In the Shadow of the Gods (17 page)

He stood for a moment, watching, his hand resting lightly on the stone box. He still wasn't convinced it was going to work, but belief, he had discovered, was not always such a straightforward thing. Belief could be learned.

Joros went to his door,
18
carved deep into the wood. There was another ledger book inside the room, identical to the ones he'd scribbled in as Ventiro and Nodeiro, though this one was
filled with line after line of initiates' names. Whenever a new aspiring preacher stumbled into the darkness from the cold of Raturo's peak, the watchers stationed there would jot down names and answers to a few questions and bring these to Joros, who each night faithfully recorded them in his ledger. He'd once asked Dirrakara if any of the Ventallo did aught besides keep records; she'd laughed and smiled, but kept her lips closed.

It wasn't what he'd imagined power to be. And he'd imagined power often, as a younger man, the third son of a fifth son living in squalor on the outskirts of the capital. He'd been a boy, once, who'd dreamed of being a king until his brother had sneered and told him merchants couldn't be kings. Even the so-called merchant kings of Mercetta had little power over things of any import. There was little chance for a humble man to rise to greatness.

But there was another place, where men were not judged by their birth but by what they made of themselves. And Joros had known he could make himself a great man. He could make himself a king.

He didn't think kings spent so much time filling lines.

A gasp startled Joros, his pen skittering across the page in a blotchy line that obscured half the names he'd just entered. He scowled down at the page, his fingers tightening dangerously around the pen, until he heard the sound again.

Anddyr was on his back next to the stone box, eyes wide in his pale face, hands scrabbling at his throat as he gasped in shallow breaths. Joros grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, demanding, “What is it? Did you find something?”

“I . . .” Anddyr pressed one hand to the floor as a brace and
the other against his chest; Joros wasn't sure if he was short of breath or too addled to speak. “I . . . I
felt
something.”

There was a beat of silence as the words registered, and then triumph surged through Joros. “Felt what?”

“I . . . I don't know. It felt like . . .” He reached a hand out toward the bier but stopped short, fingers curling like he'd touched something faintly slimy. “. . . like what's in there.”

Joros almost laughed. His hands tightened on Anddyr's shoulders, a moment of shared victory. “Where is it? Can you take us there?”

Anddyr flinched, trying to twist away like a worm, and Joros tightened his fingers further as the joy began to slip away. “I only
felt
it,” Anddyr murmured. “It . . . it scared me. Surprised me. I couldn't . . .” He whimpered and tried to twist away again.

“Go back!” Joros threw the mage against the bier, drawing a yelp as Anddyr's face scraped against the stone. Joros's hands were like claws as he pressed Anddyr's palms to the bier, and he heard the sniveling mage begin to cry.
“Find it again.”
Anddyr wailed and struggled for a moment, and then his mind fled away in the manner of his searching. With an effort, Joros released the man, making sure his stickish body remained draped over the stone box. He paced restlessly, hands clutching air at his sides, glaring often at Anddyr's unmoving back.

Finally Anddyr twitched, shifted, slid down to the floor. Joros rounded on him, grabbing him by the neck and shoving him against the bier again. The mage didn't seem to notice; he was grinning wildly, and he crowed, “The North! It's in the North!”

Joros's hand didn't loosen from around the mage's throat.
“The North?” he repeated slowly, softly—and then with more incredulity: “The
North
? Do you have any fecking clue how big the North is?” With Anddyr held immobile between his hand and the stone box, Joros's fist connected solidly with the side of the mage's head. He let the mage fall to the floor, and when he didn't answer with a spout of flame, Joros aimed a kick at his stomach. The mage curled into a ball, but that didn't stop Joros's booted feet or balled fists. Joros vented his anger on the useless fool, spitting curses, until his breath came short and his hands ached. Anddyr lay whimpering and muttering, always muttering, and showed no signs of being any kind of danger to Joros.

“Get up,” Joros snarled, all his disgust returned thrice over, “and find me something useful.”

Slowly Anddyr drew himself up to his knees and pressed his shaking hands against the stone. The fingers of one hand were bent unnaturally, and his nose was swollen, leaking a steady stream of blood. The mage was wise enough not to utter a sound of complaint, and sent his magic out once more.

Joros stood panting, his limbs slowly relaxing, bloody-knuckled hands uncurling. The feeling of triumph gradually returned to stretch his lips into a smile. He was getting closer.

T
hey slept in an alley just off the West Market, behind a quiet baker's shop . . . or at least Aro slept. Rora couldn't get her eyes to close, couldn't pull them off the bright dagger, the blue jewel that looked like it was full of its own light. The knife was exactly as long as her forearm, from fingertips to elbow, like a smith had measured it just for her.

By the time the sun poked its fingers into the alley, Rora had scrubbed away every last spot of Nadaro's blood off the knife, using the edge of her shirt and then scraping with her thumbnail, once the blood got dried on. It was bright and shiny and beautiful, glowing in the sunlight, and it made her glow, too.

Aro didn't ask what'd happened. Must've been something in her face that told him he didn't want to know. He just rubbed a hand under his runny nose and asked, “What're we gonna do now?”

Rora'd been thinking about that, too, through the night. She had a few things she'd filched from Nadaro's house, enough
to sell for them to live on for a while, but that came with its own set of problems. They couldn't stay topside, not unless she found them somewhere safe. That meant buying a room somewhere, which would keep them safe and cozy for a little while until she ran out of things to sell, or holing up somewhere secret, which was free enough but it meant dodging guards and biggers and anyone else who'd chase them back down to the Canals. Maybe they looked it now, and Kala'd argued it half a hundred times, but Rora knew in her heart that they didn't belong topside. They were Scum, clear and simple. Sure, they could probably pass off as topsiders for a while, but in the end, they'd wind up right back in the Canals, and worse off for having sold all their stolen valuables. So it was better to skip to the end, and find some advantage to it.

“We're going back down,” she said decisively. Aro's face fell, but he didn't argue. It seemed like he'd learned his lesson about not listening to her. That was good. It'd make everything easier. She stood up and brushed the dirt from her clothes, rubbed some dirt in Aro's stubby hair to make it lighter, and then held on to the long knife for a bit, thinking. She wasn't about to leave it behind, but she couldn't really walk around just carrying it. Finally she ripped off some cloth from a stolen cloak that was too long for her or Aro anyway, and wrapped it around and around the blade. It wasn't near as good as a proper sheath, but it would keep the sharp edges away. She tied her belt off below the knife's hilt, stuffed the knife down the inside of her pants, hanging alongside her right leg, and looped the belt around her hips. It'd have to do.

She had to walk with a twist in her step, to keep the knife from bumping against her leg, to keep anyone from seeing it
sway when she walked. Guards got twitchy about pups with knives, and she didn't want that kind of attention.

They went to a fence, a man who'd managed to make it out of the Canals and still had a soft spot for Scum. He bought up everything Rora'd stolen, no questions, and he even gave her a good price on a battered sheath for the knife. It was a little big, but it was better than rags. She and Aro stripped off the clothes Nadaro had given them and traded them in for plainer things, clothes that wouldn't get them noticed down in the Canals. The fence offered her a good price for their boots, but that was something Rora couldn't bring herself to sell, not with winter coming on. Still, after all of it, she had five silver gids and a few durames, and a pouch to keep them in. She stuffed the gids in her and Aro's boots, and kept the coppers in the pouch around her waist.

And after that, there was no more putting it off.

Sure, she took her time about it, taking the windingest route through the city, crossing all the way over to East Quarter, where the houses were just a little nicer, the people just a little meaner. They climbed down under a bridge, wedging fingers and toes into the torn-out bricks like they'd done hundreds of times before under a dozen other bridges. Mercetta was full of bridges, and full of the water that ran under the bridges, and full of the Scum that lived on the water.

Soon as her feet touched the ledge, a hand snaked out to grab Rora's arm. Stinking breath hissed into her face as a man said, “Gimme whatever you got.”

“Rora!” Aro shouted, but by then the too-big sheath was rattling, and the knife was shining bright in her hand, her bad hand that maybe wasn't so bad now it'd been getting so much use, and the man let her go.

“No trouble,” he whined, backing off with his hands raised, baring rotten teeth and looking like he was ready to give trouble soon as she turned her back. “No trouble with you, girl.”

“You stay back,” she said, shaking the knife at him.

He spewed reeking laughter at her, but he did stay back, watching with hard eyes from the shadows under the bridge. Aro dropped to the ground behind her and they backstepped together, Rora keeping her eyes on the man, but he stayed where he was. They turned a corner, leaving the man and the bridge behind, and Rora spat into the canal. “Welcome home.” Aro just sniffled.

The Scum had done what they could as far as bridges went, but when you only had stolen goods and castoffs to work with, it wasn't too surprising the bridges were as few and poor-built as they were. The first one they came to was no more than two ropes stretched across the canal, one foot high, the other shoulder-high to Rora. The ropes were old and scummy and smelled like mildew, but there wasn't much in the way of options. There was a blue mark chalked onto the walls just ahead that looked something like a snake, and Rora was damned if they were going to go anywhere near the Serpents. So it was cross the shit bridge, or get drowned by the first Serpent to spot them, and that was no choice at all.

Rora went first. She was heavier, so if the rope was going to break, it'd do it for her, and she was a better swimmer anyway. Better shimmy-er, too, made it across in half the time it took Aro, once she finally got him to put his feet on the rope. Then it was down more winding, smelly canals, past lion-shaped yellow marks and red claws and shapeless green splotches and all the other pack marks, and across the first bridge they found
once Aro spotted a black handprint on the walls. Finally they found a white mark that looked close enough to a snarling dog to put Rora somewhat at ease. They walked on, into Whitedog Pack territory.

It didn't take too long for an eye to stop them. He dropped down from above, probably perched and watching from the ledges, and nearly squished Rora. She landed on her back with his foot on her chest, all the air whooshing out of her. Aro screeched like a girl, and the eye laughed. He leaned down over her, his face swelling huge to her foggy eyes, and his stale, oniony breath washed over her. “What're you doin' here, girl?”

Rora managed to suck in enough air to gasp back out, “Come to be a Dog.”

“Have you now?” He laughed again, and she gagged on the stench of his breath. Aro was whimpering somewhere behind her, too scared to do the smart thing and hide. Her head was still fogged up, but she made her hands start moving, one trying to push the eye away, the other reaching. “Scrap sees to the pups, and he don't have much use for whimpery pups at all, truth t' tell. Your boy there . . .” His chin jerked up, toward where Aro would be, and her fingers weren't moving fast enough, clumsy and weak. “He don't look too strong. Bet he don't swim too strong neither. Might be Scrap can find a use for you, girl, but your boy there ain't good for more'n fish food.”

Finally her fingers found the gem, cold and hard, and she pulled the knife clattering from the too-big sheath and sliced it across the back of the eye's leg. Nothing deep, just enough to tear his breeches leg and some skin, and pull a yelp from him. He jumped back, which was all to the good, and Rora drew in a good and deep breath. Some of the fog crept back away from
her, and she sat up carefully. Aro threw himself at her back, wrapping his shaking arms around her.

A laugh rang out, not the eye's laughter but a woman's. She dropped down next to the cursing eye, a tall dark woman with a flashing smile. “Best watch out, Cross,” she said cheerfully. “This pup's got teeth.”

“She won't when I'm done with her,” he growled, stepping forward, but the woman held out a hand to stop him.

“Don't think so. The Dogshead likes pups with some fire to 'em. Your name, girl?”

Rora shrugged off Aro's arms and pushed herself slowly up to her feet, keeping the knife held tight but not quite so threateningly. Aro hovered behind her, trying to look small and worth no one's while. It was the best kind of defense he had. Rora looked the woman in the eyes and said, “My name's Sparrow.” A little bird, plain and quiet but fierce in its own way. It was the name she'd been giving out since she'd realized her real name wouldn't do—Nadaro was just more proof of that.

“And the boy?”

Before Rora could even open her mouth to name him Finch, Aro's voice piped up, high and scared but determined, “Falcon.” Rora choked back a groan but kept herself from elbowing Aro in the nose.

The woman snorted. “A nice flock we've got, eh, Cross?” The eye was still grumbling, didn't answer. “I'll take 'em, then. Come, pups.” She motioned for them to follow her, and Rora did. It was that, or fight the eye, and she didn't see much chance there.

Aro stuck close to her heels. As they passed by Cross, she
heard him mumble at the woman's back, “So long as my hands are clean of it.”

They passed by a few more dogs' heads chalked onto the walls, each one bigger and meaner-looking than the last. Deep into Whitedog territory. The longer they went without the woman knifing them, the more Aro seemed to trust her, and he'd soon scampered up to bother her. “Who're you?” he asked.

The woman smirked down at him. “I'm called Tare.”

Aro's nose wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”

“The one I chose, same as you,
Falcon
.” Tare's hand moved, and Rora had nearly planted her knife in the woman's back before she realized Tare'd just reached down to tousle Aro's hair.

“So
what
are you?” Aro pressed. “That eye listened to you. He was
scared
of you. You must be someone important.”

She laughed. “Maybe you should learn from him.”

“But you're not that scary. So that means you have to be important. Are you a mouth? Or an ear? You move real quiet, are you a foot? Maybe an arm?”

“Ar—
Falcon
. . .” Rora hissed at his back, but he ignored the warning.

“You, boy,” Tare said, with a smile on her face but her voice flat as the stones they walked on, “are the loudest little falcon I have ever seen. Beak flapping that wide, you'll never catch any prey. Or secrets.”

Rora grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him to her side. He kept his eyes down on the ground, but not because he was scared or ashamed, like he should've been. He was thinking. Rora smacked him on the back of his head to try to knock loose whatever thoughts he was having. He shot a glare at her, but for once he kept his mouth shut.

Whitedog Den was smaller than Blackhand Den, where they'd lived before Nadaro, but fuller, too. There were people everywhere, felt like as many people as had ever filled the markets topside. Back with the Blackhands, Rora'd felt like a coin rattling around a burlap sack; it'd been easy to avoid everyone except Twist, who'd been mother long enough it almost seemed like he could sense his pups no matter where they were. Unexpectedly, Rora wondered if Twist missed them, if he was angry they'd gone. “You're a good pup,” he'd told Rora once, stroking her hair like no one ever did. “You'll make a better foot, and maybe even a finger before too long. You're a special pup.” But then she remembered why he'd had to calm her down, the blood dripping from Aro's nose and mouth and the handprint on his cheek, not black but red and shaped just like the hand touching her hair. She ground her teeth, and didn't care if Twist missed them. She rubbed the blue stone set into her dagger, and she hoped he died.

There were more people in Whitedog Den, but Rora and Aro were just pups, and pups didn't get second looks. Tare did, though, and sometimes the lookers flicked their eyes down to the two pups trailing behind her, and Rora saw curiosity in those eyes. She kept her hand tight on the dagger. Curiosity meant greed and wanting and blood and death.

There were two fists guarding the other end of the den, and a rotting dog's head stuck onto a pole. Flies buzzed around the empty, black eye sockets, and the tongue hung swollen out of the mouth like some huge fat leech. Aro half hid behind her, scared of anything he didn't recognize, but the head didn't scare Rora. The teeth, probably sharp once, were rotten, and maggots writhed around the jagged stump of its neck. It was
dead, as obviously dead as anything could be, and you didn't have to be scared of dead things.

The fist standing closest to the dog's head nodded to Tare, and said through his nose, “Best send Brick out t' find a new dog.” He drew in a quick sharp breath, and looked like he was about to be sick.

Tare chuckled. “This one suits just fine. Hasn't even started to fall apart yet.” She clapped the man on the shoulder, and then walked past.

Rora hesitated, Aro with her as ever. “Where're you taking us?” she called at Tare's back.

The woman didn't even look back, but she said, “I told you, the Dogshead likes pups with fire. You got fire or not?”

You couldn't walk away from a challenge like that in the Canals, not if you wanted to be anything, and anyway it wasn't like they could just walk back out of Whitedog territory. So they left the stinking dog's head behind, and walked into the heart of the den.

“Rora,” Aro whispered urgently at her side, “pups don't get to see heads, not
ever
. Where's she taking us?”