As A God Read online

  “I do fancy work, small repairs. The husband and his brother make furniture—they’ll not take a commission now if it’s a rush. Too busy. What’er you needing?”

  Sequa studied her carefully, feet to hands to face and back again. She needed to ask for something that skirted the edge of law-breaking. Back in the capitol, she could have bullied this woman into anything. Here she had not the weight of Home and a Noble family to strike terror. No longer a Child or a retainer in any case.

  This was a plain crafter, good at her work from the quality of the pieces on the table. Her body language was as plain, half curious, half cautious. She would not understand the cool hints and subtle allusions woven through Child-speak, so very different than hers. Better to dance past implications at speed. Just the facts.

  “I need two lengths of wood, of a specific size and shape. I need them as fast as you can make them, and I can pay gold.”

  Crafter indeed. At the word “gold” all her caution vanished, and out came a charcoal cube and a smooth square of pale wood.

  Sequa took the block from her hand and drew two long cylinders then drew an oval next to them. “Can you make them this shape in the cross-section at each tip? And not round the edges?”

  “How long?”

  “My arm, fingertip to shoulder.”

  “Hard wood?”

  “Do you have marsh cane?”

  “Reed?” The crafter’s voice went up in surprise.

  “Yes, the long ones, with the interior joints.”

  “Well, yes…ah, that is my husband has some, uses ’em in furniture making.”

  Which Sequa knew and was why she was here now.

  “Do you know how to fire harden them?”

  That earned her a withering look from the good eye. “Teach me to wear a veil next.”

  “Apologies.”

  “That aside, you want two of them, length of your arm, hardened… When?”

  “As soon as you can.” Sequa flipped a coin onto the bench. It spun in the light for a moment before settling. Gold, pale and glinting. Four Turn’s wages for a common laborer. Just part of the bounty that had come with her freedom.

  Too much; the woodworker went a little too still, a little too quiet. She sensed the danger here. Two choices. Increase the pressure—or act stupid.

  Stupid was safer; everyone wanted to believe they could put one over on the newcomer. “Is that enough?” Sequa let an anxious note creep into her voice, still modulated as deeply as she could manage. “It’s what I’ve paid in the capitol, but my maker is very good to me, I’m sure he’s undercharging.”

  See? I’ve had this done before and been cheated. It’s not on you that I’m a fool. And if I’ve needed more than one set, perhaps I’ll be back again with more gold and strange requests.

  “Sir,” said the woodworker with a smile, scooping the thin coin from the bench with a practiced twitch, “It’ll be just enough, if you don’t mind them plain.”

  “Not at all. It’s… They’re for my craft.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mine.”

  She took the gentle rebuke in hand and nodded. “Then I think I can have these for you on the morrow, halfway to Lady’s Rising? That acceptable?”

  “Thanks very much. Uh, can you recommend a cobbler in the area? Who might be still willing to see a customer this late?”

  The directions she received from the woodworker led Sequa to a narrow alley Under Roof that smelled of cheap glue and cut leather. A cold light still glowed over the red doorway that had been described; Sequa pushed it open and froze, entranced.

  Shelves covered all the walls from floor to ceiling in the small entrance room, leaving space only for two stools and another cloth-covered doorway.

  The shoes and boots lining the shelves were things of beauty, richly decorated, gorgeously colored. Red fabric glowed like fire; black-dyed leather gleamed in the soft light. Thin sandals of the purest white leather ranked high on the back shelves—Sequa’s heart twisted. She had worn things as light and lovely once, never meant for work or the trail. Things that sought only to be pleasing and pretty, with no higher purpose. Frivolous.

  Oh, to be frivolous again. To be cherished.

  Lost in reverie, she almost missed the slight motion at the cloth that preceded the cobbler—the artist—who worked here. Her shock when his presence registered made her jump and reach for weapons she did not have. Well enough, for barely an arm’s length extended between them; if she had her swords, he would already be dead.

  Her erstwhile victim appeared dressed in a shapeless, grey tunic and leggings and covered his face with a man’s veil; all well-worn and spotted with stains. The exposed brown eyes shone with shrewd intelligence.

  “Mistress? You have work for me?”

  Behind her own veil, Sequa smiled at both his perception and the swiftness with which news of her had travelled. At least two swift-footed urchins had passed her on the Road here; there might have been half a dozen more she did not see.

  “I need boots.”

  “The same as the rather excellent pair you have now? They wear at the heel and the ball of the foot, I can see.”

  She looked down involuntarily, flipping up her right foot. The sole had grown quite worn at the cardinal points he mentioned.

  “Unevenly, as well. You are a fighter or a messenger?” he continued.

  She nearly always pushed off her front foot, running, leaping, striking. The ball of the left side—now that he mentioned it—was visibly and tactilely thinner. “I have had these for so long, they have served me so well, I had not thought they would ever wear out. You talk yourself into a second commission, sir.”

  The cobbler unwound his veil, revealing a dark-skinned face that bore kinship to the southern tribes she had recently travelled among. Wide nose, high cheekbones, full lips. No more lines in his skin than a native of the northern lands would have so he’d covered from the Face of the God most of his life. No accent and excellent facial control. He knew the ways of the north and city well then. That made removing his veil a polite invitation for her to do so as well. She ignored it.

  “Come far from sand, Master Crafter,” she said in her best Athari, truthfully not very good.

  His smile grew a little broader. “Far in space and Measures,” he said. Mercifully, he continued in the common tongue. “My father was a man of Athar, but my mother was born here. He travelled, he found her, he stayed. I kept the language, for trading, but I have never seen the sands. Sit, mistress, and show me your feet. I will need to take some measurements to match the craftsmanship of that pair.”

  She sat down on the nearest stool and pulled off her boots.

  “These worn boots aside, I came here for another reason. I have a thought for special shoes, for use in my…craft. I do not even know if they can be made, but looking at your wares, I suspect you can make them if no other.”

  He joined her on the other stool. “You did not answer, mistress. Fighter or messenger?”

  Sequa dropped her boots to the ground and held her hands flat out, palms down. Negation; irritation. He returned a sweep of his left to right, acknowledging his churlish-ness. “Yes, well then, fighter. Champion. What exactly do you see me making for you?”

  The vision she had been slowly constructing in her head for Measures now flowed into the forefront of her thoughts. “Can you… Is it possible that you could make something to fit the form of the foot, close as skin, with a thin strong sole? It would need to have some roughness or patterning and yet be all of a piece, that nothing might sheer away. It would be best if it laced tightly, up past the ankle, though not to the knee.”

  She sped up as she went along, driven by the idea that wanted to be born. The cobbler seemed as intent on her words as she might hope, his hands sketching imaginary forms in the air. Even speaking seemed easier buoyed up by her enthusiasm. The tickle in her throat that preceded the spasm of coughing blood receded just enough that she might be able to get through the
whole conversation without retching.

  “The inside would need a strong arch, to hold the foot in place, and be padded a little. For what I would think you need.”

  Sequa felt her mouth curving into a smile and suppressed it brutally. Bad habits were harder to break than form. She tried to bleed the emotion into her words though. “It has been a fair length since I encountered anyone who…understood.”

  The cobbler tapped his left hand on his thigh, once, twice.

  Modesty, thanks.

  “I would think I do not truly understand, but I do realize who you are, Champion. I have heard the tales, seen what those who have sought refuge in this place can do. I would suspect you are…more than they.”

  “Master Craftsman—what is your name?”

  “Pecaran.” A northern name; his mother had been strong willed then.

  She slipped her veils off and faced him skin to skin. “Sequa.”

  He flinched. Everyone flinched; the moment after that mattered more to her.

  He studied her, as Anem had, as the Voice of the God had. Then he nodded. “People speak the truth about some things. About others—perhaps not,” he said cryptically.

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh, I had heard…people speak of you, Champion. Of your blades and your skill…and your face. They say you—”

  “I’ve heard most of it.” Sour words but a calm tone.

  “You are not a monster in my eyes.”

  “Look closer,” she said softly, with a slight, visible false smile. Let him take that for flippancy; no one could say she lied to him.

  They sat together for some time that night, discussing needs and practicalities. He took many measurements of her feet, with finely knotted strings that pared her down to smaller and smaller parts. She left long after the Goddess had risen, lighter by several coins but deeply satisfied.

  She had forgotten the pleasures of her true art, the skills of the Children of Home. Her first weapons had an elegance and complexity that she only just now realized she missed. Her blades, fearsome things, had saved her life many times but they precluded choice on occasion. They killed with perfect ease. The sticks allowed more choice, not just to cripple or maim but to subdue, to punish.

  And so much easier to underestimate.

  It had been too long since she had seen Curran. She had filled up with questions she needed answered. On her way back to her lodgings Sequa bullied her way into the Iron Quarters. Cur hunched on the wooden planks that served as bed in the tiny windowless cell. Somehow rather than his powerful fighter’s frame making the room seem cramped, he appeared diminished, reduced. He barely looked up at the motion of the door swinging open.

  Parri grimaced at Sequa. “Don’t see why you can’t just talk to him through the bars. Or come back tomorrow.” He’d not been pleased to be rousted from his training to escort her, since no one could find Anem.

  “I will not loiter in the hallway like an errant pet.” She stepped inside.

  Her growl snapped Cur’s head up and brought him to his feet. He hit his head on the ceiling and sat back down again, all awkward knees and elbows. Sequa still wore her veils but she did not let herself smile.

  Instead, she dropped to a knee and wrapped her hands around the other shin. Cur, after a suspicious moment, folded himself into a cross-legged shape that brought their heads reasonably close together.

  Parri grunted and locked her inside the cell. The two ex-Runners sat still and silent while he lingered there; eventually he left. His footsteps retreated to the end of the hallway. There were no other prisoners in this tiny corridor at the moment. It grew very quiet; everything they said would be clearly audible.

  “Did you murder those children, Cur?”

  “No,” he said without rancor at the abruptness. Cur had been slave-born. He had no facial control. Sequa looked for and did not find concealment, shame, furtiveness. He stated a fact.

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No.” He told the truth again.

  “What happened?”

  Cur drew back from her without really moving. Now came shame, specifically activated by her presence.

  “A brothel then?”

  He glared. “Stop showing off.”

  She opened her left palm, her sword hand, to the floor. Get on with it. Some bodyspeech became most expressive between those who knew each other well. He settled his shoulders in a motion homey and familiar, the shrug made to set armor properly on the shoulders. Then he began to speak, his voice low and rapid.

  “I had been there before. They knew me. I knew the boy, knew him to see him. I had gone up to the roof after…after. I was… I needed some air. They have a small garden, flowers and things, a bench. The access is an exterior ladder, from the Merchant’s Way. The Lady was not yet risen. It was very dark, but I could hear when I reached the top they were on the bench, the boy and a customer. I turned to go away again, I didn’t want to be near. And—”

  He didn’t trail off; it was as though the memory of what had happened stopped the breath in his chest. Sequa could actually count heartbeats before he drew air again. Still, he did not speak.

  She studied him closely, alert for the complexity of emotion he would not be able to hide. It spread like a wave from mouth to eyes.

  Fear. But not of her for once.

  She reached out her off hand and touched his knee. He jumped at the contact, as though she had startled him unseen. He had been there, on that rooftop again, with something so horrifying it pulled him away from the real world.

  Drawing a deep breath, Cur continued. “It was…noise. Wind. I had come off the ladder, I was standing there, half-turned away. There was a rush of wind and a smell. Blood. It smelled like blood. I heard the boy scream like a child and then…something hit me on the shoulder, something big. His body, I think. Then the wind again and all around blood and death, and I saw him in the air, falling. I reached out a hand, I don’t know why.”

  He stopped speaking again, his eyes going distant once more.

  Sequa could fill in the rest herself. The customer would have accused and stolid, unimaginative Cur would not have spoken in his own defense, for he would not have known what words to say.

  “Do you know what happened to the other boy?”

  “No. No,” Cur said immediately. “I swear it.”

  Sequa dropped her head to stare down at the stained floorboards. So he caught her by surprise with a question.

  “Squirrel, why did you do this? You’re risking your life.”

  He called her by her Runner’s nickname with easy familiarity. No one else alive could do that.

  She let the question resonate in her ears for a moment. If you listened carefully enough, you could hear sounds echoing inside the metal of the mask. Ghostly voices whispering dead words.

  Head still down, still staring at the floor, Sequa considered the question carefully, more carefully than she had a few days before. Cur, just sensitive enough, knowing her just well enough, held still and silent.

  Different ideas flocked inside her mind, like carrion birds circling a dying man. Because you saved my life in the past: true, yes, but hollow. She felt no obligation to him for his actions; he had acted out of self-interest as much as anything else. Because you are innocent of this crime. Also true, she grew ever more certain, but meaningless. Innocents died every day, more worthy of life than this trained killer. Because I am loathe to give up the power I have over you.

  Ah.

  That would be the honest answer. Since the moment she had seen the desire in his eyes, despite her scars, her mutilated face, Sequa had relished her power over him. Used it, abused it, rewarded it just enough to draw him further in, wind him tighter in the bonds it formed. She had never given in to it, never so much as hinted he would have a chance to requite it. Indeed, she had told him flat-out that she was faithful to Jesan. That only seemed to make him fall a little deeper. Proof to him that she was a virtuous woman.

  The lingering danger
of holding him so close to the fire without letting it warm him did not escape her. It had been as much to get away from him as any of her other…errands…that had driven her away from the kingdom for three Measures. If she had returned to Ressen too late and found only his corpse, she would have grieved a little and forgotten him. But to find him in such exigent peril, for so little reason just irritated her.

  I do not wish to have my pet taken from me, save that I send him away. And something moves in the city, I can feel it. If I must be here to find out what, I might as well save your life again.

  Though possibly telling him she stood motivated by pique and curiosity would not be politic. And not entirely true.

  When had truth ever mattered?

  His life did matter to her, if only as an extension of her will. One truth she had been avoiding since she had left him behind at Seahome still gave her pause. To all intents and purposes, Cur had become her only friend in the world.

  “Because I don’t want you to die,” she said softly. A truth, if not all of it. She had no doubt it would be more than enough for him. She looked up through the space in her veils without moving her head much. He had grown visibly taller, back straighter, head high.

  Yes, that had been a winning half-lie then.

  They spoke a little longer, quick sketches of the time since they had last seen each other. Cur told the truth; Sequa lied, but gently. When Parri appeared back at the bars to order her out, she was happy to leave.

  Walking down the corridor to the exit, Sequa could nearly smell the tension boiling off of Parri. As they exited into one of the main passages that ran across the axis of the building he pivoted to block her path out and gestured at a side door.

  She very much wished to step around him just to see what he would do, but bloody-minded perversity could only get her so far at the moment; she acquiesced and proceeded him into the small store room. Lined with shelves, it held rough linens, slop buckets, small things for the cells across the way. A narrow aisle down the center barely wide enough for her to turn comfortably at the end. Swinging the door shut, Parri blocked her exit very efficiently.