Melissa McShane (2 page)

“Do
not
go running off like that in this city,” Gerrard growled behind her. “She wasn’t a ghost, was she.”

Zerafine shook her head. “She was not,” she said, “but I couldn’t tell you what she was.

Maybe you and I both had the same bad pork at dinner. Maybe she was some kind of illusion.”

“I know that’s not what you believe.”

Zerafine sighed. “I don’t have enough information to know what I believe. Anything else

will have to wait until we speak to the Council. Did you get directions to the shrine?”

Gerrard made a sour face. “You don’t get directions in Portena, you get a direction-finder.”

He led the way toward a large booth, walled on three sides, that was still doing a brisk business when many of the other shopkeepers were beginning to close for the night. A board hung in the front, with prices chalked on it. Boys and girls lounged around it, laughing and talking, but the noise petered out as one by one they registered who their new clients were. Gerrard dug in his pouch for a brass coin. “Shrine of Atenas,” he said. “Another if you get us there before

nightfall.”

The young guides shared glances of fear and cupidity. One disappeared inside and returned with a much older woman, her face creased and brown with sun. Her lean hand plucked the coin from Gerrard’s and spun it in the air. “Nacalia,” she said, her voice as brown as her face, “take these good people where they aim to go.” A girl leaped up from where she’d been sitting cross-legged and lit a small lantern from the coals in a brazier by the door. She seemed motivated more by excitement than fear, Zerafine thought, and she nimbly threaded her way through the crowd that parted more quickly for the red-hooded
thelis
.

As dusk fell, Zerafine saw acolytes of Kandra lighting much larger lamps all along the wide road, so she guessed the girl’s tiny lamp was more symbolic than utilitarian. They soon passed out of the marketplace and into an area where houses loomed over the street, wooden structures four and five stories tall. Their dark windows flickered with dim lights; no large fires for the inhabitants of these rickety structures.

Nacalia turned around and jogged backward for a few steps. “This way,
thelis
,” she said.

She turned off the main road to the left and led them along a narrower road lined with more of the tall houses, which leaned just enough to give the illusion that they were walking through a manmade forest with branches interlocking to block out the sun or, in this case, the half-moon that rose over the city. Gradually the buildings gave way to single-story homes built of concrete or stone—limestone, perhaps?—sharing a single wall fronting the street, their slate or tin roofs bumping up against each other. Through iron gates, spaced well apart and marked on each

doorpost with gods’ symbols, Zerafine glimpsed small courtyards, white marble benches, a

fountain or two. From here she could see another of the five hills of Portena, its top still gleaming gold from the last light of the setting sun.

“That’s Telerion Hide,” Nacalia called out over her shoulder, pointing back in the direction of the warren of homes, “and this is just a nest of the new-come’s houses. That hill’s Rodennos, and the other’s Talarannos—” she pointed as she trotted ahead. Zerafine thought Nacalia the tour guide was determined to earn her bonus, both in speed and in the quality of the trip.

Nacalia now led the way through a maze of narrow streets in which Zerafine would have

become hopelessly lost—was hopelessly lost, as she’d been trying to keep track of the turns Nacalia made. But in only a few minutes they emerged onto another broad street, not as wide as the main road, but wide enough that Gerrard, who disliked narrow places, breathed out heavily as though he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

This neighborhood was identical with the last except that the homes were larger, the

courtyards bigger, the stone finer. The road led past these homes and terminated at a building that looked very much like all the rest, except that it was faced with black marble and did not bear the symbols every other front door was marked with. Death had no symbol, for it was

everywhere.

Gerrard dug into his pouch again and came up with another brass siclo. Nacalia took it

eagerly, but instead of pelting off in the direction they’d come, said, “I never met a
thelis
of Atenas before. Thought you was all ten feet tall and gug-ugly.”

Zerafine laughed. “I’m so grateful you don’t think I’m gug-ugly,” she said.

“Not even. Nor even ten feet tall.
He
might be.” Nacalia seemed a little disappointed.

Gerrard straightened to his full six-foot-four height.

On a whim, Zerafine asked, “How much of that do you get to keep?”

Nacalia considered the coin in her somewhat grubby hand. “Maybe 20 soldi.” That would

mean Nacalia got around a third of the total sum. She added, with a sly look upward through her lashes, “Plus half the tips.” Zerafine raised her eyebrow at Gerrard, who went fishing for another siclo. Nacalia’s eyes went wide when she saw it. “Thanks so much, master guardsman!”

“But your boss won’t know how much we paid you,” Zerafine said. “Don’t you think about

keeping it all?”

“She knows anyhow. Got a luck-eye blessed by a Sintha
thelis
can see into our souls, or some such. Can’t keep nothing like from her.”

“Do you do other things than guide? Run errands and so forth?”

Nacalia beamed. “Sure I’d like to,” she said, “if old Karra says yes. She owns my contract next few years. Can’t cross her.”

“Then tell Karra I’ll be back in the morning to negotiate with her. Now, hurry back!”

Nacalia turned and bolted back the way they’d come. Gerrard said, “How whimsical of

you.”

“Oh, shut up. It was hardly whimsical. She’ll be a perfect runner.”

“You barely know the girl. What makes you so sure?”

Zerafine stared in the direction in which the girl had vanished. “She wasn’t afraid of me.

That counts for a lot.”

“Really? How were you going to find her again?”

Zerafine’s mouth opened, then shut. “Oh,” she said.

“Oh, exactly,” Gerrard said. “Fortunately for you, I
did
memorize the route. A few more trips and you won’t need to hire a guide.”

“But I
will
need someone who knows this city and how to find anywhere or anything, and I believe Nacalia is that someone. And that’s not something you can do for me.”

Gerrard shook his head. “I wonder if they’re expecting us so early. We’re at least a day’s journey ahead of schedule.”

“Expecting us or not, we’re here, and there’s no point putting this off any longer.” Zerafine adjusted her hood so that her face was in full view, then pushed open the door to the shrine of Atenas.

The black marble of the building turned out to be a façade; the interior of the shrine was white marble that gleamed gold in the light of a dozen torches affixed to the four walls. They flickered in a slight breeze that appeared to come from near the high ceiling. Other than the torches, the room was empty. An open door in the far wall led to a second room, also torch-lit, but with rough limestone walls that caught the light and reflected it back in glittering fragments.

It felt smaller than it was, but the effect was comforting rather than claustrophobic, and even without seeing the altar made of the same rough-hewn limestone as the walls, Zerafine could feel the presence of the god in His sanctuary. It felt like coming home.

Two men and one woman kneeling around the altar looked up as they entered. “My name is

Zerafine of Dardagne, and I’m here as special emissary from Atenar to investigate the

disturbances in Portena,” Zerafine said. It was a formality; they knew who she was. She saluted the woman, who had to be Berenica,
tokthelis
of Atenas and guardian of the Portena shrine. Her white hair was at odds with her faintly lined face, though Zerafine knew her to be over sixty years old. She was short and heavyset and her large hands were steady as they saluted—superior to subordinate, incorrectly, because despite Berenica’s higher rank and seniority, Zerafine was currently the
Marathelos
of Atenas’s plenipotentiary, invested with full power to act on his behalf. A telling reaction, but not one worth calling her on.

Berenica gave her a long, cold stare. “Be welcome to this sanctuary,” she said. Her voice was high, unexpectedly high for such a large woman, Zerafine thought. It was a beautiful voice, and Zerafine could imagine how it might sound performing the chants of High Holy Week. Right now it also sounded unwelcoming, which irritated Zerafine. She had been afraid the proud old woman would not be happy about being outranked, even temporarily, by the
Marathelos
’s representative, especially since Berenica hadn’t been the one to ask Atenar for help, and it seemed her fears weren’t unfounded. Berenica was more likely to be a stumbling block than an ally.

“We were about to begin the rites of evening, if you’d care to join us,” Berenica said, her tone of voice a challenge, her look a chastisement that Zerafine had simply blundered into the sanctuary without giving notice. Zerafine shucked her load and gave it to Gerrard, who ducked back into the antechamber to wait. As Berenica led the chant, Zerafine responded automatically.

With her hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her robe and her hood pulled well over her face, she was free to think without giving anything away. The city council had asked Atenar for help; that meant the situation was serious. They had sent for someone with the
Marathelos
’s authority; that suggested the problem was a matter of judgment and political intrigue. Zerafine had never seen this assignment as a reward, but if she didn’t know better, she would now have seen it as a punishment.

It did make her wonder, as she knelt at the altar, what the
Marathelos
had been thinking when he gave her the assignment. She was certainly capable of handling rogue ghosts, had made a name for herself doing so, but political machinations were not her forte. And the
Marathelos
had been—could she call it coy?—at any rate, not very forthcoming about the details.
Ghosts
, he had said, then added,
but not like any other
, and described the translucent figures plaguing Portena. That was all. With luck, Berenica’s pride wouldn’t keep her from being more

forthcoming than her spiritual superior.

“May we be the light that guides His spirits home,” Berenica concluded, and with final

gestures, palm to palm, the service was over. Berenica led the way into the antechamber,

Zerafine trailing behind the two men.

“Please join us for an evening meal,” Berenica said, pushing her hood back and making a

formal salute. “We’re all anxious for news from Atenar. Or, if you’d prefer, someone will show you to your quarters and arrange for food to be brought. If you’re too tired.” Her voice held the tiniest hint of a challenge, as if tiredness after a long journey was a sign of spiritual weakness.

Despite her irritation, Zerafine had to admire the woman’s nuanced communication, her mastery of that wonderful voice.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Gerrard and I would be happy to share your meal.” She put just enough emphasis on Gerrard’s name to show she’d noticed no one had bothered to ask for it.

Berenica again led the way, out of the shrine and to the house on its left. Full dark had fallen in the time it had taken to complete the evening ritual, and the half-moon cast a pale blue light over the street. More light came from lamps burning behind the household walls farther on, but at this end of the street only two houses were lit, and one of those was behind the gate Berenica now approached. A man dressed in dark shirt and trousers opened the gate before she reached it, and she swept through without a word.

The courtyard was given over to a large and well-kept garden, with many shade trees and

benches set artfully beneath them. Zerafine could imagine how comfortable it would be during the heat of the day. The house, by contrast, bore no ornamentation beyond a lintel carved with an abstract design, but the interior blazed with color: jewel-toned hangings from across the sea, chairs comfortably upholstered with brightly-dyed wools, a rug that came from Zerafine’s home country of Dardagne, vases etched in intricate patterns that were Portena-made. Beyond the large sitting area stood a low table of some exotic wood, surrounded by cushioned stools, upon which was laid an elegant meal. The man who had opened the gate, who’d come in behind them,

removed cutlery and glassware from a curiously carved and painted cabinet and proceeded to rearrange the place settings for five instead of three.

“Is this your home? It’s lovely,” Zerafine said to Berenica, and felt the woman’s tension relax just a little.
She must have expected a criticism of how luxuriously she lives
, she thought,
and if I were as rigid as she appears to be, I would have given it to her.
True, it was a little...ostentatious...but it wasn’t Zerafine’s job to judge Berenica—or did she think that was part of Zerafine’s purpose here? This contradiction in the
tokthelis
, this external austerity wedded to hidden luxury, baffled her, and she wondered again if they would be able to work together, because Zerafine had neither time nor inclination to cosset the woman’s injured pride.

Berenica quickly introduced the two
theloi
, Ricenz and Darlen, pretending that she hadn’t forgotten to do it earlier just as she’d “forgotten” to ask for Gerrard’s name, and they seated themselves around the table. Zerafine guessed Berenica chafed at having to eat with Gerrard;
sentaren
didn’t rank any lower than
theloi
, but among the older
theloi
it was tradition to eat separately, and Berenica appeared to be as traditional as they came. Unfortunately for her, she couldn’t say anything about it without being rude, since Zerafine outranked her, even if

temporarily. It gave Zerafine a wicked little ember of pleasure deep inside; she could show good manners, but she didn’t think she liked the old
tokthelis
any more than Berenica liked her.