Nevernight (32 page)

“I’ve never been all that grand at learning secrets.”

“Shouldn’t you be out practicing, then?”

“I thought you might loan me one so I can spend the time drinking with you instead.”

Mercurio scoffed, blue eyes wrinkling as he smiled. Mia’s heart warmed to be with him again—though it’d barely been three months since she left Godsgrave, she had to admit she’d missed the cranky old bastard. She set about telling him of the Church in hushed tones. The Mountain. Her run-in with Solis.

“Aye, he’s a bleeding prick,” Mercurio muttered. “Damn fine swordsman, though. Mark his teaching well.”

“Hard for me to learn anything when I can’t attend lessons.” She proffered her arm, her elbow now a lovely shade of yellow and gray. “It’s taking bloody ages to heal.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mercurio spat. “It’s hardly even bruised. You get back in that hall on the morrow.” The old man raised his voice over the beginnings of Mia’s protest. “So Solis gave your arse a kicking. Learn from it. Sometimes weakness is a weapon.
If
you’re smart enough to use it.”

Mia chewed her lip. Nodded slow. She knew he spoke truth, that she should be learning all from Solis that she could. Now that she was back in Godsgrave, her reason for studying at the Church burned in her mind hotter than ever. Everywhere she looked, she saw reminders. The Ribs where she’d lived as a child. The Luminatii and their bright white armor, reminding her so much of her father.

The bastards who took him from her …

“Any news about Scaeva since I’ve been gone?” she asked.

Mercurio sighed. “Well, he’s standing for a fourth term as sole consul, but that shouldn’t surprise anyone. He’s got half the Senate in his thrall, and the other half are too scared or greedy to raise a ruckus. Looks like the second consul’s chair will remain empty for the foreseeable future.”

Mia shook her head, silently amazed. When the Republic had been founded, when the Itreyans murdered their last king, the system they built in the monarchy’s ruins was meant to make a new monarchy impossible. The Itreyans elected consuls to rule them every truedark, but there were
two
consul’s chairs in the Senate House, and no consul was permitted to sit two terms in a row. That was the entire
point
of the Republic. All tenure of power was shared, and all tenure of power was short.

When General Antonius raised his army in rebellion against the Senate, Scaeva had dredged up some anachronistic amendments in the Itreyan constitution that allowed him to sit as sole consul in the Republic’s time of need, but …

“He’s still citing emergency powers?” Mia sighed. “The Kingmaker Rebellion was put down
six years ago
. The
balls
on that bastard…”

“Well, he might’ve had a hard time convincing the Senate there was still a crisis, but when an assassin tries to murder the head of the Republic in a cathedral full of witnesses, it gets a touch easier to make the case. The Truedark Massacre showed the Senate just how dangerous this city still is. You’d need a bloody army to get through to Scaeva now. He doesn’t take a piss without a cadre of Luminatii to hold the pot.”

Mia sipped her whiskey. Eyes on the table.

“Cardinal Duomo is still on Scaeva like a babe at his mother’s tit, of course,” Mercurio muttered. “Has his ministers preaching from the pulpits, praising our ‘glorious consul’ and his ‘golden age of peace.’” The old man scoffed. “Golden age of tyranny, more like it. We’re closer to a new arse on the throne than when the Kingmakers raised their army. But the plebs lap it up. Peace means stability. And stability means money. Scaeva’s near untouchable now.”

“Give me time,” Mia said. “I’ll touch him. None too gently, either.”

“O, aye, what could possibly go wrong there?”

“Scaeva needs to die, Mercurio.”

“You just mind your lessons,” Mercurio growled. “You’re a damn sight shy of initiation. The Church is only going to test you harder, and there’s plenty of ways to get buried between here and the finish line. Worry about Scaeva when you’re a Blade, not a moment before. Because it’s only going to be a full-fledged Blade that gets to him now.”

Mia lowered her eyes. Nodded. “I will. I promise.”

Mercurio looked at her, those born-to-scowl eyes softening around the edges.

“How you holding up in there?”

“Well enough.” She shrugged. “Apart from the dismemberment.”

“They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”

“I’ve blood on my hands already.”

“I’m not talking about killing those who deserve it, little Crow. You ended their executioner, true. But he was the man who hung your father. That’d be easy for the softest of us.” The old man sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. Bringing you in. Teaching you all this.”

“You said it yourself,” Mia hissed. “Scaeva is a fucking tyrant. He needs to
die
. Not just for me. For the Republic. For the people.”

“The people, eh? That’s what this is about?”

She reached out across the table, squeezed the old man’s hand.

“I can do this, Mercurio.”

“… Aye.” He nodded, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I know it, lass.”

He looked wearier than she’d ever seen him. The weight of it of all, piling up turn by turn. His skin was like paper. His eyes bloodshot.

He looks so old.

Mercurio cleared his throat, drained the last of his wine. “I’ll leave first. Give me ten minutes.”

“Aye.”

The old assassin smiled, hovered uncertainly. It was all Mia could do to stop herself from rising to hug him. But she held herself still, and he gathered up his walking stick, gave her a brief nod. Turning, he took a step toward the door, stopped short.

“’Byss and blood, I almost forgot.”

He reached into his greatcoat, proffered a small wooden box, sealed with tallow. Mia recognized the sigil scorched into the wood. Recalled the little store where the old man used to buy his cigarillos. Remembering the night he first let her smoke one. Sitting on the battlements above the forum. Dark all around. Hands shaking. Fingers stained with blood. Fourteen years old.

Don’t look.

“Black Dorian’s,” she smiled.

“Paper. Tobacco. Wood. It’ll all make the Walk. I remember that time you tried to quit. Figured it best you don’t run out in there.”

“Best not,” Mia took the box from his hand, her eyes stinging. “My thanks.”

“Watch your back. And your front.” He waved vaguely. “And the rest of it, too.”

“Always.”

The old man pulled his tricorn down, his collar up. And without another word, he limped from the taverna and out into the street. Mia watched him go, counting the minutes down in her head. Eyes on the old man’s back as he limped into the distance.

“They’ll ask you to do things, soon. Dark things. To prove your devotion.”

Mia rested her chin in her hands, lost in thought.

A rowdy pack of bucks was coming in from the street, dressed in the white armor and red cloaks of the Luminatii. The girl glanced up at the sound of their laughter, young faces and handsome smiles. Stationed this close to the Palazzo, they were probably all marrowborn sons. Pulling a few years in the legion to further their familia’s political ends. If things had gone different, she’d be betrothed to a boy like that, most like. Living a life of privilege and never stopping a moment to—

“Pardon me,” said a voice.

Mia looked up, blinking. One of the Luminatii was standing above her. Ladykiller smile and a rich boy’s teeth.

“Forgive me, Mi Dona,” he bowed. “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting alone, and I thought it a crime against the Light itself. Might you permit me to join you?”

Mia’s hackles rippled, her fingers twitched. But realizing she appeared nothing more than a marrowborn girl out drinking alone, and remembering Aalea’s many and hard-learned lessons in charm, Mia smoothed her feathers and gave her best smile.

“O, that sounds lovely,” she said. “I’m honored, sir, but I’m afraid my mother is expecting me abed. Perhaps another time?”

“I trust your mother can spare you for one drink?” The boy raised a hopeful eyebrow. “I’ve not seen you in here before.”

“Apologies, sir.” Mia rose from the table. “But I really must be going.”

“Hold, now.” The boy blocked her way out of the booth. Eyes darkening.

Mia tried to quash her rising anger. Kept her voice steady. Stare downcast.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re in my way.”

“I’m just being friendly, girl.”

“Is that what you call it, sir?” Mia’s eyes flashed as her temper finally came out to play. “Others might say you’re being an arse.”

Anger blotched the boy’s face—the quick fury of a lad too used to getting his own way. He reached out with one gauntleted hand, seized Mia’s wrist, holding tight.

She could’ve broken his jaw, then. Buried her knee in his bollocks. Sat on his chest and wailed on his face until he learned not all girls were his sport. But that’d mark her as someone who knew the Song, and she was in a pub with half a dozen of his fellows, after all. And so she settled for twisting her arm as Mercurio had taught her, putting the boy off balance and tearing free of his iron-shod grip.

The buttons at her cuff popped. Cloth tore. The sheathe at her wrist twisted and with the sound of snapping leather, Mia’s gravebone stiletto clattered to the floor.

A heavy hand clapped the back of the boy’s neck, a smoker’s voice growling.

“Leave the girl alone, Andio. We’re here to drink, not chase doves.”

The boy and Mia glanced over his shoulder, saw an older man in centurion’s armor looming behind the young soldier. He was a big man, his face scarred and grim.

“Forgive me, Centu—”

With a loud clunk, the centurion kicked the younger man in the backside and sent him on his way, folding his arms and scowling until the boy rejoined his comrades. The man was obviously a veteran, one eye covered by a dark leather patch. Satisfied, the centurion tapped the brim of his plumed helm, gave Mia an apologetic nod.

“Forgiveness for my man’s impertinence, Dona. No harm done, I hope?”

“No, sir,” Mia smiled, heart beating easier. “My thanks, Centurion.”

The man nodded, stooped and lifted Mia’s stiletto off the floor. With a small bow, he proffered it on his forearm. The girl smiled wider, curtseyed with invisible skirts and took the dagger from his hand. But as she slipped it back up her sleeve, the man’s eyes followed the blade, the crow carved on the hilt. A slow frown took seed on his brow.

Mia’s face paled.

O, Daughters …

She recognized him now. It’d been six years, but she’d not forgotten him. Leaning over the barrel she’d been stowed inside, with his pretty blue eyes and the smile of a fellow who choked puppies for sport.

“Maw’s teeth,” breathed the first. “She can’t be more than ten.”

“Never to see eleven.” A sigh. “Hold still, girl. This won’t hurt long.”

The centurion wasn’t smiling now.

Mia shuffled around the table, knocking over her empty cup. She tried another hasty curtsey and a quick walk to the door, but like the soldier before him, the centurion now blocked her way from the booth. Fingers creeping to the patch of leather, covering the eye she’d skewered with her gravebone stiletto all those years ago. Disbelief etched in his features.

“Can’t be…”

“Excuse me, sir.”

Mia tried to muscle past, but the centurion grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. Mia held her temper—barely—thinking she might still bluff her way through. Bolting like a frightened deer would cause attention. But the man twisted her arm, looked at the stiletto once more sheathed at her wrist. The crow on the hilt with its tiny amber eyes.

“Name of the Light…,” he breathed.

“Centurion Alberius?” called Mia’s scorned soldierboy. “Is all well?”

The centurion fixed Mia in his stare. Puppy-killer smile finally coming out to play.

“O, everything is well, all right,” he said.

Mia’s knee collided with the man’s groin, her elbow with his chin. The centurion cried out, helmet flying off his head as he toppled backward, and Mia was vaulting over his body on her way to the door. The legionaries took a moment to react, watching their commander drop like a whimpering sack of potatoes, but soon enough they barreled out into the street behind the fleeing girl. Mia heard whistles blowing behind her, furious shouts, running feet.

“Of all the pubs in Godsgrave,” she gasped. “What are the fucking odds?”

“…
you
did
pick one right next to the palazzo
…”

She threw her hood over her head, skidded off the main drag and down a twisting sidealley, bolting over the refuse and drunks, the sugargirls and sweetboys. More footsteps behind her, more whistles, more men. Buckled cobbles under her feet, narrow walls closing in about her. She bolted into a tiny piazza, barely ten feet at a side, an old bubbling fountain at its heart. The goddess Trelene stood atop it, her gown made of crashing waves, surrounded by candles and bloody offerings. Pushing herself back into a little doorway, Mia dragged her cloak of shadows about her shoulders, all the world dropping into gloom and darkness.

Footsteps coming. Heavy boots. Through her cloak, she caught the dim impression of a dozen Luminatii, sunsteel blades drawn and blazing, dashing into the piazza. Seeing no sign of her, they split up and thundered off in all directions. Mia stayed still, Mister Kindly at her feet, the pair just a smudge in the doorway. She waited as another group of soldiers rushed past, shouting and shoving.

Finally, silence.

She stole away slowly, feeling her way along the wall beneath her cloak. At a time like this, it was hard to fault the Mother for marking her—if, indeed, that’s what she’d done. But as far as magik went, being able to stumble about near blind and almost invisible seemed a far cry from Adonai or Marielle’s brand of sorcery. Everyone paid a price, she supposed. Adonai thirsted for what he controlled. Marielle wove the flesh of others and corrupted her own. And Mia could remain unseen, but hardly see while doing it …