Chapter 10 - Thero
“Diplomacy is both the art of wielding power without appearing to, and its inverse.”
- Empress Mathea Albius, recorded before the Banquet of Blades
Several realizations hit Thero at once. The first was that he owed his life to a woman standing over him with a knife.
(As a rule, he tried his best not to owe anyone else favours. His own code notwithstanding, it was terribly inconvenient for someone to come and call on you in the middle of the night - and really, when wasn’t it the middle of the night? - to stop whatever you were doing and twist yourself in a knot for someone else. To owe his life, a debt of relative magnitude, to a party that seemed presently hostile only added insult to injury.)
The second was that before this night was over, either he would be dead or Elle Moraine would need to be relieved of her post in the Thronekeepers.
The invocation of Maugrim Nameless had been no small thing. One of the most wanted women in Alteria was lying on the floor of Veclere’s hideout, less than ten paces from where he was sitting. A woman with a considerable bounty on her head: five hundred thrones.
Enough to set up anyone comfortably for the rest of their lives, and all the motive that Moraine needed to forget all past considerations of caution. Greed made people do stupid things, and the lieutenant was absolutely not an exception.
The mystery of why she hadn’t killed him yet made a good deal more sense, in hindsight: the appearance of the scarred man and the mysterious woman were new dangers. Thero took a second, surreptitious look in the latter’s direction; there was blood on her wrists and fingertips, as well as on the frayed edges of her clothing. Just like Moraine, none of it was hers.
That confirmed what he was already thinking, namely that a single woman and a barely-conscious man somehow helped to turn the tide in what was admittedly an ill-favoured assault against a well-entrenched enemy. That alone would have stayed Moraine’s hand for now, hence the desire to ‘send for reinforcements’ to make sure the odds were in her favour.
He ignored the new woman for now - if she’d wanted him dead, he would be dead. One murderess at a time.
“Ageric or Narses?” The only two that Moraine would trust to send to gather other like-minded members of the guard. They’d come back with three - no, four - times the number. Oh, she had couched it as a precaution, making sure that all of Undertow was rounded up and they could safely bring everyone back to the surface for questioning. Extra numbers, to forestall an ambush from Veclere or any other smugglers skulking about the catacomb tunnels.
“Narses,” she replied, and that sealed it.
If he waited for them to arrive, he’d be signing away his life, as well as those who weren’t in on the scheme. Aurelia had taken a wound on the way in - how many of the others had made it unscathed?
Before the assault, it was a risk for Moraine to make a move. Now though, it would be so easy to explain away their deaths.
He could see it already, written in the broadsheets: Lieutenant Moraine, leading her men to victory over the nefarious smugglers. It was such a tragedy that the Keeper - Lady Forgiveness forever hold his soul - and so many others fell to the enemy Latent, but that was the way of the world.
As for the strangers and the Undertow survivors… well, who would even notice a few extra bodies among the rest?
The last piece of this was the timing. Moraine hadn’t felt the need to lie to him just now. She would have stalled, bought time if that was what she’d needed. She could have at least pretended she’d sent Vitalius, or Pisana. That meant she had little enough faith in his ability to withstand her for long enough for her reinforcements to return. She’d have told Narses to move as quickly as he could.
They had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before those men arrived, and then it was over.
Having put the pieces together, Thero let out a small sigh, wincing at the aches in his ribs and especially his wrist. There was no question that he’d broken it. He rose to his feet, but it was a slow and undignified affair.
“Good, that’s good,” he lied through his teeth.
Now, to the dark-eyed woman who hadn’t stopped staring at him since brandishing a weapon in his direction:
“Thero Varglass, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He did not put out a hand to shake, as he was presently using his one good limb to steady himself. She would have to understand.
“I’m afraid that while there is a substantial bounty on the living capture of the old woman lying to your right, I don’t currently have the coin on my person to see you or your friend rewarded.” He made a show of gesturing towards his pockets, which - while hardly empty - produced no comic jingling of coin.
“To collect the reward, Nameless will need to be remanded into the custody of the office of the Equineal Justices themselves.” He paused, to make sure they got the point. “At Haedren’s Seat.”
He’d need allies if he was going to make it through this, though he had to admit that what little he could read of her face did not speak of greed. There was no hunger there, no spark of interest, not even a visible turning of the wheels.
Peculiar. Either she was much better at hiding her intentions than most, or she wasn’t actually in this for the bounty. The fact that Thero did not know which was a rather disconcerting notion.
The scarred man, on the other hand, had only taken his eyes off of Thero to glare down at Nameless with a look that was one part scorn, two parts dread. He was much easier to read, an open wound in more ways than one. The kyneid did not have to look very hard to see pain there, something he’d buried and not deeply.
“So… someone would have to lug her ass all the way up to the castle to get paid?” When he spoke, it was the grinding of steel on steel. Thero disliked it immediately, viscerally. Even if he hadn’t already seen the evidence for himself, he would have known that this was a man with whom bloodshed was intimately acquainted.
“You have stumbled directly onto the problem, friend.” Thero did his best impression of a regretful grimace. An expression that was, he concluded, not too far from the truth.
The man had said ‘someone’. Not ‘we’. If he were planning on handing Nameless over himself, he’d have spent half the gold in his head already, not playing at hypotheticals. Not to mention the fact that he’d torn up a Portside tavern and trekked all the way down here to have words with Undertow about a former regiment of rogue Nascyians.
Whatever mission this man and woman were on, turning in a war criminal for an admittedly tidy sum of money wasn’t on their agenda. There were easier ways to make a score.
Thero felt Moraine’s gaze on him. He hadn’t dismissed the treacherous lieutenant yet; it wasn’t possible at all, really, because he couldn’t think of a good reason to do so besides the truth. ‘Would you mind terribly if I conspired with these obviously deadly individuals to slip out of the impending death you’re planning for me?’ wouldn’t exactly persuade her to leave.
How, then, to hold a secret conversation in front of the person one was scheming about?
He thought of Qirax… but as if in anticipation of his request, the perimastyx had rested his head on the arm of the chair he’d been laid down in. He’d started to snore again.
I can tell you’re faking, he emoted, the equivalent of an exasperated eye-roll. The lizard had been awake a minute ago. But Qirax did not budge.
Mutiny, mutiny on all sides. Even his Focus had abandoned him.
You truly are a slovenly excuse for a dinosaur, you know that?
“We should send runners to the Justices as well,” he tried. “They’re likely sleeping at this hour, but I imagine at least a few of them would want to hear about someone like Nameless being ferried in under their noses.”
In particular, Valfir dar Kerrick would be very curious to learn how one of the last and greatest of Helkoran’s shames was walking around the capital.
Thero hobbled up to the old woman, studied her face. The burns and missing fingers did not interest him; everyone carried marks of war these days. Instead, the kyneid studied the topography of her face; a square jaw, thick-set brows, and a high-bridged nose. Her frame still carried muscle on it, despite her years.
According to a few Danivans he’d had the distinct misfortune to go out drinking with, Maugrim Nameless would be close to the Helkorite standard of beauty. Yet all Thero saw was another weapon - one that had already been cleared from its scabbard to raze a city of wonders.
He didn’t know much about Rhetium outside of the accounts he’d read. The Iscerian capital, in those tenuous years prior to the outbreak of the war, was said to be the jewel of the north, known not only as a centre for learning but also art, culture, music. For an entire generation, it had been the heart of music and poetry.
Adoncia of Tyris, one of the greatest Medean historians of her age - though he’d often found her descriptions of battles a bit overwrought- had described the Ruby Gates of Arlar: ‘A conflagration suspended in glass’. It was said that the sun catching Rhetium’s spires sent endless displays of refracted light into the skies above, a concert of riotous colour.
There was nothing beautiful about the way the Helkorites had burned it, had butchered its people, had salted the earth beneath its stones. And in front of him, now, was the woman who’d supposedly given the order. The woman condemned by the Justices years ago, to serve a life sentence in a place with no sun.
A monster, albeit a sleeping one.
“I’ve told Narses to go and fetch them as soon as the reinforcements are assembled,” Moraine cut him off mid-reverie. “Don’t worry sir, we’ve taken care of everything.”
Thero could see the lie in the Thronekeeper’s gaze, in the way she looked just a little too long and too earnest. The politeness, anyone could have explained away in the face of outsiders. But there was no hint of reproach, none of her earlier sneering rancor. A cutthroat like Elle Moraine was only capable of such largesse when she had the advantage.
Her hand reached for the hilt of her longsword. In his current state, she could draw it and cut him down and there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“I have to ask… does that really work for you?”
The other woman had somehow melted away while Moraine spoke, reappearing right behind her. She had a blade in her hand. The lieutenant, upon hearing the new source of the voice, whirled around elbow first to catch her off-guard, but her opponent was ready. She tilted her head out of the way, ducking low to slash at the back of Moraine’s knee, right above her greaves.
Right as the knife sliced through the officer’s tendons, the woman was holding out a hand to clamp down on her mouth. His would-be killer’s scream died before it could escape.
Then the scarred man got to his feet, and together they held Elle Moraine down as blood began to drip from her leg.
That’s interesting. Not the violence, of course, but the means by which it had been started. Thero put away his next thought for the moment.
“Would you mind?” The dark-eyed woman was gesturing to the steel cuffs that Moraine, like all Thronekeepers, kept tucked into their belt. For the apprehension of dangerous criminals only, of course. They snapped together over the lieutenant’s wrists with a satisfying click.
Letting out a deep breath, Thero complied.
“You cannot kill her, you know,” he said lightly. Moraine’s attentions, gone from concealed triumph to naked fear, implored him silently. The man met his words with a flat stare - uncaring, or perhaps contempt. The other woman’s face remained a mystery to him.
“She is still a ranking member of Equinox’s peacekeeping force. The body of a Thronekeeper lieutenant will need an explanation, unless you prefer the city’s government pursue the matter judiciously.” He got the sense he didn’t need to spell out for either of them why that might not be the best idea in the world.
“We’ve got an explanation,” the woman said, shrugging her head down in the direction of the battlefield below. “The same one she was planning to use on us, weren’t you?”
This last part was directed to Moraine herself, who after a moment’s hesitation inclined her head. There was no denying it - she’d been seen through.
“See? Problem solved.” The man grunted as he put one hand on Moraine’s chin, the other grasping the back of her head. There was a touch of disquiet in the woman’s eyes, but she relented.
“Wait, wait!” Thero did not - could not - do another Working, but he held up his own hands all the same.
“If you kill her, you have to wipe out the rest of the complement downstairs. I don’t know how many survived the encounter with Undertow, but you’d be signing up to execute innocent guards.” His mind was racing. “Whatever it is you’re doing down here chasing Nameless, I have to imagine it wasn’t for a massacre.”
The man didn’t seem to hear him, but the woman put her other hand - the one still holding the bloody knife - to rest on his shoulder. Their eyes met, something passing between them. A threat, if Thero had to guess. Whoever they were, they didn’t fully trust one another.
He could use that.
“Look,” he began, “it’s entirely possible that we got off on the wrong foot. But that knife isn’t in the admittedly murderous lieutenant’s neck or my own, so I am forced to conclude that for the time being, you don’t want to kill me or mine.”
A fairly safe bet, and one immediately vindicated by the woman lowering the blade. The man moved to unbuckle Moraine’s sheathed sword from her belt, tossing it on one of the vacant chairs, then ripped off a strip of her cloak to fashion a gag. Soon the lieutenant was secure; bound, silent, and weaponless, though he could feel her glare without looking.
The three who remained stood like that for a moment, each of them assessing the other two.
“Issa,” the woman said by way of introduction. “This is Skeir.”
“My name is Thero Varglass.” He gave the slightest of bows. There was no point hiding his identity, not after Moraine had referred to him by his title just minutes ago. “I am Keeper of the Chambers, up in Haedren’s Seat.”
Skeir - which, from what he’d read of Helkorite men, sounded like an iron-name - continued to stare at him blankly, so Issa cut in by way of explanation:
“He deliberates the Justice sessions, is in charge of the scribes, bureaucracy, that sort of thing.”
“Wonderful. In other words, a shit useless pencil-pusher.”
Latent powers aside, Thero couldn’t exactly fault that assumption. But he’d always believed that one’s official title was not the sum total of their parts, a conviction he’d proven time and again in the scant years he’d held his Equineal posting. One’s life did not begin and end at their desk.
Judging by the way Issa was watching him, he wasn’t the only one who thought along such lines. Given Skeir’s state, he had not likely fought in the battle. But she had.
“So, Thero Varglass. What’s next? Do you plan on turning us in?” She ran a hand through her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. She looked tired, he mused. But getting involved in a Portside tavern brawl, then running down here and tangling with Undertow, and all in one evening? He wouldn’t blame either of them if they dropped dead at his feet right now.
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The kyneid let out a deep sigh, followed by another wince. Right, the ribs.
“There are a number more Thronekeepers on their way here as we speak. A squad put together by Lieutenant Moraine’s people, they’ll have orders to finish off everyone down here except for Nameless. I recommend none of us are here when they arrive.”
Issa glanced at the bound guardswoman, a question unspoken.
“Unless you want to babysit out in the hall and let me do the talking,” growled the scarred man. When she didn’t move, he grunted again. “Didn’t think so.”
“Other than your names, I don’t know what you’re doing down here, and this is perhaps not the moment to inquire further.” Not with Moraine listening in, at least. “Have either of you found any other passages out of here?”
Skeir nodded once.
“You’re suggesting we just take Nameless and run?” The man asked. He didn’t seem all too pleased by any of this - though his night had gone completely sideways, so Thero could hardly blame him. “Won’t your friends down there just turn on us for the bounty?”
Thero looked at his ally. The thought he’d been nursing from came floating back to the surface.
“There may be an extra step or two. Tell me Issa, how good are you at drawing faces?”
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The swap had been simple. Nameless and Moraine were women of similar builds, so exchanging their clothing hadn’t taken too much in the way of adjustment. They’d even belted Moraine’s sword to Nameless’ body. After that, Issa had worked her magic.
And it was, undoubtedly, magic in the truest sense. There was no question that she was an
Artifact, made of the Art as opposed to a practitioner of it. The precise nature of her gift was admittedly more nebulous, but Thero had a few guesses.
Still, watching the dark-eyed woman cry inky tears to re-create Lieutenant Moraine’s hair and features on Nameless’ body, he had to admit to a sense of wonder. She was not like him - he’d had to train for years, learning Secrets and studying in a school devoted to learning how to trick the most fundamental laws of reality. What he did required discipline and more than a few sleepless nights.
Issa was not Latent; she was an Immanent. She’d been born with her power, and to her it was probably as natural as breathing itself.
She had also assured him that with the dose of absential she and Veclere had given her, Maugrim wouldn’t be waking up for hours yet. And thankfully, after rooting around they’d managed to find a few more drops of the smuggler’s stash to take care of another loose end.
“It may not look like it from where you’re lying,” Thero had murmured down to the lieutenant before administering her medicine, “but I saved your life tonight. My new friends here wanted to kill you - don’t forget that I spoke up when I did.”
He knelt over her. “In return, there will come a day when I call upon you. I will not ask you to do anything outside your conscience, and I will not ask you to put your life in undue danger. Beyond that, any request I make of you will be honoured at a time of my choosing.”
The spite in Moraine’s eyes should probably have deterred him - she’d lost twice tonight, first a profitable arrangement with the undercity and then a chance at a once-in-a-lifetime bounty - but he’d taken her hand and shook it anyhow.
One way or another, he would collect his debt from Elle Moraine.
After that, it had just been a matter of getting the rest of the recruits onside. Skeir carried ‘Moraine’, as Thero explained to the others calmly about her ongoing arrangement and attempted treason. It helped to have the smugglers in the room: a young lad looked away when he heard her name, confirmation to the rank and file that she’d been known down here.
Aurelia, though wounded, had been the most enthusiastic to take another prize from Undertow into custody. There wasn’t really all that much protesting Ageric could do, not without admitting to being part of a plot to kill them all, so he’d stayed quiet as the guards began to head out.
To make sure that the lieutenant was questioned properly, Thero had told the others, she would need to be kept separate from all Undertow survivors - less of a chance they could corroborate one anothers’ stories. Probably best that they go first, gather the reinforcements when they arrived and see to it that all of the criminals were swiftly placed in custody. He would follow with Moraine, make sure she arrived safely.
And who were these two strangers tagging along? Why, contractors he’d hired in advance to scout the tunnels, of course. There was no way the Keeper would do something so reckless as charge into the lion’s den without all of the information.
They’d not accepted that last part on its merits, he knew, but after the night they’d all had, nobody seemed too keen to question his narrative. Issa had assured him that the illusion surrounding Moraine would hold for the better part of five minutes without her there to reapply it.
Luckily, in this maze, it was easy enough to lose the other group and reach an exit tunnel. The three climbed without the urge to talk, all of them taking turns supporting Nameless’ glamered body up to the surface. None of them moved particularly quickly, Skeir in particular needing to stop to rest multiple times.
He’s going to need a kymist if he doesn’t want to bleed out.
They had fallen into an unspoken agreement, namely to leave off any questions until all of them had found a safe place to rest until dawn. Thero did not hide his curiosity, but kept his observations to himself for the time being. Whoever Issa and Skeir were, whatever their aims in the city and with Nameless, they had proven to be both resourceful and dangerous over a single evening. In his experience, it was always better to see those sorts of people over to one’s side, lest one find themselves at cross purposes later. Hence, the unspoken truce.
When they emerged, it was in the shadow of the curtain wall. Thero recognized the profile of the marble swans mid-flight, beneath the shadow of a willow tree: this was Concord Forum, the westernmost plaza of the Medeus Zone and the closest to Palatine Park.
On a cloudless day, Concord was considered one of the more pleasant walks on this side of the island. The buildings and streets here were notably cleaner and more sparse than the cramped alleys of Portside. Most of the shops and storefronts around the Forum led to the central intersection of Agricola Way and Isidorus Street. The Medeans, unlike his own people, also put great stock in recording their histories through monuments. Everywhere he looked, there was another hero, another saint with palms outstretched. It was not his style, but he could understand its appeal well enough.
Sadly, the scene was not so pleasant this evening. Twin banks of drizzle and fog - not unusual for this time of the season, this far south - had rolled in from the bay since he’d gone underground, leaving slick-oil light winking at them from the flagstones.
He supposed he should be grateful for the weather, given that they were currently carrying the comatose body of what looked like a Thronekeeper through the streets. As it was, there was next to nobody outdoors, so the trio had little in the way of resistance as they shuffled along the edges of the buildings while keeping as far out of the glow of the lanterns as they could.
Along the way, Skeir began to deteriorate even more, his focus fading in and out. He’d wondered whether Issa would counsel abandoning him, but the subject never came up. Still, they’d let him stumble along while they carried Nameless - not an easy feat by any imagination, but easier with two. Sweat and rain mingled with the blood in Thero’s vest and doublet.
There would be no getting all that out, not even with Workings. He’d have to burn these clothes when he got back to his rooms at the Seat.
Their destination, thankfully, wasn’t far. Thero guided the other two to the far side of the Forum, into a side street that led to a row of townhouses with the characteristic tiled roofs so popular in Medeus. The landing was the second to last on the right, just another modest porch of fir, stone, and stylized stucco.
He had Issa and Skeir hang back with the disguised war criminal while he reached for the faded iron knocker. As he understood it, crowding the door of a house guest with several bleeding parties was considered something of a faux-pas.
Kaltia answered the door in a sensible lilac coloured gown, with a long coat hanging off of her shoulders. A thickset middle-aged woman of Pelagian descent, she kept curls tightly bound above her head. Her cloth was fine enough, but Thero had remarked upon meeting her that she was far too tanned and her hands far too rough to be a proper noblewoman.
Since the untimely passing of her husband last year - nasty business, crossing Izar’s Daughters - she no longer wore a band over her finger. She did, however, start sleeping with a sword, one that was presently clutched in her left hand.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve, showing up here tonight.” She glanced up and down the street, missing his new companions who had hidden just around the corner of the porch next door.
“And a good evening to you, Madame Arrius.” A full courtier’s bow was more than he could handle at the moment, but he bent his ailing body as far as he could and bit back the pain.
One hand grasped him by the arm and hauled him into a spacious, well-lit portico. Kaltia all but shoved him against the wall.
“I’ve already got one guest in my house this evening. She’s got something to do with that fire down Portside?” The look of ‘what have you gotten me into’ was plain on her rotund face.
“I assure you, nobody you’ve sheltered under your roof poses you any harm.”
He didn’t feel the need to point out that the others were still lurking outside.
All the same, this wasn’t going well. His plan had been to bribe her, but the concern he saw in the woman told him that he would be less than successful. Threatening her to offer shelter for the night could work, but there was the matter of Tyma, who was probably hiding upstairs from the guards. He simply did not have anything in the way of leverage.
“Boss, you shouldn’t go around spreading lies like that.”
From the considerably less well-lit threshold, he saw the outline of Zarja Triosi stride into view.
“Tried to go back to the Mess, but you were already gone. Figured you might loop around back here eventually.” She shrugged, catching the torch-light on her armor. “Looks like I was right.”
Ah. The roughness of Kaltia’s manner suddenly made a lot more sense. Definitely less than ideal that his escort had decided to linger, but then again what about tonight had been ideal for anyone?
The lady of the house turned to fix him with a stare that was a unique kymia of aggrieved and anxious. Thero sympathized, honestly. Zarja tended to bring that out in everyone. Looking down at himself for the first time since leaving Undertow, Thero was also forced to concede that he was a sight as well: covered in blood and filth, braids coming undone around his shoulders, sweat through his clothes.
He placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“I really am sorry, Kaltia. My friends and I mean you no harm, I swear it on Hywel of the Thousand Hearths and all of your Ten Virtues.” The kyneid took a moment to catch his breath. “I do, however, require the use of a few more of your guest rooms for the evening. You have my word that they will all be vacated by tomorrow.”
Kaltia didn’t quite take her eyes off of Zarja.
“How many rooms?”
“Three more should be sufficient. I may also need you to call on a street stitcher. Discreet is more important than effective at this point.”
She swore under her breath and hissed through her teeth. “You’ve got wounded outside, then?”
“You are as wise as you are generous, Madame Arrius.”
“Fine. But whatever it is you’re involved in, I don’t want any part of it. They come in, they stay the night, and in the morning they’re gone. No cooking, no turn down service. I’ll not play maid to your friends.”
That was for the best, honestly. Thero had tried her kofte dishes before, and they resided on the far side of inevitable. He thought better than to mention that now, though.
Instead, he limped quietly back out to the porch, waving his hands out to the street safe in the knowledge that the others would see him. As he did, he saw Kaltia standing behind him on the stoop, just out of sight.
“And after this, Varglass, you owe me one.”
As he watched the shadows of Skeir and Issa creep from the buildings, dragging along them the body of a notorious mass murderer, Thero had to agree.
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The rooms were comfortable enough. After a great deal of fussing, Kaltia had roused one of her house-maids to ensure the guest wing was in order. The three of them - plus Zarja, who had not bothered to introduce herself to either Skeir or Issa - had settled in the upstairs chambers. Wide oak doors led to a spacious sitting room.
At his insistence, Thero's shadow helped get the Helkorite down onto one of the plush divans. It would not be the first time Zarja had dressed and stitched wounds before, and it certainly wouldn’t be her last. Until the kymist got here, that was the best they could do.
They’d put Nameless in one of the beds in the adjoining chambers, sure that she wouldn’t wake until just before dawn.
Once the doors were closed, Thero all but collapsed into the chair opposite the soldier. Only Issa remained standing.
All of them awake, they remained silent for the better part of a minute. Neither of them seemed to desire to speak first, so Thero cleared his throat. He spoke two words.
“Saryn Corvane.”
Both Zarja and Issa tensed slightly, but neither were the one the kyneid was watching. Skeir, who had previously been resting languidly on the edge of the furniture, let out a curse. He’d twitched with a needle and thread in his side, eyes going flat and something colder than rage on his face.
Though the soldier mastered himself, it told Thero that he’d hit the mark.
“You’re here to hunt Ninth Company, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Well, at least he didn’t feel the need to dissimulate. He suspected that Issa would be a bit trickier to crack.
“How did you know that they were in the city?”
“I asked someone politely.” Not a friend, Thero would wager. There was no remorse there, but then he didn’t expect there would be. When dealing with trained killers, best not harbour any illusions regarding what they are willing to do.
He leaned in quietly. “Then you know they are here in number. Veclere’s made an ongoing arrangement with someone from the Company, one of Corvane’s lieutenants. They’ve been smuggling them in by ship for at least six tendays. Tonight is the first I’ve heard of it, thanks to our most loyal associate Elle Moraine. There is no telling how many are in the city right now.”
Thero didn’t need to ask the next question, because Zarja butted in.
“Where exactly are they being hidden? You’d think someone would notice a bunch of soldiers - especially Reachers - coming into town. And what does Maugrim Nameless have to do with it? She fought on the other side, went into hiding after the Tears.”
Skeir’s face betrayed his ignorance, but Issa’s was the picture of neutrality. She put out one hand to stop his sworn sword.
“This is all well and good - a proper mystery - but now that I’ve helped Skeir here, I think it’s time we revisited our arrangement.” Another look between them, and she continued.
“I’m not here for revenge, or to protect the people of the city, or to advance some national agenda. I came here to find someone. Undertow was going to be my ticket; Veclere knew people all over town. Now that’s well fucked. At the risk of being blunt, why should I help either of you when it does nothing for my goals?”
Well. That certainly explained a fair bit. They weren’t allies of any note, then, simply paired for convenience. A few more gaps had fallen into place.
“Well, how fortunate to have come across my path, then.” He flashed a smile, the same one he’d practiced in the mirror hundreds of times, the same expression he’d seen de Lanceryn use when she was about to apply pressure on a rival. “As I have just so ably demonstrated, I have contacts and friends all over this city, up to and including the Justices themselves. I believe I may be able to help you find… whoever it is you’re searching for.”
Still nothing from Issa. She’s had training. Interrogation, subterfuge.
“You’re a Pallbearer, aren’t you?”
He took the quirk in the woman’s mouth to be the only sign of surprise he would get from her. It made sense, really: an Immanent with strange umbral powers, the way she handled herself, her proficiency in glamour-craft. There were only so many places that a person with that skill set could come from, and only one he’d heard of so recently.
The Quarterly had done a follow up on a story that had run in a Valmontese broadsheet. Something about agents from Ebonsun, their identities leaked across the Gulf of Collier. By all accounts, the Congresse was livid. Their Zone had been buzzing for the last tenday.
There was no way that a member of the Mantle’s covert organization - one of the genekiaia no less, their elite extractors - was here in Equinox just after that disaster. He could not afford to believe in such a strained coincidence.
Medean spies. Helkorite veterans. Ninth Company.
“I am not here to break the Peacebond,” Issa said by way of reply.
“And I don’t suppose you’re going to share who it is you’re seeking?”
“That’s my business. My mission here has nothing to do with your thrones. I’m just looking for someone. All of this,” she gestured at Skeir, at Thero, at Nameless, “is a means to that end. You say you know people. Who in Equinox would know the comings of goings of people that prefer to stay quiet, that are looking to move in and out without others knowing?”
He couldn’t quite hide his grimace, for she knew the answer before posing the question.
“Probably one of the undercity notables, a smuggler.”
At this, Issa’s mouth turned into a firm line, not bothering to hide her frustration.
“There are others besides Veclere. Undertow isn’t the only crew that helps people get into Equinox, past the inner walls and into the city proper. The catacombs are just one way in.”
She raised one brow skeptically.
“I swear to you, if you stay and aid us, I will see to it that you get your introduction. The Silent Masques or Izar’s Daughters will know more. Let’s get this Nameless mess handled, then I will take care of you.”
The spy held his stare for a long moment, shaking her head quietly.
“Then you’ve got yourself a deal, Keeper.”
He was not, of course, a politician, Thero reminded himself as they shook hands in the lantern light. He’d likely made a deal that would cost him even more favours, with even more unsavoury types - very unbecoming of a nobleman, even a new one.
He looked over to the divan to see Skeir push himself up from his prone position.
“As for you,” Thero began, and the soldier put up a hand to cut him off.
“I’m not compromising for you, Varglass. When she wakes up, I find out what Nameless knows. Then I use that to track down Ninth Company. Then they all die. If you’ve got a problem with that because they were your neighbours back home, then honestly you can go fuck yourself.”
The kyneid worked his jaw slowly.
“I might be able to accept that outcome, but only on two conditions. One, we work together to track them down and we do it smart. Wherever they’re hiding out, whoever’s in command now, they’ve planned this infiltration. You can’t just hunt them down street corners, not in Equinox.”
“And what’s the other condition?” graveled the Helkorite.
“That we escort Maugrim Nameless to Haedren’s Seat tomorrow morning.” Thero looked at the open door to where the old woman was sleeping off the worst of the absential. “Whatever she is, whatever she’s done, she didn’t run with the Company. She’s innocent of whatever crimes they committed against you. We interrogate her under the letter of the law, and she faces a fair trial.” A note of iron stole into his voice. On this matter, he would not be deterred.
Skeir let the silence hang even longer than Issa had, before nodding exhaustedly.
“Fine. Tomorrow. Then she talks.”