Chapter Forty-six
Dag’s sling tugged at a tiny Manc carving sitting precariously on the edge of a small stand. He turned just in time to catch the ivory piece from hitting the tiled floor. Dag let out a sigh of relief. This close to the door, and he had almost ruined it all.
He kept to the thick carpet that ran down the center of the hall, using it to muffle his steps. The doors that lined it stood closed, but one could open at any moment. There were more servants in this house than was reasonable. Oil paintings, some twice as wide as he was tall, others less than a hand’s breadth wide, showed men and women, young and old, between the doors, all staring down at this Jaecan intruder with, Dag conceded, a bit of disapproval.
The wound in his leg had started aching again when he had twisted to grab the figurine. A week, even on bedrest, was not enough to heal all wounds, but it was enough to get Dag on his feet and moving, quietly, away from this briny midden heap of a city.
The riots had quieted, too, so—if he had the white flame and half a brain—Dag should be able to avoid the Apsians. The Apsians who, for reasons Dag could not understand, had fought to defend the city that crushed them under its heel. With renewed patriotism, the men and women of the Gut had decided to scour the Jaecan from their city. The Night of Fire, they called it, when the Bloodless and the Brilliant Flame had driven back Bel and his children for a second time.
The conflagration had distracted the Apsians, giving Brech’s men critical time to turn the tide against the Apsian watch and the Order. Or, it would have, except that, in all of the unexpected places, the Jaecan soldiers had found themselves cut down by smugglers, thieves, and whores—all armed with weapons of the finest Ghiyn steel, and led by a man called Pontus. When he heard that, Dag was happy he hadn’t killed the man.
Bonacore Coi’s own men had appeared shortly thereafter, helping to turn the tide of battle. The man was a hero; the servants whispered that he might be named king. A king in Apsia, after centuries.
No word from Brech, and no sign of Sipir. It worried Dag—Brech was a man who expected delivery on a contract. It did not worry Dag enough that he would stay. Let the greedy bastards fight it out, he thought. With any luck they’ll slit each other’s throats. If Dag were lucky, Sipir would have his hands full with Coi, and Brech would have to start his own plans from scratch.
He was at the door. Dag reached out, lifted the latch, and slipped out of the house. It stood a good way down the Tacline, and the shadow of Coi’s manor stretched out under the rising sun, the tip of the Canian tower driving straight through the barren rosebushes.
Dag made it three steps into the garden, toward the gate, before he saw Evus. The old man sat in a wicker chair, propped up with cushions, under an old willow. Bandages showed under the collar of his shirt, and more wrapped his hands and arms.
“Leaving?” Evus said.
“Before it gets any worse,” Dag said. “Not much left for me to do here, anyway.”
“You could track down that Bel-taken madman who just about killed me,” Evus said. “You could hunt down the smugglers that brought in those Jaecan soldiers. Or the smugglers who brought Ghiyn steel into the city. You could stay and inform on Bonacore Coi, whose servant, another Jaecan, I’ll remind you, has disappeared, leaving me without much evidence that he was trying to betray the city.”
“His wife and daughter are dead,” Dag said. “I think that’s enough.”
“Is that what you think?” Evus said. “Well you’re a bloody fool, and Bel take you and the rest of you Jaecan. That’s what I think. That man is still one of the Six Fathers, meaning he’s got everything. Everything. And the people call him a hero. He loved his wife and daughter for as long as his wife’s dowry lasted, and he spent that a good twenty years ago.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Dag said. “None of that, really. I’m leaving. Take care of your own city, old man.”
“Walk away from all this, then,” Evus said. His dark eyes looked wild in their rage. “You spared my life for what? To pick up the pieces you Jaecan left here, again and again, until I die? If you leave, Coi will try again. Help me. You can kill him, quietly, without raising a fuss. Then leave. You owe me that much at least.”
“I owe too many people now,” Dag said. “For things I can never repay. You should know how that is, after all. Were you ever able to pay for Loseatte?”
“I don’t have to pay for anything,” Evus said. “That was war. Your empire would have done the same. You would have ground us into the dust, the way you did to the Sinians, the way you almost did to the Canians. Filthy, bleeding Jaecan, like dogfish in muddy water, and with half the courage.”
He continued to rail against the Jaecan, but Dag stopped listening. Dag walked down the garden path, ignoring the shrill cries that followed him through thick strands of fading poppies and lavender.
Beyond the gate, the old man’s voice no longer reached him. Dag wound his way down the Tacline and then north on Fisher’s Lane. An errant breeze from behind him brought the knife-edge smell of salt and death. It was, Dag realized, not just the smell of Apsia, of the crushing poverty and the endless erosion of life. He recognized it, knew it, carried it with him, because it was the smell of murder, of hatred, of endless tides that brought death and never life. And I am free of it, Dag thought.
He had enough coin to make it back home. Hundreds of miles, with brigands and borders to pass, not to mention Brech and his witchcraft following all the way. Dag would find a way home, though. He would find other work—maybe he would take up farming. He liked the feel of soil on his hands; the roses had responded to his touch, had blossomed when Rida thought nothing would grow in that spot of land. Maybe he could even get Fawda out of the house, find a way to bring light back to those dark eyes. Nurturing new life from old, fanning Ishahb’s sacred spark. Dag smiled as the breeze shifted and brought the scent of roses to him. That would be a change for him.