He’d made the difficult journey through the mountains, and it had nearly killed him. The master of the caravan he’d joined had dumped him on Lynnia’s doorstep in a delirious fever. Once he’d recovered and gotten his bearings, it hadn’t taken long to discover that the first rumor was true enough. Yora’s crew was always in need of steady hands who were willing to take risks and do what was needed, and he’d done well.
As for the second rumor, Gyre had plowed his cut from the jobs they pulled into a network of eyes and ears, keeping track of scavenger gossip and notable comings and goings. In three years, it had brought him plenty of wild speculation, but never anything solid. There were ghoul arcana out there, and Chosen weapons, lying broken and forgotten in the dark—enough to make a few scavengers rich, but nothing that could accomplish what Gyre wanted. Nothing that could challenge the Order.
So he scouted targets for Yora, stole Raskos’ ill-gotten gains, and waited.
With a sigh, he set the pages aside and picked up the second envelope, breaking another thin wax seal. The paper was considerably better quality, and it was written in a clean, educated hand. There were only a few lines.
Halfmask, it began. That made Gyre take a bit more notice. His agents didn’t know his real identity, of course, but most of them didn’t even know they were working for the mysterious rebel. That someone else had figured it out was worrisome. His brow creased as he read on.
I have been following your activity with interest, and I think we can help each other. I’d like to meet, if you have no objection. Come to the Smoking Wreckage tomorrow night and order the Katre ’49. I’ll find you.
That was curious enough that it took him a few moments longer to notice the signature. When he read it, Gyre went very still.
Doomseeker.
Chapter 3
Another problem with a city built inside an indestructible wall, Maya thought. Traffic jams.
At Bastion’s main gate, four streets merged into one messy thoroughfare, each contributing its load of vehicles and anxious, unhappy animals to the congestion. Whenever the line moved and a space opened up, drivers and teams jostled for position, trading insults and a variety of grunts and squawks. Loadbirds glared at one another and puffed out their feathers, thickheads exchanged clicks and hisses, and a pair of long-horned woodbreakers had to be kept from taking big bites out of the next cart in line. Pedestrians filtered through the mix, and enterprising locals sold food and water from trays.
“I thought,” Marn said from his position in the back of the cart, “we were staying another week. You said we could look for those dumplings I like.”
“Would you shut up about the dumplings?” Maya hissed.
“Plans change,” Jaedia said, with a serenity Maya could only aspire to.
“But why?” Marn said, secure in the knowledge that Maya was not allowed to actually set him on fire.
“There’ll be dumplings at the Forge,” Maya said.
“Not the same kind. At the Forge they make everything with lake shrimp. It’s gross.” He shifted in the back of the wagon, trying to find a comfortable position on the pile of blankets and rolled-up tents. “If you killed Hollis, why are we in such a hurry?”
“Maybe shout about that a little louder,” Maya said. “I’m not sure every Auxiliary in the city heard you.”
Marn rolled his eyes. In fairness, Maya had to admit that the sound from the various impatient animals did a good job of drowning out casual conversation. But there were Auxiliaries everywhere, distinctive in their round metal caps, carrying spears and shouting at carters who got out of line, and the three of them were trying to remain inconspicuous. Up ahead, at the gate itself—thankfully not far now—a half dozen of the soldiers were stamping papers and asking questions.
The truth was, Jaedia’s sudden decision to return to the Forge bothered Maya, too, though for different reasons. Her mentor spent as little time in the Order’s great mountain fortress as she could manage, and they’d made only a half dozen visits in the last five years. For her to drop everything and go to consult with Baselanthus indicated that their encounter with Hollis had shaken Jaedia more than she let on.
A lumber wagon pulled by a pair of unruly thickheads finally rumbled away, and they were at the front of the queue. Jaedia clicked her tongue, and the loadbirds stepped forward a few paces. Four Auxies started poking around the back of the wagon, while another pair came up to speak to Maya and Jaedia on the bench. The one on Jaedia’s side, looking bored, scanned the papers she offered him. The other, a youth about Maya’s age with a face badly savaged by acne, gave her a frankly appraising look and a leering grin.
Maya gritted her teeth and, with an effort, kept her hand from going to her haken. It would be nice to teach this lecher-in-training a sharp lesson—by heating his codpiece until it burned, say—but while Jaedia might have managed such a focused application of deiat, Maya was still just as likely to incinerate the boy by accident. That would not help them remain inconspicuous.
“You’re missing a stamp,” the older soldier said, waving the paper. “Ministry of Trade.”
“I believe I have that one,” Jaedia said.
“It’s out of date.” He showed her the paper. “Got to get the Trade stamp after the Road and Commerce stamp, see? Otherwise you could change what you were carrying and Trade wouldn’t know any better. Very important. You’ll have to go and get it, then come back.”
The thought of waiting through the line again put Maya on the brink of deciding to set the soldiers on fire after all, but Jaedia only took the papers back from the man, frowned at them, and reached into her belt pouch. She handed them back, and Maya saw the green and blue of a wad of Republic thalers go along with them.
“I think you’ll find,” Jaedia said, “that everything’s in order.”
“So it is,” the soldier said, not even pretending to read the documents. “Go on through, then. You’re holding up traffic.”
The boy mouthed something at Maya, who made an obscene gesture in return as the cart clattered forward through the gate in the unmetal wall. Outside, another pair of guards waved them onward, down a rutted dirt road flanked by high hedgerows. The loadbirds picked up the pace a bit, and the cart shuddered and bounced over the uneven ground.
“Ungrateful bastards,” Maya said, looking over her shoulder at the looming bulk of Bastion. “It’s not fair.”
“No?” Jaedia held the reins loose in her hands, adjusting the birds’ pace with an occasional low whistle.
“We might have saved their whole plagued city. Chosen know what Hollis would have done if we hadn’t stopped him.” She shook her head. “And they don’t even know it happened.”
“You’d like a parade, perhaps? Streets strewn with roses?”
“A little courtesy wouldn’t be too much to ask for,” Maya muttered. “They treat us like—”
“Anyone else?”
Jaedia gave an enigmatic smile. At the moment she didn’t look very much like a centarch. They all wore drab travelers’ garb, dull and practical, with Jaedia and Maya concealing their haken under shirt and coat. But up close, Maya thought no one would ever confuse Jaedia for a peasant. She had thin, delicate features, deep, knowing eyes, and a smile that quirked just so and implied that every conversation was part of a lesson. That smile had been a constant in Maya’s world almost since before she could remember. Jaedia’s patient, leading questions had taught her to read, to ride, to draw her power, to understand the Order, her place in it, and their place in the world.