The Wound of the World Read online

  Poloa, Cavana, and as many as a dozen other small cities composed the Strip of Alebolgia. This was a geographical title, not a political one: the cities were regularly at war with each other. At the moment, however, Alebolgia was trying out a radical new notion known as "peace." By presenting a unified front, it was hoping to leverage more favorable deals from Mallon, Parth, and various trade partners to the south and out to sea.

  The group that had forged this alliance was House Itiego. Cavanese spice merchants, they'd amassed a gigantic fortune which they were currently employing to make their home city the jewel of the Strip. With most of the coast being rugged cliffs or jagged reefs, the city was the only deepwater port in the area large enough to accommodate a Mallish fleet. If the Colleners could convince the Itiegos to deny Mallon the right to make landing, the basin would be all but closed to attack.

  Their delegation arrived on a blustery afternoon. Cavana was dug into a steep hill overlooking the ocean, its levels descending in concentric rings down to its heart, the bustling piers where it did business. Arms of rock embraced the bay, protecting it from rough seas. Ships jammed the waterway.

  The grander houses were built with their backs against the hillside, pale stone with long, slanted roofs to keep the rain off the verandas. The people of Alebolgia had the same olive-toned skin as in Mallon and Collen, but the streets jostled with sailors and merchants from all corners of the known world. It was far smaller than Bressel or Narashtovik, home to no more than thirty thousand residents, yet it felt no less vibrant.

  House Itiego occupied a small hill of its own. Its sandstone central tower climbed to nearly three hundred feet, overlooking a sprawling compound of high walls and lush courtyards. The wrought iron gates were decorated with the albatrosses of the Itiego family crest.

  Boggs had sent a messenger ahead to announce their arrival. The gates were opened by pikemen wearing purple tabards bearing the white albatross. The Colleners were greeted by a man with thigh-high boots and a collar so big that a good gust of wind might blow him halfway to the Plagued Islands.

  "Welcome to House Itiego." The man bowed over one knee. "I am Gareno. Master Itiego awaits you in the Hall of Soaring Sails."

  Grooms materialized to lead their horses away. Several of the Colleners' servants went with them. Gareno took the rest of the expedition to the central keep, a round and massive sandstone fortress with two shorter rectangular wings of the house extending in a V from the center.

  Inside, sunlight spilled through high windows, splashing the black marble floor. The hall was an immense cylinder, the walls rising for thirty feet before bending inward to meet in a dome. A walkway encircled the wall just below where the ceiling began to curve, protected by a railing of thin copper bars. Great sheets of dirty canvas hung from the walls, completely at odds with the dark bleakwood furniture and copper fixtures.

  Gareno's assurance that Itiego was awaiting them turned out to be highly optimistic. While they waited for his arrival, Gareno, who was either a high-ranking servant or a low-ranking noble, told them the history of the canvas sheets, which turned out to be from some of the House's most famous ships.

  He'd gotten halfway around the room when hard steps echoed from the front doors. Gareno smiled and bowed over his knee. "My friends! Give welcome to Tanelo Itiego, Lord of House Itiego, Prime Navigator of Cavana, and first Speaker of the Confederated Cities of Alebolgia."

  The Colleners made their bows. Dante winced. Mallish nobles had trained them to bow as inferiors rather than as foreign equals, but though Lord Itiego surely noticed this lack of worldliness, no sign of it touched his expression. Like Gareno, he wore an enormous upthrust collar, which enfolded his head like a palm cupping an egg. He had hard, narrow features like carved wood and a long black mustache that drooped below his chin. His boots were turned down above the knee. He wore a dark coat fitted at the waist that was crossed with multiple belts.

  As Gareno introduced them, Itiego gave them each a respectful nod. His gaze lingered for an extra moment or two on Blays, who could have passed for a Collener, and then Dante, whose features were a picture of the basin's mortal enemies.

  "In Cavana," Itiego said in staccato-voweled, accented Mallish, "we have a saying: what separates us from the fish is that, among people, sometimes it is the smaller who wins. Congratulations, then, to the victory of the smaller fish."

  Cord grinned, rolling her shoulders. "Are you calling me short?"

  "Only your odds, General."

  "Ah! Then I won't have to give you a display of how we sent the Mallish running."

  Itiego's eyebrows flickered, as if he couldn't decide how to feel, then he laughed. "The only red I tolerate being spilled on these floors is wine. Be seated, and let's have some."

  They took their places around a bleakwood table. Servants arrived with pewter cups of wine; Itiego toasted the Collen Basin's victory. Dante was no expert on vintages, but every sip of the deep red seemed to taste like a different.

  "I am happy to hear the war concluded so swiftly," Itiego said. "Given the nature of my last contact with Collen, I was afraid a siege might prove very costly."

  Blays gave Dante a flat look. Dante blinked twice, the equivalent of a nod. Itiego was making a gambit to get them to boast about how exactly they'd ruined a superior Mallish army in the open field—he'd heard rumors, no doubt, but was now trying to determine how much truth was in them.

  And thus how much, if any, he needed to fear the people in front of him.

  "We took a risk," Cord said. "And our victory was so large Gashen must treasure us like his own children."

  "Gashen?" Itiego raised a thin dark brow. "Or Phannon?"

  Boggs chuckled. "Got to wonder what the Mallish did to piss off the lords of war and the sea."

  "I'm sure their priests will be scurrying to divine the same thing. In any event, I'm glad events turned out as they have."

  "That so? Last time we sent people your way, you seemed happy to send 'em back empty-handed."

  "There was nothing happy in that decision."

  "In hindsight, I'm sure there wasn't. But only because you gambled on the wrong horse."

  Itiego stared Boggs down. Dante wasn't sure if it was a rebuke, or if he was just taking the man in. Boggs' face was chapped and weatherbeaten. His speech was as plain as yesterday's bread. He was a good fit to lead the farmers and soldiers of Collen. It was an open question as to what kind of fit he would make with the lords and merchants of Alebolgia.

  "Publicly, I said many things to many people," Itiego said. "In the interior of my heart, however, I hoped that Collen would win. Not because I admire you so much, mind you. Nor because of any especial dislike for the Mallish. Rather because your survival—and, one hopes, your growth—is better for balance. Just as you must prefer that the cities of the Strip remain independent and not proxies of the empire on your doorstep."

  "That is so." In the echoing hall, the Keeper's deep voice sounded like a godly command. "And that is what brings us here. For the first time in years, Collen is free. For the first time in ages, we will keep it that way. We have secured our borders with Mallon. We request that Cavana closes its port to their army."

  "Why would we do such a thing?"

  "It's as you just said. If you let them land their troops, and they steal our lands from us once more, then they also steal the balance of the region."

  Itiego leaned back. Without breaking eye contact with the Keeper, he accepted a glass of wine from a nearby servant. "Do you understand why the cities of Alebolgia fare so well?"

  "An abundance of wise leadership?" Blays said.

  "Which includes an immunity to flattery. Are any of you familiar with The Gold Road?"

  Dante nodded. "I've read it."

  Itiego smiled strangely. "I would have thought you'd consider it heresy."

  "Do you think that makes it less interesting?"

  "In Cavana—indeed, across the entire Strip of Alebolgia—you might say our only heresy is the c
oncept of heresy itself. This is taught in The Gold Road. In it, Carvahal shows that everything must flow. Oceans and rivers. People and currency. And ideas, too. Just as still water goes stagnant, so does a still mind. It must be fed with a constant flux of ideas."

  "That sounds good enough," Blays said. "But flowing water is the kind with all the monsters in it."

  "To dam the waters is to damn your self," Itiego continued as if Blays had never spoken. "That is why we call nothing heretical; to do so would be to place a dam on ideas. It is just as important not to place a dam on trade, for currency is the water that nourishes civilization." He paused, thin eyebrows raised, letting that sink in. "This is why I can make no agreement to cease business with Mallon."

  "You could still sell them whatever you like," Boggs said. "All we're askin' is you don't let them march an army in through our back door."

  "You fail to understand. They pay for the right. To sell them this right costs us nothing. To take it away is to take prosperity from my people. And to threaten my people with war. For picture this scene."

  Itiego stood, pacing around the table, gazing up at the sails strung from the walls. "You are Charles IV, upon your throne. Your province of Collen has thrown out your military. Repulsed a second attack. Now, when you approach Cavana—long a friend, open to all offers—Cavana shuts you out of its ports.

  "Very curious. This act violates Cavana's deepest principles. Why would it do such a thing? Has Collen paid them to close their port? So you make an offer of your own to reopen it. It is a good offer, but sadly, Cavana turns it down. So you make a second offer. One that Collen can't possibly have matched."

  He clicked his heels together and swiveled toward Boggs. "What happens now? If Cavana accepts Mallon's offer, then the agreement with Collen is null. If Cavana rejects the offer, it exposes an alliance between itself and Collen. This means that Cavana is now an enemy of Mallon. Isn't it thus within Mallon's rights to pursue war against Cavana? To pluck the jewel of Alebolgia and add it to its own crown?"

  Itiego stopped, face titled forward, hands clasped behind his back. Silence fell over the room, as heavy as wet canvas.

  Cord stood. "Have faith in your strength! You can defeat them as we did!"

  "But General, that is not the point. Win or lose, war destroys both sides. I will have no part of it—not today, and not ever."

  9

  Raxa stood in the doorless room behind the chapel wall, feeling the nether drain from her body. Another two seconds, maybe three, and it would be gone.

  She'd come too far to lose the loot. She snatched up the second Cycle of Arawn and stumbled toward the wall she'd walked in through. She was already falling out of the shadows, the light and smoke fading to plain darkness. Her right heel caught in something firm. She spilled onto the floor of the room beyond, the boot ripping from her foot.

  She spun about. The boot jutted from the wall, its heel embedded in the rock. In dumb disbelief, she set down the book, grabbed her boot, and pulled. It was like trying to uproot an oak with your bare hands. She fell on her back, breathing hard.

  She was on the fourth floor of the chapel, with two guards outside the doors, in the middle of the Sealed Citadel.

  And she didn't have a drop of juice left.

  Squeezing her eyes tight, she gave herself a moment to scream—internally, mentally—and to pound her fists against the lush rug.

  With that task completed, Raxa took inventory. She had the book. And judging from the way it had stolen the shadows from her, as well as the blinding, terrifying light it had cast when she'd seen it within the netherworld, it was the true copy. The first copy. The one that, according to rumor, could turn you into a sorcerer.

  She also had a way out. Vess' exit. What she didn't have was a way to get to the exit without being riddled with arrows, spears, and bolts of shadow.

  Would have to do it the old-fashioned way.

  On her arrest, the guards had confiscated everything but her clothes. Searching the room, she found a small knife, if you could call it that—designed for trimming quills and such, you'd have to put it in the exact right spot to kill someone with it. Still, better than nothing.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pull her boot loose from the wall. Instead, she took off her other shoe and hid it under a chair, then draped a table cover over the stuck boot. She put the book she'd taken from the case back on top of the glass. Somebody might wonder what idiot had left it out of its case, but at least it wouldn't look like anything was stolen.

  Long black curtains hung beside the windows. She took one down. Using the knife to start the tear, she ripped off a length of cloth and wrapped it around her head, leaving a slit for her eyes. She wrapped the remainder of the curtain around her torso, tucking her book underneath it snug against her back.

  She climbed into a window and took a peek out. Forty feet down to a cobbled surface. Not the sort of thing you wanted to fall from. At the same time, she didn't want to leave a makeshift rope dangling forty feet to the ground. Someone would spot that before she'd made it over the walls. She pulled down a second curtain, cut it into four wide strips, and knotted them together. She tied one end around her left wrist.

  She went back to the window and checked the stars. Closing in on one o'clock. At three o'clock, the guards were scheduled to make a change. One of the sentries had been paid very well by Vess to leave a door unlocked in the outer walls. Raxa would enter the door, climb the stairs to the top of the wall, then jump down into a hay wagon Vess had parked outside.

  Raxa was tempted to kill time reading the book, but you never played with your loot before you had it home. Good thing she waited. Not five minutes later, a key scrabbled in the lock to the door.

  She popped to her feet and into the window. As she dropped out, the door's hinges squeaked open. Raxa gritted her teeth, stomach flopping as she began to fall. With the rope of curtains tied around her left wrist, she grabbed hold of the loose end with her right hand, forming a loop. She snared this around the body of a gargoyle. The rope snapped taut, slamming her against the outer wall of the chapel.

  She dangled, heart racing like it was ready to gallop out of her throat. Above her, men's voices murmured from inside the room she'd just vacated.

  She was secure, but if they glanced out the window, she was done. Holding tight to the loose end of the curtain, she let out some slack, lowering herself until her foot touched another gargoyle. She crouched atop it, holding on with her left hand, then let go of the curtain with her right, gathering it in.

  Looping the curtain around the gargoyle she was standing on now, she lowered herself to the third floor window. This looked into a dark room. She stuffed herself into the window and waited.

  Two hours later, the bells of the Cathedral of Ivars rang, the clapper muffled so as not to wake the entire city. Raxa bided another five minutes, then used the loop of curtains to descend the face of the chapel. The feel of her bare toes against solid ground had never felt so good.

  She untied the rope from her wrist, watching the night. She'd spent the last two hours watching the patrol routes of the sentries. She waited for a gap in the coverage, then crossed the courtyard at a brisk walk, coming to the tall outer wall. She counted down doors to the one Vess had bribed the guard to keep unlocked. She tried it. Stuck fast. Heart back to doing its best impression of a stallion, she tried again. It jerked open.

  Whispering a dozen curses, she moved into the gloomy stairwell. Smelled like sweaty men. She jogged up it, bare feet silent on the stone treads, and barged right into a guard on his way down.

  He swore, slapping a palm against the wall for support. "What the hell—?"

  Raxa swept the rope of curtains around his throat and pulled it as tight as she could, entangling the fabric around her elbows for extra leverage. The man gave a single strangled gasp, then whacked at her head with his fists, but they were so close he couldn't put any strength behind the blows. Within seconds, he sagged. She kept the pressu
re on until his eyes bulged from his purple face. His weight dragged down against her makeshift rope.

  Shit. Shit. Nowhere to put the body. Would have to get over the wall before someone found him. She left it and hurried up the stairs, poking her head from the trapdoor-style entrance to the top of the wall. And caught her first break: no guards in sight in either direction.

  The wagon was supposed to be ten paces ahead. Raxa hurried along the merlons, counting steps. At ten, she stopped and leaned over the wall. The wagon wasn't there.

  Her chest froze. Had Vess betrayed her? Gotten arrested? It was a thirty foot fall to the ground. The walls were smooth rock, deliberately unclimbable. The ground below was dirt rather than pavement, but that wouldn't help much. Looking closer, she spotted a small pile of something directly below her, but it was too dark to say what.

  A silhouette moved along the wall. Coming her way. She grabbed both ends of her makeshift rope, slung it around a merlin, and swung over the side. She jerked to a stop after falling six feet, the rope sliding from her right hand. Between the length of the rope and her arms, she'd cut nearly ten feet from the descent, but there was still a hell of a lot of space between her and the ground.

  The rope slipped out from her fingers.

  She flattened herself against the wall, slowing herself, but this pushed her away after a fall of a few feet. Empty air whisked past her, the rope of curtains fluttering behind her. The pile rushed to meet her. She got in position, landing with a crunch of straw. As she tucked into a roll, pain speared through her right ankle. She popped to her feet, ankle giving out beneath her.

  Broken. No doubt. But hurried steps were smacking along the top of the wall. Already sweating cold drops, Raxa hobbled into the city as fast as she could.