas could change in clothes. He’d be tangled in the fabric, but he’d have teeth and terror…and why didn’t he change!

“Silver pin!” The farm worker bellowed. “That Imperial courier gived out a handful yesterday!”

“To you, Harn?” one of the other men laughed.

The farm worker’s name was Harn. Not that it mattered now.

“No, but I got one anyway, don’t I? Shoved it right into him and he’s helpless.”

Tomas fought and snarled, got an arm free and closed his hand around the front of Harn’s throat.

The big man banged their foreheads together, and Tomas sagged. “I should’ve stuck the pin in your fucking eye!” he bellowed, stepping back and allowing the crowd to take Tomas to the ground.

Mirian threw herself at one of the men holding Tomas’ leg, trying to knock him off balance. A hand in her hair threw her back. She landed on her side. Cried out as a boot caught her under the ribs, once, twice.

“Three silver emperors for the pelt! That’s what the courier said!”

“Then he has to change, Harn!”

Coughing and crying, Mirian rolled up onto her hands and knees.

“I don’t fancy that!”

“Let him change! We kill him and takes his pelt!”

“No, no, I heard the stories! We let him change, we all die.”

“He don’t need to change!” Harn dropped to one knee and dragged Tomas’ head up. Blood from his nose ran down over his lips and teeth. “This here, it ain’t hair. It’s fur. And the courier says it’s good enough!”

Harn waved a knife, the blade long and thin.

“Kill ’em quick, Harn!”

“Kill him?” The big man laughed. “Maybe after!”

Pain stabbing up under her ribs, Mirian didn’t have breath enough to scream.

If you can light a candle…

Reiter had just swallowed his last mouthful of toasted bread when the screaming started. Unwilling to spend the morning kicking around the garrison, he’d gone back into the city just after dawn looking for an alehouse one of the other officers had mentioned enjoying down in the working class part of town. “Safe enough,” he’d said. “We haven’t changed their lives any. At their pay grade, it’s all pretty much shit. Why should they care which bastards they work for?”

In the older cities of the empire, Reiter would have gone to a coffee house. If such a place existed in Abyek, he wouldn’t be able to afford it, given the prices of the commonplace out by the new border. Fortunately, he had no problem settling for ale and was pleasantly surprised to find he could have a mug of tea so strong it nearly ate the plating off the spoon. In spite of speaking no Pyrahn and the waiter no Imperial, they’d managed to find enough common ground for him to order and negotiate a price in Imperial coin. Commerce always found a way.

The eggs had been just the way he liked, the sausage a little short of actual meat but still tasty, and if he couldn’t get a decent biscuit and gravy, he was reasonably content with the thick slices of toasted bread that replaced that staple in this part of the world. The meal had cost more than he’d normally put down—one way or another that could be tracked back to the war—but his back pay had caught up to him in Abyek and he had nothing else to drop it on. As he cut and chewed and swallowed, he tried not to think of it as a last meal. He wasn’t particularly successful. He didn’t need to be one of Colonel Korshan’s company, smart enough to invent rockets and balloons and whatnot, to know he’d be lucky to survive reporting back without the sixth mage. A smarter man might think about deserting, but he’d given the army his entire adult life; if he couldn’t believe they’d give him back a fair chance to be heard, then he’d thrown that life away. Besides, the Soothsayers had tossed him into this pile of shit. There was nothing that said they wouldn’t find him if he ran, and that made reporting his failure the smarter thing to do.

Although, he allowed, spreading honey on a fourth slice of toasted bread, that didn’t mean he was in a hurry to get it done.

At the first scream, he put his knife and fork down on his empty plate. At the second, he stood, and threw a handful of coin on the table. As three, four, and five heralded a rush of noise blending terror and rage under what sounded like explosions, he ran for the door. People out on the street stared toward the rising smoke, but they’d just lost a war and had learned better than to run toward a battle.

Reiter had been on the winning side.

Three streets down, a new sound had him glance left, and he spotted half a dozen young soldiers coming out of an alehouse somewhat shabbier than one he’d just left.

“Corporal!”

The corporal jerked around to face him, his expression as much guilty as startled. “Sir!”

“With me!” Reiter didn’t give a crap what the corporal or his friends were guilty of. They were there.

“We’re off duty, sir.”

“Did I ask?”

“No, sir!”

He heard their boots hitting the cobblestones behind him, but he didn’t look back. If he’d needed to look back, the Imperial army had no business winning so much as a darts tournament.

The road spilled him out into a small market square although he had to shove his way through a small huddle of weeping civilians to actually enter it.

A man burned in the center of the square. Reiter had seen more war than he cared to remember, and men were too wet to burn like man-shaped torches—although as this man was burning like a man-shaped torch, Reiter found himself grateful for the presence of the unnatural, masking flame.

Behind the burning man, the well shot a pillar of water up into the air.

Barrows and stalls had collapsed. Every piece of board in the market had grown thorns.

What looked like a small cyclone had just reached the square from one of the narrow side streets.

Whatever was happening, it was centered around the well.

He’d nearly reached it, one arm up over his nose to block the stink, when he recognized a familiar spill of gray skirts. Up on her knees, one hand pressed to her side, she crawled toward a body lying near the feet of the burning man.

Young, dark-haired, male—probably the beastman who’d helped her escape. The abomination. Ignoring for the moment that they were in Abyek, because that made no sense at all, Reiter added up the pieces. Seemed a local tough had tried to collect the emperor’s bounty on abominations and had tossed the girl aside as harmless because she had no mage sign in her eyes.

Screaming grew louder all around the market as the cyclone came out from between the buildings and began flinging debris.

Reiter grabbed the girl by the back of the jacket, hauled her up onto her feet, and punched her as hard as he could. Her head snapped back, and he barely caught her before she hit the ground. He’d just had his career, and possibly his life, handed back to him.

The cyclone vanished, white-painted bricks clattered down onto the cobblestones. A piece of charred meat shaped like a man stood for a moment then collapsed and sizzled. The pillar of water pouring from the well dropped to barely six inches high.

“Sir?”

Straightening, he handed the girl into the arms of a large young private staring wild-eyed at the destruction. “Get her back to the garrison. Tell them they’re to use that stuff the surgeons use to keep her out. Captain Reiter’s orders.” He was a Shield. Anyone who could read insignia had known he was there on the emperor’s command. His orders would be obeyed. “Take him, too!” The beastman wasn’t in pieces. If the stories were true, that meant he was still alive. “Find a barrow that’s not been destroyed, pile them both into it. Get them to the garrison, quickly, and keep them both unconscious.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Corporal!”

“Captain Reiter, sir!” The state of the corporal’s boots declared he’d already lost his breakfast.

Given the smell of burned meat and hair and offal that coated nose and throat, Reiter didn’t blame him. Not as long as he followed orders. “Until more troops arrive, we’re it.”

“Sir! We don’t have our weapons!”

“We won’t be shooting anyone. You know how to put together a work party?”

Indignation took a shot at replacing horror. “Yes, sir!”

“So put one together. Get people out from under collapsed stalls. Find casualties. Apply field dressings. Can you talk to them?”

“A little, sir!”

“Good. They won’t care that we’re Imperials. They need someone to pull order out of chaos.”

“No, sir! I mean, yes, sir!”

As the corporal barked orders, and the beastman and mage rumbled toward the garrison in a salvaged barrow, Reiter moved to take a closer look at the burned body. His fingers were gone. What could have been a wooden knife hilt had been cooked into the palm of his hand. Reiter slid the toe of his boot between the charred wrist and the pavement and lifted.

Six-inch thorns jutted out through the back of his hand and explained why he hadn’t dropped it.

A glint of metal caught Reiter’s eye and he splashed through the water back to where he’d found the girl. Radiating out like a sunburst from the place she’d been kneeling, the cracks in the cobblestones were filled with metal. Metal that appeared to have been molten moments before but had already cooled to the touch.

“Did you have any idea of what you were doing?” he wondered, the question unheard amid the surrounding grief and profanities.

The voice of a heavyset woman rose above the rest as she backed a boy into a corner and started beating him with a belt. “You have fire eyes—don’t tell me you didn’t do it! Don’t lie to me! Don’t lie to me!”

As Reiter ran to save the boy, he realized this neighborhood was going to become brutal for anyone with even the minimal mage marks found outside Aydori.

Nearly three hours later, the moment Reiter stepped onto land claimed by the garrison, before he’d even got through the gate, a private barely old enough to shave separated himself from where he’d been leaning against the fence and stepped into his path.

“Captain Reiter, sir, Major Halyss wants to see you in his office.”

“Tell him I’ll be there immediately after checking my prisoners.”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir, but he said you’re to go right to him.”

It had been worth a shot.

The major was on the second floor at the far end of the garrison building from the transport sergeant’s office. Reiter hadn’t met him, but he knew Major Halyss was Intelligence and had just arrived from Karis. Soldiers’ gossip said that General Reed, the garrison commander, had been giving the major as much leeway as wouldn’t undermine his command. The major’s father was evidently a power at court.

The office was surprisingly bare, the major sitting at a nearly empty desk writing quickly. The boy came to attention, but Reiter fell into parade rest and waited. After filling a third sheet of paper, Halyss tossed his steel-tipped pen back into the inkwell, blew on the last sheet until the ink would take the pressure of his finger, then folded all three and sealed them, pressing his signet into the wax.

“Brendon.”

“Sir!”

“Sergeant Pine. For immediate courier.”

“Sir!”

Halyss watched the boy leave, then turned a dark-eyed gaze on Reiter. Who came to attention.

“Never mind that, Captain. In fact, sit. It’s a borrowed office, I don’t plan on staying long, but we might as well make use of it.”

He sounded hail fellow well met. His eyes said trust no one. Reiter sat, but he didn’t relax. Expecting another Lieutenant Lord Geurin, he was pleased to see that while the major had all the innate airs and confidence of the aristocracy, he appeared to lack an obvious sense of petulant entitlement. Of course, appearances could be deceiving.

“So, your prisoners.” The major leaned back in his chair and smiled. The smile made Reiter think of Aydori. “I hear they were wheeled out of what a very incoherent young private seemed to think was a riot or a sacrifice or flame knows what and into the custody of the Imperial army. They’re boxed and drugged. So I was wondering, just out of curiosity, you understand, why you would ask they be drugged with a substance even the surgeons admit is experimental. Useful, definitely,” he added, “but experimental.”

“It’s important they don’t wake up, sir.”

“I did gather that, yes.”

Rather than attempt an explanation, Reiter pulled his orders from inside his tunic, and passed them across the desk. The major’s gaze rested a moment on the Imperial seal, then he read the single page quickly and passed it back.

“Clear enough. Creep into Aydori, capture six mages, take them to Karis. While I’m well aware ours is not to question why…” Reiter suspected Halyss would question the emperor himself given the opportunity. “…I don’t suppose you were given a reason for your covert mission?”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Not even to me?”

“No, sir.”

“Something that inexplicable, my guess is Soothsayers.” Halyss said my guess is like he meant and I know flaming well. “Crazy bastards.” He made the insult sound personal. “So this girl in the cells…?”

“She’s the sixth mage. Lieutenant Geurin is on the way to Karis with the other five. I had her. I lost her.” Reiter met the major’s gaze. “Now, I have her again.”

“Good for you. Given the chaos you pulled her from, I suspected as much—not that she was your mage, of course, but that she was a mage, and so I checked her eyes. As I said, I was curious. Thing is…” Halyss leaned forward. “…mages have been a bit of a hobby of mine. Why is it mage-craft is dying out in the empire but still strong in the old mountain countries?”

“Science?” Reiter offered when it became clear Halyss actually wanted an answer.

“That’s a theory, but I’ve found no reason science and mage-craft can’t coexist. It must be something else, mustn’t it? At any event, this hobby of mine has to do with why I’ve been sent to the front. I’m more useful here.” The major’s affectations slipped just for a heartbeat. If Reiter hadn’t been watching him so closely for his own protection, he’d have missed it. It seemed Halyss wasn’t happy about his orders. “Those five women you were to capture, pardon me, six, are not the only mages in Aydori. Their artillery has more Fire-mages than cannon by all reports. Oh, yes…” He sat back and raised a hand, as though Reiter, sitting silently, had commented. “…her eyes. No mage marks. They’re not dependent on consciousness, by the way. No mage marks, not a mage.”

“So I’ve always believed, sir. But this confirmed it.” Reiter pulled the tangle from his pocket and set it on the desk. Halyss’ eyes widened, surprise evoking an honest response.

“This is from the Archive,” he said, confirming the rumors of his previous post. Only someone who’d spent significant time at court would know about the Archive, let alone recognize an artifact taken from it. He reached out, paused, and only continued when Reiter nodded. “You realize, don’t you, that this little golden net is probably worth more than everything you and I will ever own in our entire lives?”

“Because of the gold…”

“Because it can’t be duplicated.” Fingers through the weave, Halyss held the tangle up to the light.

“There were six of them, sir.”

Halyss stared at him for a long moment. “Not what I meant, Captain.” The fine gold chain glittered as he turned it. “We have lost the knowledge and the ability to create more and an attempt to regain even some small part of that knowledge is…” He stopped and stared at the tangle, mouth partially open. When Reiter followed his line of sight, the only thought in his head was suddenly, probably worth more than everything you and I will ever own in our entire lives.

“Do you know what this looks like, Captain?”

“It was like that when it came off the mage, sir.”

“Not what I asked.”

“It looks…melted?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Major Halyss tapped the blackened ends of the two broken sections. “Enough heat to melt this would have been enough heat to melt at least another inch or two of the gold. And these links, while elongated, aren’t melted. Emperor Leopald has been experimenting with electricity…”

And other things, his tone added. Reiter suspected he didn’t want to know what those other things were.

“…and this almost looks as though it had been overloaded. The weak points blew, the rest…” He poured the tangle into his hand. “Well, as I said, almost. This happened when she removed it?”

“I can’t say for certain, sir. All I know is that she had it on, and when I found it lying on the ground, it was like that.”

“That’s impossible.” As the major seemed to be speaking to himself, Reiter ignored the clearly incorrect statement. “You disagree?”

Apparently, he hadn’t been ignoring it completely enough. “It wasn’t hit by lightning, sir. That I can say for certain.”

Dark brows rose. “You can say for certain it wasn’t hit by lightning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” Halyss allowed, his slight smile almost an apology, “clearly not impossible.” Slipping a finger through one of the unaffected sections, he lifted it and let it dangle. “She was responsible for that disaster in the market.”

It wasn’t really a question. Reiter answered it anyway. “I believe so, sir.” The attacks had stopped after he punched her; that made her involvement hard to argue against.

“It’s been reported she used five of six crafts. That’s not entirely unusual, you know. There are records in the Archives of powerful mages dabbling in the other disciplines—Air-mages can light a candle, Water can blow it out—but I’ve never read anything suggesting the level of power witnessed this morning. Although, in fairness, I’d barely got started in the Archive before I was ordered to the front. Who knows what potentially useful information is buried in there.” The resentment resurfaced to be quickly buried again. “I don’t suppose you observed any evidence of healer-craft this morning, Captain?”

“No, sir.”

“No real surprise. From the initial reports, I don’t imagine she was very interested in healing anyone.”

Had a type of healing magic put Armin to sleep, Reiter wondered. But all he said was, “I expect not, sir.”

“The lack of marks concerns me.” The dark brows drew in. “If Aydori is breeding stealth mages, that’s not going to go well for us.”

“But we’re winning.” The front was outside Bercarit, waiting for artillery.

Halyss waved that off. “We always win. We’re the empire.” He rolled his eyes. “As though there’s only ever been one. However, that said, His Imperial Majesty has lost interest in this particular battle. I suspect, although don’t quote me on this…” It sounded like a friendly warning. Reiter knew it wasn’t. “…the battle was a feint to allow you and this…” The tangle poured from hand to hand. “…to succeed. We may take Bercarit. We may pull back to the border, I don’t know.”

Yet, the pause said.

“My source believes she was protecting her companion this morning in the market.” When Reiter raised his brows, Halyss waved it off. It was none of Reiter’s business who he got his reports from. “I made sure the silver pin stayed in his shoulder, by the way. You didn’t mention it. He can’t change to the wolf form as long as it’s there.”

That explained why the burned man had dared try and claim the bounty. The fool had thought the more dangerous of the two had been neutralized.

“His Imperial Majesty has been sending pins around the empire with the couriers and the proclamation. Between the pins and all the shot, it makes me wish I’d been paying enough attention to invest in silver a few years ago.” He smiled dazzlingly, unconcerned when Reiter didn’t return it. “So, you’ll be taking the girl—and I imagine as much of the drug as the surgeon will give you—to Karis as ordered by His Imperial Majesty.” Fingers half curled around the chain as though he had to force himself to let go, Halyss passed the tangle back. “There are people at the palace who are going to want to have a look at that. What are you going to do with the boy?”

He didn’t know. He’d only known he couldn’t leave him lying in the square. The thought of having him scalped or skinned for a bounty made him feel sick.

Halyss’ expression had gone so neutral, Reiter knew he’d let that show as well. Not safe. Not safe at all. He didn’t know how it was among civilians, but in the Imperial army, the emperor’s will was not questioned. As his first sergeant had said, “The emperor decrees; we agree.” The emperor had decreed the beastmen were abominations. Outside even the laws that governed the use of animals. Reiter considered himself as good a liar as anyone who sometimes had to deal with incompetent superiors, but the absolute absence of emotion in the major’s level stare suggested he not attempt to lie now. So he said nothing at all.

After a long moment, Halyss nodded, as though he’d heard what he wanted to. “Take him with you. His Imperial Majesty’s been collecting them for a while.”

“Why? I’m curious,” he added when the major’s brows went up. The major had, after all, been curious first.

“No idea.” Halyss answered flatly, absence of tone a warning. “He could be studying the enemy. He could be having rugs made. The point is, the boy’s not covered on your current orders, so I’ll write an addendum that’ll clear it with transport.”

Reiter wondered what he was being warned about. Not to be curious? “Thank you, sir.”

“Well, you can’t leave him here. They’ll skin him for sure.” The major grinned, the hail fellow well met back in place, but the expression in his eyes unreadable. “It’s a long way from here to Karis, Captain, and on a trip that long, anything can happen.”

The emphasis was slight, but Reiter knew he hadn’t imagined it.

Hand in his pocket, Reiter let the tangle’s fine gold links slide over his fingers as he watched a nameless private load the girl into the wagon. Her hands and feet were tied and both would be secured to a ring in the wagon’s side, but—more importantly—her head lolled against the private’s shoulder. Ancient artifacts had failed; time to give science a chance. The work party had been less careful when loading…

Major Halyss, Reiter realized, had only ever referred to him as “the boy” not “the abomination” or even “the beastman.” When Reiter thought of him as “the boy,” he saw he didn’t look any older than hundreds of soldiers in the Imperial army. Young men away from home for the first time, determined to fight bravely no matter what because they had no idea of what that could mean. Soldiers Reiter had commanded, led into battle, watched die, watched deal with having killed.

Might be best if he not think of him as the boy.

Might be too late.

The work party had been less careful when loading the male prisoner, Reiter amended, having tossed him into the back of the wagon, roughly arranging his limbs only after the surgeon supervising had intervened. When the surgeon turned away, one of the detail had laughed, lifted the boy’s head by a handful of hair, and said something Reiter hadn’t caught. There could be no doubt it concerned the bounty.

“It’s five days minimum to Karis even if your orders allow you to commandeer space in a mail coach as soon as you cross the old border.” Surgeon Major Raynold crossed her arms and glared at Reiter, at the wagon, at the backs of the dismissed work party, at nothing in particular. “No one’s ever been kept under, or even partially under, that long. I’m telling you again, it isn’t safe.”

“It won’t be safe if they aren’t under.”

Raynold ignored him. “Let them come out of it as far as possible before you put them under again. Unless you want them to die on the way, make sure they drink while they’re conscious enough to swallow. Get as much water into them as you can. Oh, and keep checking that the pulse remains steady. You know how to do that?”

“I do.”

“Not that it matters; if the pulse starts to flutter, your only option is to hope they throw off the effects of the drug before the heart stops. And that means your only choice will be to let them die or take your chances with an angry mage or a furious beastman.”

“He can’t change with that silver pin in his shoulder.”

“Then make sure it remains in his shoulder. I wish I’d had more time to study him. That hair’s fur you know. Teeth are larger, bones are heavier. I’d like to see one change. I never have.”

With them declared abomination, it was unlikely she ever would.

“You’re certain the girl’s a mage? I examined her eyes and there’s nothing there.”

“I’m certain.”

“That’s a new one on me, then. My mother had a couple of healer marks. Gold flecks. Couldn’t see them unless you knew to look. Still…” A nervous laugh and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “These two, they’re not in great shape, but there’s nothing wrong with them that should kill them before you get them to Karis. There’s bruising on both torsos from the gentle application of boots. I expected her ribs to be cracked at least, but they’re solid. He’s got a recent scar on one shoulder, and she’s got fresh scars on her heels. Oh, and you’re lucky you didn’t break her jaw when you put her out. There’s new swelling there on top of old.” She nodded down at the leather satchel on the ground between them. “Everything you need’s in the case, so there’s no point in me staying here while you wait for your driver. I’ve work of my own to do; a dozen wagonloads of wounded came back from the front this morning.”

“Did you hear how it’s going?”

Surgeon Major Raynold snorted. “People are still getting shot. Bleeding out. Losing arms. Legs. Eyes. More rending and tearing than usual, but, otherwise, that’s how it always goes. Remember, water your prisoners every time they wake. If you can convince them to behave without putting them back under, their chances of arriving alive go up, but, for pity’s sake, use no more of the drug than I showed you. Too much and they’ll not only be dead, but you’ll have wasted anesthetic I could have put to better use.” She took two strides toward the hospital tents, then she paused and turned. “Oh, and one of the drug’s components is flammable. Very flammable. All things considered, you’d best remember that, too.”

Reiter considered the man-shaped torch as he watched Raynold disappear between the tents, and he wondered how dangerous it was keeping flammable liquids under canvas, the garrison’s hospital being at best about half built. No surprise army bureaucracy had decided the paperwork needed a solid structure before the wounded.

He racked his musket, then tucked the satchel in under the wide seat and pulled out his watch. Half one. The transport sergeant, while not pleased about both circumstances and Major Halyss interfering with his scheduling, had said there’d be a driver available at…

“Captain Reiter!”

“Chard?” No mistaking the squint or the grin even if he hadn’t recognized the voice before he turned. “I left you at Bercarit.” Major Gagnon had been happy to accept three more muskets and the men able to shoot them. “The Shields don’t leave Karis, so they can’t be Shields, can they? I was hoping for a little more in the way of reinforcements, but they’ll do.”

“Yes, sir, you did, but they were short drivers, so I came with the wounded this morning. I thought I was done with horses when I joined, but I guess not.” He glanced into the back of the wagon. “Hey, you caught her again. Why would she come to…?” He squinted across the road at the city, looking confused.

“Abyek,” Reiter sighed.

“Yeah, Abyek. Why would she come here instead of going home?”

“I have no idea.”

“She dead, Cap?”

“No. Neither of them are,” he continued, cutting off Chard’s next question. “Stow your pack and let’s go.”

“Looks dead,” Chard noted, reaching in and moving the girl’s arm out of the way before dropping his pack in beside her. “Still warm, though. Who’s he?”

Abomination. Beastman. Boy. But this was Chard…“The dog.”

Chard froze, halfway up onto the wagon. “The dog? Wait, from that night? No shit! I mean,” he added hurriedly, “no shit, sir. That’s my dog? The big black one?” He slid his musket into the rack, sat, and twisted around to take another look. “I can’t get over how much they look like people.”

…gold hoops in her ears.

“Let’s go, Private. It’s a long way to Karis.”

“That’s just what Major Halyss said, Cap.” Chard unwound the reins from the brake, and slapped them down. “Walk on.” The big gelding shook himself, as though he were shaking his harness back into position, and started out of the yard.

“Major Halyss?”

“Yes, sir. Met me down by the hospital tents where I was helping unload the wounded and said you needed a driver. Said you needed someone who wasn’t going to get all stupid about mages and that tangle thing and stuff. That he’d made it smooth with transport and I was to meet you here. The horse’s name is Thunder because he has wicked bad farts.”

“Major Halyss said that?”

“Not the bit about the horse. Found that out on my own from a guy in transport.”

With the Duchies of Pyrahn and Traiton now the Imperial Provinces of Pyrahn and Traiton and Imperial governors installed in both Ducal Seats, trade had begun to pick up again. Reiter thought of what he’d said to the young corporal in the square about how people just wanted order made out of chaos. The armies of both duchies, the nobility, the stupidly patriotic had retreated to make a stand in Aydori. Most people—well, not the people who’d been living where the empire wanted to put a garrison, but most people—had just got on with their lives as best they could. After generations of conquest, most people had acquired a certain fatalistic opinion about the empire’s advance. Practice allowed Imperial bureaucracy to get things up and running with terrifying efficiency. As Chard passed an enormous wagonload of brick pulled by four huge black horses with feet like dinner plates and feathered ankles—Were there ankles on a horse?—he wondered if trade had even bothered to stop. He did know there were piss-all privately owned horses now in either province since both sides had been drafting them as theirs were shot. Any horse in Pyrahn or Traiton currently either worked for the army or for Imperial interests.

Chard slapped the reins down again, and Thunder confirmed his name before breaking into a trot.