Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen) (29 page)

Her uncle had given her the clue to finding him again. That alone would be worth a sizable fortune from Kiranrao. And the assignment to bring the bag of stones would give her a reasonable excuse to approach him again, to win his trust.

There was a strain in her heart as the kettle of emotions rattled again, surging with the force of shame and guilt. She refused to let the contents leak out. It was a vicious world. Every day, people were murdered for nothing more precious than a fistful of ducats. The more ducats, the better the chance of surviving the next bout of Plague.

She wondered if that was the real reason Kiranrao wanted her near him so much. She had the fireblood. It was said that those with it could never be harmed by the Plague. Was there some distant connection between her ancestors and the origins of the Scourgelands? Some riddle remaining with no one living who knew the answer to it?

Hettie rubbed her forehead, smelling the first hint of fetid air. She would reach the lakeshore before midnight. Good. It meant a warm bed to sleep in unless she went to the temple again and slept on a pallet on the floor. The sound of Paedrin’s arm breaking made her stomach clench in revulsion. His injury would hamper him for many months. Perhaps she should bid him good-bye.

It was a strange compulsion, actually, and she wondered at it. Why should she care a bushel of figs about saying good-bye to Paedrin? He was a haughty, arrogant Bhikhu who had less sense than a sheep. Why bother? It nagged at her that he had saved her life amid the dangers of Drosta’s lair. Of course, she had gone down there in the hopes to steal the blade while he fought the creature. But when she was struck by it, he had come to save her.

She bit her lip. What a foolish boy he was. He had no idea at all that she was using him to her own ends. Most males were blinded by beauty. Start off angry and contemptuous. Treat them with apathy and revulsion. Then slowly dribble out a compliment or favor them with an occasional smile. They would become your servants for life. It was the way of the world. For certain, it was the way of the Romani.

What harm would it do, though, to stop by the temple and see him? She did not care for him. She did not care for anyone, even her brother.

A part of her had died, she realized, when she saw her
father
poison her
sister
over an act of disobedience. Maybe that part of her was still dead. But for some reason, she wanted to see Paedrin again. It was a foolish thought. She had probably derived a small flicker of pleasure arguing with him. That was probably it. She decided not to see him. It would be better for him, after all, to never see her again. She was rather sure that Kiranrao would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.

“A wise leader, a past King of Wayland actually, wrote this in his personal history at the end of his very successful reign. I found his advice in the Archives and think it some of the wisest advice ever written: ‘Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.’”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

M
ost of the main streets of Kenatos were named. There were major thoroughfares that connected the different regions of town inhabited by the different races: Aeduan, Preachán, Vaettir, and Cruithne. But the streets themselves were a blend of the different cultures. The higher elevations of the city were dedicated to the founders of Kenatos; this area included the Paracelsus Towers and the Temple of Seithrall. The temple was the largest structure in the entire city, occupying the entire upper heights—a fortress hewn out of stone carried from Stonehollow and ferried across the lake. It had taken nearly a generation in its construction. Hettie had heard it whispered that Kiranrao was the only man ever to have plundered the fortress.

Keeping her sights on the enormous structure, she wove through the streets leading to Gracesteeple Gate and entered it. Rubbish littered the streets and beggar children approached her instantly, but with a subtle hand sign, they dispersed. The sun had already set and the lights were aglow in the streets, spewing no fumes or smoke and casting the stone with a silvery hue. Only
the main streets were lit at night; Hettie marked her way down a side alley that was surrounded in shadows. The smell of offal was oppressive, and she wrinkled her nose. She found one street further in littered with the homeless, hunkered beneath tattered blankets. A few moaned at her passing, but she ignored them. At the final crossroads, she turned to the right and saw a candle in the window of a shop. It was the solitary shop on the street.

Hettie approached it cautiously and then rapped firmly on the door in a sequence she had learned. She waited a few moments, then knocked again. The lock turned, and a burly young man opened the door. His face was pockmarked and his chin full of wispy tufts. His hair was a dirty brown, though his eyes were a stunning hazel. He looked at her warily; he opened the door wider and let her in without a word when she showed her
carnotha
.

The smell of bird droppings choked the air and the sound of dozens of different species filled the room with exotic sounds. A woman waddled between the cages, stuffing little crusts between the haphazard bars. Her hair was obviously dyed, and her clothes too tight-fitting for one of her girth. A silver cane was gripped tightly in her left hand, helping to steady her as she maneuvered between the vast cages filled with rainbow-hued parakeets, canaries, finches, and warblemoss. Little playful finches ducked and bobbed their heads and sang in trilling tunes at her as she entered.

The young man shut the door behind her and bolted it.

“Thank you,” Hettie said. He shrugged, finding his way back to an overstuffed couch that was split at the seams and spilling its stuffing.

“Yes, and here is your dinner, little Apathy. And yours too, Vengeance. My, aren’t we hungry tonight. Craven and Meek, you are lovely. Tsk, tsk. Don’t be rude. Yes, I know. I know. She is
weeping next door again. Curse her. Always weeping and chanting spells. Look at you, Glutton. If there was ever a parrot which lived up to its name, it is you. You should be more like Meek. And now we have Precious and Sated. There you are, my lovelies.” She reached into a pouch belted to her waist and stuffed another cracker into the slot between the bars. The birds pecked at each other, and the woman clucked her tongue at them.

“How are you, Mondargiss?” Hettie said, running her fingers down the firm metal bars of a cage. The finches trilled at her and bobbed their heads furiously, looking for crumbs or seeds from her.

“Well enough, child. Well enough,” she said disdainfully. She cooed at more of the birds. “Pretty Vespers. I like you the best. What a lovely song you have for me. If only…” She stopped, scowling, and stamped her cane on the ground. “Cim! She is weeping again! Can you not hear her? I am all fury with the sound of it.” She stamped her cane again. “Cim! Go next door and bid her be quiet!”

Cim stared at the woman, his eyes full of loathing, and did nothing but wait. In a moment, Mondargiss straightened, her eyes shifting from cage to cage as if she could not remember where she left off. “Pout, did you get a cracker? I do not believe so. I can’t remember. Here is another one. You are not as fat as Glutton, so maybe it will be all right if you had more. And look at you, little Cheer. How quaint.”

Hettie let the reek of bird scat wash over her and she sighed, waiting for the ritual to be over. She did not advance deeper into the room until invited. It took quite a while, for Mondargiss was thorough. When she had visited the last cage with a compliment, she turned at last to Hettie. Her eyes narrowed.

“You returned sooner than I suspected. Did you fail, girl?” She started wobbling toward her, face painted as if she were ready
to perform on the stage. A dribble of smoke-colored sweat trickled down her cheek.

“I did not fail,” Hettie replied coldly. “There is a new assignment from Kiranrao.”

“Ahh, you failed then. Pretty thing. He will forgive you your blunder. You are too pretty to be cast aside. Too young. Only one ring in your ear? Poor lass. Would that we could trade places.” She parted her honey-dyed hair and revealed six gleaming rings in her own ear. “What I would not give to be useful again. Useful and young.”

Hettie stared at her with contempt. She had been a beauty once. Now it was a husk, an illusion. “You are useful to Kiranrao, which is why he bids me seek your help. I need information, Mondargiss.”

A wicked smile played on the older woman’s lips. “Of course you do, child. What do you seek?”

“There was an explosion in the Paracelsus Tower recently. The tower of Tyrus Paracelsus. You know of it?”

Mondargiss slowly closed the gap between them, shuffling forward lamely. Her eyes were dark and cunning. “We felt it explode. It shook the entire city. Windows shattered. Glass on the floor. My little doves were so upset by it. I knew Kiranrao would wish to know of it. I sent my swiftest little one.”

There was a flapping of wings and then a dove flew in from the window, landing in a dovecote above.

“Cim!” she shrieked, but the young man was already moving, climbing up a rickety ladder until he reached the dovecote. He fussed with the bird a bit and then brought down a tiny slip, which he handed to Mondargiss.

The woman craned her neck and studied the small scrawlings. She chuckled gleefully. “An ill wind from the east. An ill wind from the west. An ill wind from the north. My, what a
storm that will brew. Yes, my darling, what is it that you need?” She reached forward and flicked some of Hettie’s hair teasingly.

“Tyrus left something behind, likely in the rubble. It is a sturdy leather bag with three unfinished stones. Not cut gems, but likely polished. It would not have been destroyed.”

Mondargiss shook her head knowingly. “Little stones, you stay. Little uncut gems. There were weapons found. Spirit-touched blades. Arrowheads survived, but the shafts did not. They are selling for many ducats and being stolen away to Havenrook for bidding. But you know that I cannot go near the Paracelsus Towers, my dear. Not myself.”

Hettie bridled with impatience, but kept her temper. The woman’s eyes were always cruel. “Surely I did not believe you were scavenging the rubble, Mondargiss.”

“Not even when I was younger. Any number of boys would have gladly searched the rubble at my command. But they will search for me again. Cim! See to it. If someone has captured the stones, bring them to me, or bring me word of who has them.”

The young man rose from the dilapidated couch and shrugged. Hettie stopped him before he passed her.

“How long will it take you?” she asked him softly.

His eyes gleamed. “Dunno,” he said with a shrug.

“Thank you, Cim,” she said, flashing him a quicksilver smile. His face remained impassive as he went to the door and unbolted it. He disappeared into the street beyond.

“You think you are so clever,” Mondargiss said with a sneer. “He is impervious to any woman. I could name him the king of stone. He feels nothing. He cares for nothing. For no one.”

Hettie felt her eyes tighten, but she managed to keep herself aloof. “What is Kiranrao training him for then? A Kishion?”