Crown of Smoke Read online

  Everything wavers in the flickering light. Or perhaps that’s just my fatigue. But I could swear on merciful Azered’s way-finding that there are figures watching from behind the barred openings in the walls.

  And then I get a waft of it. Perfume. I have no idea of its constituent parts, but whatever it is, it smells expensive, and none of Zostar’s Physicians, or the man himself, seem to ever smell of anything but antiseptic pine. What could anyone of the means and predilections to wear luxury fragrances be doing down here?

  Certainly, they couldn’t be in their right mind.

  Across the floor, on the other side of the vast chamber, a door opens. Three men saunter in, wearing armour without any provincial affiliation, nor imperial sigil from the palace. The only sign of who they are, of where their loyalties lie, is the sun branded on their black boiled leather.

  There’s no longer even the pretense of hiding the alliance between the Physicians and the Blazers. Cold dread claws its way up my spine – what has enabled such audacity?

  Two of the men are bigger than me. Lumbering brutes of half again my weight, thick as Trelian bulls with solid muscle. Running into one of them would be like running into a wall.

  Brute Number One has a dark beard that birds could nest in. The other could be his blond cousin, a rug of chest hair sprouting like straw from his leather vest.

  The third man is about the same size as me. And I’d wager he’s just as swift on his feet by the way he steps lightly, lean legs and defined calves speak of agility and a capacity for a standing leap. He’s the one I’ll have to look out for.

  The last thing I want to do is fight. Not here. Not now. Not with the fight that is coming later when I make good on my promise to get Del and the others to safety. And from there, whatever I have to fight through to get to Rakel and Nisai.

  The blond Blazer throws me a wooden sword.

  I let it clatter on to the stone. I can take a beating. I’ll return to my cell sore but satisfied and soon to heal.

  He grins, as if this is merely a game and he holds all the key pieces. “You don’t fight, we’ll bring one of the kids in here to do it for you.”

  I don’t doubt it.

  I take a deep breath, then let out a long, controlled exhale and move to pick up the training weapon. Soft pine against their metal. Zostar may not care for these men, but he does care about resources. It would seem he’s not a man to tolerate unnecessary waste by starting me on equal footing.

  As soon as I’ve retrieved the sword, the two big Blazers head straight towards me. I’ll wager they’ll strike at the same time. But already the smaller of the trio has circled wide. The quick one. No doubt he’ll come in from the flank when I’m distracted.

  It won’t be enough.

  I vowed to survive and survive I will.

  Out beyond the light of the wall sconces, more shadowy figures gather behind the bars. Sweet mother Esiku, how many of them are there? Some watch in silence, some snigger to each other. If this many are here, surely this operation – whatever it is – must not be entirely a secret. Perhaps it’s not even an open secret. I search among them for who might have worn perfume, but then my blond opponent hefts his axe.

  The blade glints in the low light, the back of it finished in a cruel hook. He takes the first swing, and I dodge, but he recovers quicker than I’d like. Did I underestimate him? Or have I underestimated how much a diet of thin gruel has slowed my own reactions?

  His dark-haired friend slashes with his sword and I only bring up my wooden version just in time. It shatters, splitting along the grain, making the bones of my wrist feel like they’re fracturing along the same lines.

  The weapon is now half its original length. But I don’t care – it’s also sharper. I twist low, getting under my foe’s guard, and slam the splintered sword up through the soft flesh under his chin. He topples like an oversized sack of barley.

  His blond friend’s smirk vanishes.

  We circle each other. He now knows the game is not in his favour, and the new uncertainty in his steps suggests he thought it always would be. He comes at me, axe whistling through the air in great arcs. I’m forced to retreat, weaving wide of each deadly swing.

  I’ve lost sight of the third Blazer, the small one, but I can hear him. He’s moving on quiet feet, breathing near-silent breaths behind me.

  A much louder noise rings out from the edge of the arena. The scrape of one of the heavy doors opening. Followed by the muffled cries of someone gagged. The scuff of boots on stone. The kind of steps, unlike those of my fleet-footed opponent, that are doing nothing to hide their presence.

  I dodge another axe blow and feint to the side, drawing the brute to overreach and unbalance himself. It affords me enough time to put several paces between us, enough time to swing around and take in the new arrivals.

  I’d been prepared for three, four, perhaps five more Blazers.

  There’s only two.

  And, Esiku have mercy, a girl.

  Her alabaster-pale face is partially concealed by a gag, green eyes wide with fear above the tightly wound fabric. Her hair is greasy and hangs in ropes like river weed. It could have been mistaken for brown in its filthy state, but there’s enough auburn beneath to show through.

  No. Surely it couldn’t be. But she holds herself straight, with the same willowy grace of someone I knew from the Imperial Library, where she spent days up ladders balancing stacks of books. A grace that always made Esarik, usually as chatty as a Losian parakeet, forget all his words.

  “Ami?”

  By the looks of her, she’s been here a while. She’s much skinnier than when I last saw her moons ago. Her tunic, smeared with muck, hangs from her frame, collarbones prominent at the neckline.

  She tries saying something, but the gag muffles the words.

  The guard on her right yanks her arm.

  For all I know, she’s the last of my friends in the capital. But why capture her? Why bring her in here for me to see?

  I force myself to relax my stance. Maybe she’s just a decoy. A distraction while they rush me.

  But they don’t come for me.

  Instead, two hold Ami’s arms wide. The third traces his blade from her midsection up to her throat, drawing a bead of blood from her neck in cruel imitation of Rakel that fateful day in the throne room. He waves the dagger suggestively in the air, a lascivious grin across his stupid face.

  I know it as well as I know the dawn.

  He’s going to kill her.

  Unless I kill him first.

  And that’s when the other guards rush me.

  I duck under the first. Slam the second into one of the stone pillars, grimly satisfied at the crunch of his nose breaking before he slumps to the floor, out cold. The remains of my wooden sword catch Ami’s captor in his brow. It was a glancing blow, but it’s enough to split his scalp, opening the way for blood to pour into his eye.

  “Behind me! Now!”

  I grab her hand and she stumbles forward, staggers, and crumples to the arena floor.

  Azered’s breath, she’s fainted.

  The door opens again.

  More Blazers. Two. Four.

  For each one I cut down, another takes his place. I can’t protect her. I can’t. There’s too many.

  Is that a palace uniform among them? What is a palace guard doing here? After the throne room, when the shadow part of me tore free and killed so many, I can’t kill another imperial servant. I won’t. This must be a mistake.

  But he’s advancing with the Blazers.

  He must be working with Zostar. How could you? I want to yell. You’re fighting on the side of torturers. Not just my torturers. Del’s, Lark’s. The others’. They’re on the side of hurting innocent children.

  As I parry another blow, the itching starts. The burning along the lines of ink beneath my skin. That feeling of unfurling. Of imminent separation.

  No.

  Let them have what they want, says another voice. Let them kno
w true pain.

  CHAPTER 4

  RAKEL

  I can’t find sleep.

  Even after what should have been the most relaxing bath. This bed is so stinkin’ soft, and the pillows are even worse. In the moons I’ve spent mostly on the road, and a lot of that sleeping outdoors, I would have given anything for a bit of comfort. Now all this pampering means I can’t get a blink.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. Easier to blame the furniture than the fear of what sleep will bring – grey eyes I’ll never see again, the safe feeling of a familiar presence keeping watch over our camp, a first and final kiss stolen through dungeon bars.

  Dreams only wake me in tears. It’s easier to lose myself in the storm raging through my waking mind, swirling around a single thought.

  Seventeen turns.

  Seventeen turns of me thinking I’d been the cause of my own mother’s death. And when I finally meet her, this stranger, this so-called Magister, says she’ll explain it all “on the morrow”? And then the only person we had who resembled a guide just ups and leaves without the barest whiff of warning?

  My stomach rumbles. I hadn’t been able to eat before bed. I was too rattled. But now that it’s quiet, and I’m not getting much rest anyway, a midnight snack wouldn’t go astray. The Magister did, after all, say the cook was happy to provide.

  With a sigh, I throw off the bedcovers.

  I take one look at the pile of crumpled travelling clothes in the corner and decide against it. Instead, I pull on one of the clean robes from the chest at the foot of my bed. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I haven’t owned anything green before. It’s ill-fitting, with too-long sleeves and a hem that skims the floor rather than where it should be at my ankles. But even I have to admit the colour suits me.

  Just as it suits the Magister.

  Ugh. It’s almost enough to put me off the thought of food again. Almost.

  Out in the hall, I hesitate. I have no idea where the kitchens even are. Though whether I go left or right, I’m guessing the curving hall will eventually lead me there.

  Left it is.

  It’s eerily quiet as I pass door after door. I’m about to turn back, thinking I’ve bet on the wrong route to the kitchens, when my nose tells me I had it right.

  I freeze, breath hitched.

  The warm, homey scent of baking bread wafts towards me. It means something different to me than it used to and I don’t want to take it in. It’s Ash’s favourite smell. He told me how he used to steal away to the kitchens in the early morning with Nisai, when they were both young. How the cooks would fuss over them, giving them the slices from the best of the loaves fresh out of the oven. How it made him feel like he finally had a home.

  Lack of air makes me start to feel woozy. Still, I resist breathing. I consider fleeing back to my room. Better an empty stomach than steeping in the pain of memory, surely.

  But I’m not going to be able to avoid smelling bread for the rest of my turns. Sooner or later, I’ll have to learn to live with it.

  I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep, slow breath before continuing along the corridor.

  The aroma leads me down a narrow flight of stairs and through a small door. Seems servants still get the out-of-the-way entrances here. When I press it open, warm air envelops me like a hug, and the cook I run into beams so brightly I think she may hug me, too.

  I stiffen, and she gives a knowing nod, stepping away to take down a glazed ceramic plate. On it goes a huge triangle of finger-thick bread with herb-strewn goat’s cheese. My mouth waters.

  “Thank you,” I manage as she points me over to a table in the corner. It’s gently lit by the coals and their reflections bouncing off a score of copper cooking pots hanging from racks suspended from the roof.

  A half dozen Order members sit at the near end. I don’t recognize their faces from when we arrived, but they’re wearing the same green robes everyone seems to wear here.

  “I disagree, Payuz,” one woman says, voice strident. “Tenet Sixteen refers to the purity of the soul required for a ceremony to successfully channel the will of Asmudtag.”

  The woman called Payuz shakes her head. “You’re always jumping to something esoteric. Tenet Sixteen is simply a reminder from the ancients to make sure you wash your hands before you start. Otherwise you risk contaminating the ingredients.”

  Their companions are divided into those who laugh and those who tsk indignantly in response.

  I look beyond them, towards the fire where another figure sits, head bent over their plate in thought, or prayer. They’re keeping their own peace. I’m in no mood to talk, so I decide they’re the better bet.

  Not wanting to sit too close to the stranger, I choose the stone bench nearest to the fire. Happily, the flames have banished any chill from the slab.

  “I used to take that very seat when I first arrived.”

  Great. Guess everyone in this place is up for a chat. I stare down at my food, hoping she’ll get the message that I’m the exception to the rule.

  “Though I think the last drop of heat-loving blood fled my veins turns ago – too warm in Aphorai for me these days.”

  She slides her plate halfway down the table and into the light.

  Of all the stinking—

  “Couldn’t sleep?” the Magister asks. “I requested you be afforded the best of our chambers.”

  “That’s part of the problem.”

  She studies my face, then nods. “The beds. It took me some time to get used to the softness, too.”

  It’s like she can see into my mind. Irritated, I take a bite of my bread and chew deliberately slowly. The cheese is delicious, the aromatic dill the perfect pairing. I refuse to let good cheese be ruined.

  “The bed’s fine,” I lie. “It’s the lavender in the pillows. I’m not into lavender.”

  “Oh?”

  I think back to the smelling salts after Luz – who I had then known only as Zakkurus, Aphorai’s Chief Perfumer – had drugged me. “Long story.”

  “Perhaps you may one day tell it to me.”

  “Maybe. If you tell me where Luz has gone.”

  “Sandbloom is on Order business.”

  “Let me guess, you can’t tell me as I’m not a member of the Order.”

  She glances to where the others are locked in their heated debate. “I’m afraid so.”

  I want to press her. Does she know about the scroll Luz received? Or about Ash’s death? But she reminds me too much of Sephine, who I could never get answers from. For now, the urge to protect myself, to not start something that could see me dissolve into helpless tears, wins out.

  The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t seem to rattle her. Finally, she places her hands on the table and leans closer, taking another furtive glance towards the others. “If you wish to speak privately, my chambers are further down the hall. I don’t tend to sleep in the early hours of the morning.”

  “Feeling guilty about something?”

  She doesn’t so much as blink. “I find it’s when I do my best work. I gave up everything to be here. My family. My home. I do everything I can to honour that sacrifice.”

  Ah, there it is. She’s a martyr. The noble one. Who lost so much. Poor her. “You walked away from a daughter who needed you.”

  “To help so many more in need. You think you’re more important than the throngs who suffer from the Affliction? More important than your father’s life?”

  Oh, that’s too much. “What do you know of Father? You left him! Did you know he was sick when you left?”

  My voice had been rising with each word, so that by the time I’m finished, the others have stopped talking, their curious eyes turned to us. The Magister makes a show of gathering her plate and spoon while giving the other Order members a mild “nothing to see here” smile.

  “Of course not,” she hisses when they’ve gone back to their conversation.

  I shift in my seat. “Then when he did get sick. You
must have heard. Why didn’t you help?” The last is said in a softer voice than I’d intended. It sounds like a child’s pleading, and I want to slap myself for it.

  “This is the best place I could have been to help. Looking for a cure. My new salve, the one Hab – your father – has now, is an incredible advance even if it’s not the permanent remedy we need. And in my absence, Sephine watched over you. She did whatever was necessary, I’m sure. She was never one to shirk a duty.”

  “She didn’t care a whiff about Father! And it wasn’t her duty, it was yours. When you have a child, you look after them.”

  “I did what I could from afar. Surely my letters helped you understand.”

  “Letters? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She frowns. “I wrote to you every moon.”

  “And every single one of them just happened to get lost on the way from your secret mountain lair?” Under the table, my hands clench into fists. “Maybe you’re out of touch, but lying to people hasn’t become acceptable since you left the real world behind.”

  She flinches and looks away. I’ve managed to find a way through her armour. She stares into the flames, silent. It’s a silence heavy with meaning. If only I knew what that meaning was.

  Finally, she rises from the table. “If you would like to know more about my work, the cook can show you to my chambers.”

  I keep my eyes on my plate until she leaves.

  The last mouthful of bread and cheese is hard to swallow. I sit for some time afterwards, watching the fire die down as slowly as the flames of my anger.

  When the cook comes to add another brick of fuel – I’d think it peat or charcoal if it wasn’t for the unfamiliar sweet notes in the smoke – I ask for directions.

  I have to know.

  In the Magister’s chambers, sheaves of parchment are spread across a desk, and several elaborate distillation apparatuses are lined up along the wall – tripods and blown glass spheres, vials and burnished copper tubes. I cough. Whatever it is that she’s got steaming away in the corner, it’s enough to sting my throat and make my eyes water.