Aliyah

To his credit, Shasta recovered much more quickly than she ever could.

“You killed an innocent guide with some artefact, and you want me to clean up after you?” he asked. She didn’t like the emphasis he was putting on the word artefact. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to hide that, too?” He gestured at the downed vehicle. “You think that solves anything? His company’ll know he’s gone, his family too, and as for this supposed—”

“A favour,” she broke in sharply, before he could say more in front of Tomas. “Please, I—remember that offer we talked about, earlier?”

Shasta paused, narrowing his eyes. “Go ask after Lea,” he said, turning to Tomas. “Should still be in the second room along. See if she’s still in touch with Flores.”

Tomas cast a lingering glance over what was left of Sebile’s body and cleared his throat. “I’d suggest Harker for this, myself.”

Shasta frowned and nodded. “Yeah, good idea—if you can find her.”

“Know a fellow who can,” Tomas said. He cast a wary glance up the mouth of the alley and unclipped his cloak from about his shoulders, handing it to Shasta. “Here. Be back soon.”

Tomas strode away, soft-footed into the gloom. Shasta sighed and draped the ragged cloak over most of the gore.

“Alright,” he said, once Tomas was gone. His gaze was still fixed on the drape of the cloak. “What happened? You want to talk favours?”

“I can’t heal everyone you want me to,” she started, forcing her tangled thoughts to align. “But I can—I think I can, if it’s mostly bones or flesh-wounds—I can heal you and a few others. You can choose who. Keep you safe from, assassins, or suchlike. Nothing chronic, nothing terminal, no brains and maybe not spines—but I’ll see what I can do.”

Surely he had an injured friend or relative, surely there was something, however small, that would tempt him…

There’s always something.

Zahir’s voice echoed in her head—it had been, what four or five months ago? He’d strode into his office, flinging the cloak off his shoulder to land haphazardly over the back of his chair. A line of fresh blood was smudged over his forehead.

“Long day,” he’d said at her curious glance.

“Court people asking favours?” she guessed. She’d spent enough time listening to his mutterings to glean a general pattern.

“Yes,” he’d said. “It never ends. This includes those you wouldn’t expect, mind—there’s always something.”

She’d thought it a shame at the time, an intrinsic burden. Now, it was the best leverage she had.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Shasta said, yanking her back to the present.

“I—”

He crossed his arms. “There is no ‘artefact’, is there? Best version of events is: you tried to help the guy with your magic and you fucked it up so bad that the very stars are flinching away. No, thank you. Keeping you around would be a poor deal regardless, if your faerie problem persists. Makes me wonder what you were up to, back in that kingdom of yours.”

She realised, with a jolt, that he had positioned himself about five feet away—close enough to talk, far enough to see an attack coming.

“You know,” he continued. “I’d like to keep you around for help, I really would, if I could trust your casts and if you didn’t drag trouble to my doorstep. Was it really on accident? If yes—why drag me in? Just leave it be.”

“It was,” she snapped, with a confidence she didn’t have. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of cooling blood in the air. “I know how things work, okay? This guide’s friends, his allies—they were there. They know who he left with. I’ve heard rumours, I’ve heard the word ‘fleshcrafter’. There aren’t terribly many Songian girls in this city. If they discover this, then sooner or later, I’ll step out into the street and catch a bullet to the back of my head.”

Shasta regarded her dubiously. “Sad as it is, he was only a guide. I think you overestimate the consequences.”

She shook her head. “It’s easy to hire forayers here, isn’t it? If you found your—brother, was it? If you found Laurent’s remains looking like this, and you knew I did it, even by accident? What would you do?”

“…Hm,” Shasta said. The pause before he said it told her all she needed to know. “Given this incident, I’m not sure why you’re even still here.”

“I haven’t found my mentor yet.”

He shrugged. “That’s not my problem. Doesn’t have to be yours, if you really think about it. I hear Kraedia is nice this time of year.”

It wasn’t an inconceivable plan, but she’d already gone over this in the darkness of her own head. A random citizen in schismatist clutches—sure, she could leave it up to the Hive, or the guards, or whatever they had here, and hope it turned out for the best. That wouldn’t be a betrayal. They’d have other people to help them. But someone like Zahir, perhaps second only to Rana? She swallowed her outrage and tried to channel assertiveness instead—negotiation, a mimicry of what Rana might say.

“If you won’t help me, the spire-people might find out. This doesn’t look natural, does it? If you won’t help, I’ll have to ask Kionah—”

Shasta laughed softly, cutting her off. “Kionah? Kionah lies, steals, cuts pockets and cries on my shoulder about all the crap she gets herself into. Whines about couriering, doesn’t take the chances I give, disappears for a year without so much as a say-so and comes crawling back with you in tow. She’s not the worst person to have on your side, I’ll give you that. But you think Kionah can help you here? No. You screwed up pretty bad—maybe the worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. Take my advice and make a run for it.”

His words stood true, the advice cutting through layers of deception he couldn’t see. What must he think of her, presuming she’d acted in stupidity and not stupidity alongside self-defense? She stared down at the scattered body cooling before her, the accusatory shape beneath that cloak—nausea crested in her throat once more. She fought to tamp it down. It was difficult without a handful of magic to back it up, but she managed.

This wasn’t necessarily the first time, she told herself. She could’ve already done the same thing, right? Back in that shipwreck, letting the heads of forayers fall and crack. So this wasn’t that much worse. It really wasn’t. Sebile had been—maybe bluffing, maybe not—holding a knife to her throat. She’d simply done all that she could, in response.

“The forayers,” she said, changing tack. She needed to gather her thoughts. “What were you about to tell me about the forayers?”

His expression creased into a frown. “Pardon?”

“You said, ‘about those forayers back in Saltstone’. Before we left.”

“Oh,” he said. “Those forayers. Belia came back with news. We really did a number on them. Funny thing, too—they weren’t a proper band. Guessed as much when I fought them. No synergy. They all turned out to be fairly desperate folks. Hired in gold—all turned to ash. Enchanted, like. That’s the sort of wretched opposition you’re throwing yourself against, without Spire fellows to worry about.”

“But, the forayers—were they alright? Not…dead, or anything?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Belia didn’t say.”

She shut her eyes before they could start to sting. “Okay, then. Are you going to help me? Or was that instruction to Tomas a lie?”

“Wasn’t a lie. But I’m thinking I might save myself the coin, now you’ve mentioned the spires. If it’ll be obvious to them that a Healer did it, then Crow-ear won’t have rumours of murdered guides in its territory.”

She cursed herself inwardly and opened her eyes. “And if they think you’re harbouring a Healer?”

He met her gaze. “I won’t be.”

“And you’ll tell them who I am, to get them off your back.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” she snapped. “You only implied it.”

He didn’t reply. She looked away and looked back at the sound of shifting movement. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the alley wall, but his hand had slid atop his holster.

“If you kill me,” she said, “you’ll have to explain yourself to Kionah.”

A muscle twitched under his eye. “Wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. Just a precaution, you understand, in the face of someone who’s managed to burst a man like a boil by complete accident.”

Something simmered through the restless fear and guilt roaming her chest—frustration, coalesced into a molten ball. Spellcaster’s headache throbbed at her temples, at the base of her skull, across the skin of her eyelids. If only he knew the truth—but no. There’d be investigators soon enough, even down here, and likely Spire people promising rewards. Him telling them she was a Healer would be marginally less worse than telling them she’d actually killed a Calamistrum.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Maybe he’d connect the dots, but it’d probably be after Emil, the Crowfire guide, did so. So long as she could convince him to get rid of the body first.

“How much will it cost to take care of this?” she asked.

“However much Harker asks for. Not my wheelhouse, remember?”

“You really haven’t done this before?” she asked, feeling off-balance, oddly aghast. This man had blackmarket weapons hidden in his house, no doubt busy with shuttling them along secret routes—only shuttling? She found that difficult to believe.

“No,” he said, sounding vaguely insulted. “But I’ve been taught to prepare contingencies. Things were wilder, back in mother’s prime. Still. It’s more than you can pay. Unless you’ve dug up a treasure chest since I last saw you?”

She pinched at the bridge of her nose. There’s always something. If not with Shasta, then maybe—

“Why does Kionah need my help?” she asked.

Shasta frowned. “What kind of question is that?”

“She’s been so helpful,” Aliyah said. “I’m not a courtling, I don’t know the nuances—but she’s been helping me all this time. I don’t think she’d be doing that if she didn’t know I could heal people. At first, I thought she was like you—liking the idea of having someone convenient around.” She observed him for any hint of acknowledgement, for betrayal in his body language, and discerned nothing. “But it’s not just that, is it? It’s something else. Something more specific. You’ve known Kionah a long time. You must have some idea.”

Shasta shrugged. “I don’t think that kind of question is for me to answer. Ask her yourself, why don’t you?”

“I will. But I can only help her if you help me with this.”

“You’ll stay well away from her, if this is what your help amounts to.”

Aliyah scowled. “It’s not. And I’m her only hope, aren’t I? No normal person would stick around after the whole thing with the faeries. You saw Silas’s workshop, afterwards.”

“No,” Shasta said sharply. “Don’t—she deserves to know how dangerous your magic is, if she’s seeking it. If you won’t tell her, then I will.”

“And if she still wants my help, even knowing?”

“She won’t.”

Aliyah hesitated, thinking. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve fixed her wounds for her. She’s seen me fix my own. There were no problems then. This was an—a unique circumstance. If I were to help her, or the person or people she cares about, I won’t be on top of two wheels, going faster than a mage-chariot. I won’t touch anything I’m not sure of, and I was very unsure when this happened. I was terrified. If I can promise to help in a controlled environment, I don’t think she’d say no.”

Shasta exhaled. “What are you getting at here?”

“I know you don’t care whether I live or die, but could you get rid of the evidence? For Kionah’s sake?”

“Don’t presume to know Kionah better than I do.”

“I’m not. But you have an idea of what help she wants, right?” She pressed the point, looking him in the eye. “Do you think she’ll be happy if I get killed by some Crowfire person before I can help? Or abducted by the spires, so they can study me?”

“Okay,” he said. “So I’ll pay for cleanup. And in exchange, you—what, you’ll promise to help Kionah?”

“If she’ll tell me what she wants.”

“Alright,” he said levelly. “And if you decide it’s all too much trouble and make a run for it? What then?”

She took a deep breath. “If Kionah comes to you saying so, then you’re free to send a forayer after me.”

He shook his head. “And get one of my people killed? No. Too much trouble. And what’s stopping you from doing this to Kionah, come to think of it?”

“I think it’s been established that I can’t hide bodies very well,” she said coldly—so coldly she shook on the inside, pulse wracked with shivers. Her lungs felt tight and frozen, filled with snow. “I promise you, it’ll be far easier to help Kionah as best as I can than kill anyone else. I was—I was done, after this. I couldn’t cast. I could barely walk. Send two forayers. Send ten. Send as many as you like. I—I didn’t want this.” She swallowed a sob, almost choking.

“I don’t like taking people for their word at the best of times.”

“You don’t have to like it,” she hiccupped. “You just have to see how difficult it is for me to clean things up, and how it wouldn’t be worth it in the slightest. Besides, there’s a difference between messing up really badly and being a murderer.” She pressed a hand to her lips and didn’t have to feign the quiver in her voice. “I didn’t want this to happen. I’m not a murderer, I swear.”

“You could be an opportunist,” he said consideringly. “An actress. I know the sort.”

“Look, I can’t murder people discreetly,” she lied. She was fairly sure she couldn’t anyway. She’d never tried. “If I kill anyone, Spire people will notice, and they’ll try to find me. You might do something yourself, knowing what you do now. That’ll interfere with finding my mentor. You saw the ransom note. You were there when I risked my neck at Saltstone. I’m not going to do anything to get in my own way, even if I didn’t want to help Kionah. So, please—”

“You’re even more alike than I thought,” Shasta said. “Fine.”

“…Fine…?”

“I’ll clean up your little problem, just this once.” He held up a finger. “If you have a good go at anything Kionah asks of you before the summer’s out.”

“I will,” she said, and meant it. “One other thing, though—

“What?” he snapped. “Let me guess, you’re going to have another go of begging for help with the faeries? No.”

She shook her head. “Lend me some magic. Please. I need to…fix this up, before your cleaner arrives.”

He blinked. “What? He’s dead. You can’t fix much of anything.”

Her eyes unfocused. Beyond the drape of Tomas’s cloak lay lumps of flesh, melted bone. “Some of those cells are still living. Give me some magic. I don’t think she needs to see this.”

He made a dismissive sound. “Oh, don’t you worry your head about it. She’s undoubtedly seen worse.”

“No,” she said. “I mean—she doesn’t need to know the…particular condition of the body, alright? It’s too suspicious. Please. I’m almost out of magic. But if you lend me some, I could…” She swallowed her nausea. It couldn’t be worse than what she’d done to deconstruct it. Sebile was dead. Her body could no longer feel pain. She kept reminding herself of these facts. “I could stick it back together, mostly. Enough to roll into the cloak. I know Tomas saw, before, but you don’t have to lie—just say that I…packed it up. Delegate the dirty work, for your cleaner’s sake.”

“You’re asking rather a lot of me, you understand.”

“I’m not going to attack you with it,” she tried. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You’ve got a blade, a pistol. Shoot me if I lunge. You calling your helper isn’t going to buy me enough time unless—I just need the magic. I know it’s valuable, but you can’t stick h—him back together. Please.”

“You seem mightily scared of the Spire folk for someone who’s never met ‘em,” he said, and they were verging much too close to the truth for her liking.

“I remembered the…history. The Healer they disappeared. I take Kionah’s warnings seriously.”

“When it suits you to, it seems.” His hand moved from his holster, slipping into his pocket. When it emerged, it was with a hunk of crystalline rock—glinting green, shaped into a rough cube. “Look sharp.”

It was a short throw, but she fumbled the catch, almost dropping the stone as it hummed against her palms—not so much a sound as a nearly intangible resonance formed of multiform layers. A sense of potential crawled up her arms as she held it, a sense of what she could do with the power stored within.

“What is this?” she asked automatically. She hadn’t ever seen one in person, but she had her suspicions.

“Tributes,” he said with a shrug. “Tithes. Magic.”

“From your ‘people’?”

“Who else?” He jerked his chin in her direction, nodding up. “Go on, there should be plenty.”

She hesitated, then drew on the stone—it was almost as easy as drawing upon her own magic, but…different. A little fractured, curdled and disjointed and noisy—but that would make sense, considering its source. How many had paid a portion of their magic into this item, she wondered dizzily. Ten? Twenty? More? Power coursed into her veins, siphoning into her core. She stopped when she was sure she had enough—there was still some left within the stone. Perhaps a quarter?

“Thank you,” she said, and held it back out without thinking.

He paused for a moment before stepping forward, plucking it out of her hand so deftly that their skins didn’t touch.

She turned her attention to what remained of the body. Loose flesh lay scattered, most of the skin peeling or melted. The main portion, the largest lump, comprised approximately two-thirds of Sebile’s body mass with most of the organs smothered in its midst. There was nothing left of the face. She’d made sure of that. Skull fractured into fragments, teeth crumbled into powder. The left eye had gushed out of its socket of its own accord. The other, she’d melted into slurry. No colours, no clues.

She knelt and hovered her hands over the mess, congealing it together. There were patches of still-living tissue among the dead and dying. She used them like anchors, like crude stitchwork, like a mockery of desmosomes. The other pieces, the spare clumps and the wilting puddles, she had to pick up or scoop with her hands. Dead cells stuck to her skin.

When she was done, it looked like a roughly human-sized lump of flesh. Cylindrical. No limbs or anything. No features, either. Shasta didn’t say anything at the sight, which, quite possibly, made things feel even worse.

She wasn’t sure how heavy it was, but Sebile had been tall. The body likely weighed more than she did. Bundling it into the cloak was a struggle, and Shasta didn’t volunteer his help. She didn’t blame him. By the time she was done, there was blood caked beneath her nails.

===

“What a right mess,” Harker said.

And that was with the body already wrapped.

Harker had turned out to be a middle-aged woman with a lumpy scar running from ear to forehead, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken a dozen times over. She was otherwise ordinary-looking, dressed well—clean-cut, even. The sort of person Aliyah wouldn’t have given a second glance were she to have passed her on the street—which was an uncomfortable thought. She’d ignored Aliyah herself, after a passing once-over.

“We’ll have to take the boat,” she continued, hooking her thumbs into her pockets. “Three-hundred-fifty, to deal with this.”

She probably meant crowns. Or, no—crests. It was crests that were gold, here. That was more than she made in a year, back in Shadowsong.

“Done,” Shasta said, and Harker beckoned to her helpers—two muscle-bound men in aprons and dark clothing.

One fetched a container of fizzing fluid from the cart they’d arrived in and doused the bundle in it. The other mopped the blood off the cobbles with raggedy towels, before splashing more of that same fizzling liquid over the whole area. They rolled the bundle up several sheets they’d brought themselves. Harker helped as they hauled it onto the cart. A sheet of wood slid over the top, hiding the body from view.

“You’re coming to see this along?” Harker asked.

“Yes,” Shasta said. “Off-shore?”

“What else?” She gestured to the vehicle. “That, too?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Harker said. She hummed something tuneless under her breath. “I’ll have a friend around shortly.”

“Much appreciated. I’ll send another fifty.”

“Right on. Round the corner, boys, and wait up.” She gestured back the way they’d come. “You coming?” she asked Shasta.

“Of course.”

Harker patted him on the shoulder. “Atta boy. Here we go, then.”

Shasta cleared his throat. “My friend here will be coming, too.”

Harker paused, and Aliyah tried not to flinch under her sudden scrutiny.

“Not Tomas?”

“Is there space on the boat?”

“Room for five,” she said dryly. “Six, if counting our guest in the cart. No more.”

“My friend will come along,” Shasta said.

Aliyah’s stomach lurched. She kept quiet—it seemed the wisest thing to do, given all options.

“Not a problem,” Harker said, already turning away. If she suspected her role in all this, she didn’t show it.

Shasta turned to Tomas as they left, murmuring instructions to cover for his absence. Aliyah trailed on his heels until he paused his stride, gesturing for her to go ahead—not wanting her at his back, she realised. Another shiver wracked her body at the thought. She did her best to hide a fresh shudder as she stepped past, following Harker and her hidden cargo.

What was done could not be undone. The deception was going as well as it could go. The best thing to do would be to move onwards.

Kill your elders, as Zahir used to say. Would he be proud of her now? Pieces of broken mantle dripped down her shoulders, shawling her in Healer red. What had he expected, uprooting her from the only home she’d ever known, and then getting himself ransomed? Her hands were more than tied—maybe if she had no clue, but the tracker mark lay cold upon her skin. Was she expected to just—walk away?

Harker said something indistinct, up ahead.

Shasta replied with easy words of thanks, drenched in criminal camaderie. She registered none of them. It struck her, then, that she was probably more mired in wrongness than he was.

She couldn’t walk away, not now—but she could learn from this mistake. If that meant dodging witches in due time, then so be it. Just until she found the schismatists, she told herself. Just until she got Zahir out of there alive. She’d think about that now, because no one else was going to. And afterwards…

She could think it over when it was over.