Ferran's Map (43 page)

Cerastes turned to his army. When he spoke,
his voice was louder than before; it seemed to rise from the earth
and shake the air. The hair prickled on Viper’s neck. This was not
a man speaking. Cerastes’ demon was powerful indeed to hold such
influence over the physical realm.

“This soldier can hardly keep his eyes open.
He is failing before his brethren. He is too weak to stand in the
Dark God’s shadow. Laziness will not be tolerated among the Shade.”
Cerastes clasped his hands behind his back. “What are our four
tenets?”

The soldiers shouted back in a throaty
chorus: “
To stand as His feet, to lift as His hands, to serve in
His shadow, to obey His will: We are children of the Dark
God
.”

“A lazy servant cannot carry out our God’s
will,” Cerastes intoned. Then he raised his arm and indicated
Crash. “The Dark God has honored you all tonight by returning his
child to us: he is the Viper, dead to the Hive, Named at the age of
fourteen. My protegé—and some day, perhaps a new leader among your
ranks. Viper,” Cerastes turned to him. “If you were commander of my
army, how would you punish this man?”

The Grandmaster’s words caught him entirely
off-guard. Viper found himself returning the silent gaze of a
thousand or more nameless soldiers. The attention upon him was
palpable. His heart quickened as the firelight leapt, but he
remained composed, hiding his confusion. This was another test. His
Grandmaster was trying to corner him. He thought he knew Cerastes’
intention. By bringing him here, he wanted Viper to remember
himself, to confront the past he had buried.

He turned to the soldier on the ground.
Slow, smoldering anger touched his thoughts. Cerastes was trying to
manipulate him into joining the Shade.
Too soon,
he thought.
You’ve misplayed your hand
. He would not be put to the reins
like a beaten horse. Cerastes thought he knew the inner workings of
his student. He thought Viper was still the same man who left the
Hive, exiled and assumed dead, cursed to endlessly wander the land.
He thought Viper was like the rows of
savants
before him,
broken down by years of solitude, battling the savage desires of
his demon.

But he wasn’t like them. He had something
else to live for.

The soldier before him knelt on the sand,
shoulders tense, waiting for punishment. Viper felt his lips twist.
An assassin didn’t wait like a servant to be struck.

He reached down and dragged the man to his
feet. “Stand,” he said.

The savant obeyed.

He stared briefly into the man’s eyes,
unnerved by their glassy appearance.

“Strike me,” he said.

The man’s eyes slowly focused on Viper's
face. “What?”

“Show me your skill,” Viper said, and spread
his arms in silent invitation.

The savant drew a crooked knife from his
belt, and with a heavy, stumbling gait tried to plunge it into
Viper’s chest. He was clumsy and off-balance. Viper easily dodged
and disarmed the man by twisting his arm behind his back. Then
abruptly he released the savant, who fell forward once again into
the sand, with his back fully exposed. And there he stayed.

“Why not defend yourself?” Viper
demanded.

“You did not order me to, Named one,” the
savant said as he lowered his head.

Viper felt disgusted. What kind of fools had
Cerastes created? These were rejects of the Hive, and for a cold
moment, he understood why. This man was not worthy of any title,
let alone that of an assassin.

His demon stretched through his thoughts
like an uncoiling snake.
Look at the weak little worm,
it
whispered.
Kill him.

Viper’s hand tightened on his dagger. He
stared down at the man’s exposed back. Adrenaline flooded his
muscles and he tried to control his demon’s strength.
There is
no reason to kill him,
he thought. The soldier was young, and
exhausted to the point of delirium. He was not worthy of death.
Crash tried to suppress his demon’s ruthless desires, but the
creature seemed stronger than before, its presence amplified by
Cerastes’ dark aura.

One sick man weakens the horde,
the
demon whispered. Its voice sounded almost identical to Cerastes’
teachings from years ago.
One lame man burdens his fellows, and
makes the fight twice as hard. The weak have their place. Do what
you must to survive.

This is not a battlefield,
Viper
thought.
This is not a mission. This is training.

Nature has its order,
the demon
pressed stronger. Viper felt his muscles cramp.
Release him to
our god.

“We are waiting, Viper,” Cerastes murmured
behind him. “Your army is watching.”

Cerastes’ words held a mysterious power.
Viper felt his control slipping. This was a public demonstration.
What would the soldiers say, what would they think, if they saw his
forgiveness? Would they find him weak as well? They knew his Name
now. If he betrayed their Grandmaster, the entire army would fall
on his head.

And for what? To save a nameless stranger,
who had doubtlessly committed evils in his own life, who lived as
an outcast of the Hive, killing for money in the back alleys and
underground taverns of human cities….

But what of Sora? What would she think? And
what of Burn?

What of the army?

We belong here,
the demon hissed.
A home.
The word resounded through him with strange clarity.
He hadn’t belonged anywhere for a long time. He didn’t think he
needed a place in the world. But suddenly, standing before all
these eyes at his master’s right hand, he wondered if Cerastes was
trying to entice him with something more. Not just a home, but a
place of honor, a sense of prestige he would never gain
elsewhere.

Viper felt the hive-mind stir. A damp heat
filled his thoughts. He tried to suppress it, but demons ran in
packs, and the influence of the horde around him was too strong.
Cerastes' indomitable presence hovered over them like a curtain of
black smoke, influencing them by proximity alone, bringing their
primal instincts to life.

He knelt and grabbed the man’s head. In a
swift motion, he ran his knife along the base of the throat,
cutting the jugular. Then he released the body to the sand.

* * *

Ferran traveled to the docks in the pre-dawn
light. He left the manor quietly, ensuring the house and staff were
still mostly asleep. He took a fast horse from the stables and made
his way through the quiet city streets. A foot of snow had fallen
the night before, which made his journey slow and treacherous; it
took him almost a full two hours before he reached the docks.

He boarded the
Dawn Seeker
and roused
Silas from a snoring slumber.

The Dracian woke up with a start. “Aye,” he
muttered blearily, “Aye, I’m awake, why are we dragging, have we
hit bottom?”

“We’re anchored, Captain,” Ferran said
dryly.

Silas sat up and tried to straighten his
disheveled red hair. “I recall that now,” the pirate muttered. He
frowned up at Ferran, and took note of his expensive greatcoat and
vest; his face split into a wicked smile. “Why, if it’s not Lord
Ebonaire come to visit. To what do I owe this honor, Milord?”

Ferran dragged Silas out of bed to his feet,
and thrust the folded map in his hands. “Look at this,” he said.
“What do you see?”

Silas grumbled in irritation as he reached
for an oil lamp on his desk and lit it. Then he unfolded the
parchment and took a long look. Much faster than Ferran expected,
he said, “The sewer systems.”

“Exactly,” Ferran recovered. He pointed to
the parchment. “And this canal is outlined in blue ink. Blue ink is
new on the market and this is an old map. Why would Martin write on
it?”

Silas pursed his lips. His mouth moved in
thought as his eyes traced the line on the page. “Something to do
with the Royal Road?” he offered.

“Aye,” Ferran agreed, and clasped his hands
behind his back. He began to pace. “Today is the Winter Solstice
Parade, and this is the main channel. I have a horrible feeling the
Shade plan to disrupt the parade. At the very least, Sora will be
attending, and they might try to kidnap her again. This could be a
perfect opportunity to catch them off-guard, lure them into the
open and finally discover their plans!”

“All this from a map?” Silas asked
skeptically. “And what’s this about your brother and the Shade? Are
they in league with one another?”

“I don’t know,” Ferran said briefly. “But I
trust my instincts. This blue line is almost identical to the
parade route.”

Silas gazed at the map again. “Doesn’t the
King have soldiers for this?” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t you tell
the Guard?”

“Sure,” Ferran agreed. “I’ll tell them a
mythical race of demonic assassins might attack by using the sewer
canals. And as proof, I’ll give them this map, drawn by the King’s
own hand and stolen from Martin Ebonaire. I’m sure I will land in
jail.” He gave the Dracian a disgruntled look. “Do you only plan to
drink and gamble this entire week? Or will you do something
useful?”

Silas rolled his eyes. “I have no loyalty to
the human King,” he said. “And I don’t see how this will help us
recover the weapons…or my book, for that matter.”

“The Shade have threatened Sora’s life.
They’ve tried to abduct her twice.”

“I recall that.”

“She’ll be attending the parade. She’s a
target.”

Silas studied the map thoughtfully. “Well,
Tristan’s fond of her,” he finally grumbled. “I might be saving his
future wife.” He pulled a robe around his shoulders. “I will gather
my crew and keep watch along the canal. And what will you be
doing?”

Ferran nodded. “I’ll be searching for their
hideout in The Regency,” he said, “in hopes of recovering your
book. I will travel to each of the sewer access tunnels and see if
I can find anything suspicious.”

“Then let’s hope the day goes smoothly,”
Silas said. “I’ll see if I can recruit the Harpy. Perhaps I can
persuade him to leave that little demon girl for a few hours.”

Ferran frowned at that. He remembered
Caprion’s arrival at the Ebonaire manor last night. Had the Harpy
already returned to the ship? He wondered what he might have
learned from their captive, but he didn’t have time to investigate.
Dawn’s light was already brightening the sky. Ferran had to return
to The Regency before he was missed. He could excuse his absence by
claiming an early-morning ride, but he couldn’t leave his brother
waiting too long.

He grasped Silas’ arm firmly. “I’m counting
on you,” he said, searching the pirate’s eyes.

Silas grinned, and his gold tooth flashed.
“I’m counting on your generosity, should we save your King.” He
gripped Ferran’s arm in return.

Ferran nodded, turned, and left the
cabin.

* * *

Krait’s head lolled to one side. The wet,
musty scent of the river awakened her, and the gentle roll of the
ship. She winced. Her neck felt raw. Each swallow burned like a
dagger slipping down her throat. Her senses quickly sharpened.

She tested the bonds on her wrists.
Firm.

A loud clatter from the deck above caught
her attention. She heard rattling plates and
not-quite-distinguishable conversation. She guessed she was under a
mess hall. Chairs thumped against the floor. Breakfast hour?

Her eyes adjusted easily to the shadows of
the ship’s hold. She saw boxes, crates and barrels held down by
heavy nets, fastened to brass rings on the floor. She was tied to a
similar brass ring. The smell of seaweed and pickled vegetables
assaulted her nose. By the gentle sway of the ship, she guessed
they were still docked on the banks of the river.
Good,
she
thought. She was still in The City of Crowns. She could still
escape and easily return to her master.

Her eyes scanned the darkness for a sharp
object that would cut through her bonds, but she saw nothing of use
among the wood and ropes. She repeatedly tightened her hands into
fists, trying to jumpstart her circulation. How long would they
hold her? A few days? A week? Indefinitely? She sneered to herself.
The Harpy wouldn’t let her go. She suspected he would kill her
soon.

As though summoned by her thoughts, she felt
a subtle prickling on the back of her neck. Krait looked up just as
the hatch opened on the other end of the cargo hold. Dim light, too
white to be a lantern, teased her eyes.

Her chest tightened when she recognized the
Harpy’s glow. Instinctive panic surged. She would never admit it
aloud, but she feared the race of Wind and Light—
feared,
which was not a word in her native tongue.

The light brightened at the Harpy’s
approach. She shuddered. She couldn’t see his wings, but that
didn’t mean he was harmless. A piercing glow emanated from his
skin, burning her sensitive eyes.

He knelt before her. She squinted and bowed
her head to avoid his light, and suddenly, it dimmed. The vibration
rolling off his skin changed in texture and intensity.
Surprisingly, his magic didn’t hurt her as it had during her
interrogation. Rather, his aura washed over her in cool, calming
waves. The tension in her shoulders loosened.

He set a bowl of oatmeal and a tankard of
water next to her foot.

Krait almost laughed. “Come to feed me, like
a chained-up dog?” she asked derisively.

The Harpy—Caprion, they called him—gazed at
her with calm violet eyes.

She kicked the wooden bowl away. “Take your
gruel elsewhere,” she hissed. She couldn’t look directly at him.
The glow of his skin bothered her, but his expression was worse:
she saw no loathing, no disgust. His lips were set in a patient
line, like a parent watching a child throw a tantrum. He obviously
didn’t fear her in the least.