A Torch Against the Night (27 page)

Seconds later, Father enters, trailing a group of Illustrian men, each flanked by a dozen bodyguards. They secure every inch, from the windows to the table to the drapes—before allowing their Paters to file in.

The head of Gens Rufia leads, his yellow-and-purple silk robes straining against his paunch. A portly man, gone to seed after leaving the military, but still sly as a hyena. When he spots me, his hand goes to the sword at his waist—a sword I doubt he remembers how to use, judging from those flaccid arms.

“Pater Aquillus,” he brays. “What is the meaning of this?”

My father glances at me with an expression of surprise. He is so sincere that for a second, even I’m fooled.

“This is my eldest,” Father says. “Helene Aquilla.” He uses my name purposefully. “Though I suppose we must call her Blood Shrike now, right, darling?” He pats my cheek patronizingly. “I thought it would be good for her to learn a bit from our discussions.”

“She is the Emperor’s Blood Shrike.” Pater Rufius doesn’t remove his hands from his sword. “Is this an ambush, Aquillus? Is that what we’ve come to?”

“She
is
the Emperor’s Blood Shrike,” Father says. “And as such, she is useful to us, even if she doesn’t have a whit of sense about how to use her position. We’ll teach her, of course. Come, Rufius, you’ve known me for years. Have your men search the premises if you must. If you see anything alarming, you and the others can depart.”

I smile openly at Pater Rufius, making my voice warm and winsome, the way I’ve seen Livvy do when she’s charming someone into giving her information. “Do stay, Pater,” I say. “I wish to honor the new title bestowed upon me, and it is only through watching experienced men such as yourself work that I will be able to do so.”

“Blackcliff isn’t for mice, girl.” He doesn’t take his brick of a hand off his sword. “What game are you playing?”

I look at Father as if bewildered. “No game, sir,” I say. “I am a daughter of Gens Aquilla, above all else. As for Blackcliff, there are …
ways
to survive there, if one is a woman.”

Even as surprise registers in his eyes, a look of mingled disgust and interest passes across his face. The look makes my skin crawl, but I steel myself.
Go on, you half-wit. Underestimate me.

He grunts and sits. The other four Paters—Rufius’s allies—follow suit, and Mother sweeps in shortly after, followed by a taster and a row of slaves bearing trays groaning with food.

Mother seats me across from Rufius, as I requested. Throughout the meal, I let my laugh go high. I toy with my hair. I act bored during key parts of the conversation. I giggle with Livvy. When I glance at Hannah, she’s chattering with another of the Paters, distracting him utterly.

When the meal is over, Father stands. “Let us retire to my study, gentlemen,” he says. “Hel, my dear, bring the wine.”

Father doesn’t wait for my response as he leads the men out, their bodyguards following.

“Go to your rooms, both of you,” I whisper to Livvy and Hannah. “No matter what you hear, stay there until Father comes for you.”

When I approach the study a few minutes later with a tray of wine and tumblers, the Paters’ many bodyguards are arrayed outside. The space is too small for them to fit within. I smile at the two men flanking the door, and they grin back.
Idiots.

After I enter the room, Father closes the door behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Helene is a good girl, and loyal to her Gens.” He brings me into the conversation seamlessly. “She’ll do as we ask—and that will get us closer to the Emperor.”

As they discuss a potential alliance, I carry the tray around the table and past the window, where I pause for an indiscernible moment—a signal to the Black Guard waiting on the grounds. Slowly, I serve the wine. My father takes a leisurely sip of each glass before I hand them off to the Paters.

I pass the last glass to Pater Rufius. His piggish eyes fix on mine, his finger brushing against my palm deliberately. It is easy enough to hide my disgust, especially when I hear the faintest thud outside the study.

Don’t kill them, Helene
,
I remind myself.
You need them alive for a public execution.

With a small, secret smile just for Pater Rufius, I slowly pull my hand away from his.

Then, from the slits cut into my dress, I draw out my scims.

«««

B
y dawn, the Black Guard have rounded up Illustrian traitors and their families. City criers have announced the impending executions at Cardium Rock. Thousands of people surround the square that stretches around the bone pit at the base of the Rock. The Illustrians and Mercators in the crowd have been ordered to voice their disapproval of the traitors—lest they face a similar fate. The Plebeians need no encouragement.

The top of the Rock slopes down in three terraces. Illustrian courtiers, including my family, stand upon the closest terrace. Leaders from less powerful Gens stand on the top tier.

Near the edge of the cliff, Marcus surveys the crowd. He wears full battle regalia, an iron circlet upon his head. The Commandant stands beside him, murmuring something into his ear. He nods and, as the sun rises, addresses those gathered, his words carried through the crowd by the criers.

“Ten Illustrian Gens chose to defy your Augur-chosen Emperor,” he roars. “Ten Illustrian Paters believed that they knew better than the holy seers who have guided us for centuries. These Paters bring shame to their Gens through their treasonous actions. They are traitors to the Empire. There is only one punishment for traitors.”

He nods, and Harper and I, standing on either side of a writhing, gagged Pater Rufius, drag the man to his feet. Without ceremony, Marcus takes Rufius by his garish robes and casts him over the side of the cliff.

The sound of his body hitting the pit below is lost in the cheers of the crowd.

The next nine Paters follow swiftly, and when they are nothing but a mass of broken bones and shattered skulls at the base of the cliff, Marcus turns to their heirs—kneeling, chained, and lined up for all of Antium to see. The flags of their Gens fly behind them.

“You will swear your fealty,” he says, “upon the lives of your wives and sons and daughters. Or I swear by the skies that my Blood Shrike will wipe out each of your Gens one by one, Illustrian or not.”

They trip all over each other to swear. Of course they do, what with the screams of their now-dead Paters echoing in their heads. With each oath proclaimed, the crowd cheers again.

When it is done, Marcus turns again to the masses. “I am your Emperor,” his voice booms out across the square. “Foretold by the Augurs. I
will
have order. I
will
have loyalty. Those who defy me will pay with their lives.”

The crowd cheers again, and, almost lost within the cacophony, the new Pater of Gens Rufia speaks to one of the other Paters beside him.

“What of Elias Veturius?” he hisses. “The Emperor casts the finest men in the land to their deaths, while that bastard eludes him.”

The crowd does not hear the words—but Marcus does. The Snake turns to the new Pater slowly, and the man shrinks away, his eyes straying fearfully to the edge of the cliff.

“A fair point, Pater Rufius,” Marcus says. “To which I say: Elias Veturius will be publicly executed by
Rathana
. My Blood Shrike has men closing on him. Don’t you, Shrike?”

Rathana?
That’s only a few weeks away. “I—”

“I hope,” the Commandant says, “that you will not bore his Majesty with more excuses. We would not wish to learn that your loyalties are as suspect as those of the traitors we just executed.”

“How dare—”

“You were given a mission,” Marcus says. “You have not succeeded. Cardium Rock is thirsty for the blood of traitors. If we do not slake that thirst with the blood of Elias Veturius, perhaps we will slake it with the blood of Gens Aquilla. Traitors are traitors, after all.”

“You can’t kill me,” I say. “Cain said doing so would bring your own doom upon you.”

“You are not the only member of Gens Aquilla.”

My family.
As the import of his words washes over me, Marcus’s eyes light with that unholy joy he only seems to feel when he’s got someone by the gut.

“You’re engaged to Hannah.”
Appeal to his lust for power
, I think frantically
. Make him see that this will hurt him more than you, Helene.
“Gens Aquilla is the only ally you have.”

“He has Gens Veturia,” the Commandant says.

“And I can think of, oh”—Marcus glances at the new Illustrian Paters just yards away—“about ten other Gens that will adamantly back me. Thank you for that gift, by the way. As for your sister”—he shrugs—“I can find another highborn whore to marry. It’s not as if there’s a shortage.”

“Your throne is not secure enough—”

His voice drops to a hiss. “You dare
to challenge me about my throne—my allies—here, in front of the court? Never presume to think you know more than me, Blood Shrike. Never. Nothing
angers me more.”

My body turns to lead at the cunning calculation in his eyes. He steps toward me, his malice like a poison that saps my ability to move, much less think.

“Ah.” He tilts my chin up and searches my face. “Panic, fear, and desperation. I prefer you like this, Blood Shrike.” He bites my lip, sudden and painful, his eyes open the whole time. I taste my own blood.

“Now, Shrike,” he breathes into my mouth. “Go fetch.”

T
hat woman—the Mask—the one they call the Commandant. She’s killing them all
.

All the Scholars. All the Scholar
prisoners
.

“Skies, Keenan,” I say. The rebel understands immediately, just like me. “Darin.”

“The Martials are moving north,” Keenan whispers. The Scholars don’t hear him, their attention fixed on Afya, who has yet to decide their fates. “They likely haven’t even reached Kauf yet. The Commandant is methodical. If she’s going south to north, she won’t change the plan now. She still has to get through Antium before she gets to Kauf.”

“Afya,” Zehr calls from the edge of the camp, spyglass in hand. “Martials incoming. Can’t tell how many, but they’re close.”

Afya curses, and the Scholar man grabs her. “Please. Just take the children.” His jaw is clenched, but his eyes fill. “Ayan is two. Sena is six. The Martials won’t spare them. Keep them safe. My sisters and I will run—we’ll lead the soldiers off.”

“Afya.” Izzi looks at the Tribeswoman aghast. “You cannot refuse them—”

The man turns to us. “Please, miss,” he says to me. “My name is Miladh. I’m a rope maker. I’m nothing. I don’t care about myself. But my boy—he’s smart, so smart—”

Gibran appears behind us and grabs Izzi’s hand. “Quickly,” he says. “Get into the wagon. The Martials were tracking them, but they’re killing every Scholar they see. We need to get you hidden.”

“Afya, please.” Izzi looks at the children, but Gibran pulls her toward his wagon, terror filling his eyes.

“Laia,” Keenan says. “We should hide—”

“You have to take them in.” I turn to Afya. “All of them. I’ve been inside your smuggler’s compartments. You have the space for it.” I turn to Miladh. “Did the Martials see you and your family? Are they hunting
you
specifically?”

“No,” Miladh says. “We ran with a dozen others. We got separated only hours ago.”

“Afya, you must have slaver’s cuffs somewhere,” I say. “Why not do what we did in Nur—”

“Absolutely not.” Afya’s voice is a hiss, and her dark eyes are daggers. “I’m already putting my Tribe at risk with you lot,” she says. “Now shut up and get to your spot in the wagon.”

“Laia,” Keenan says, “come on—”

“Zaldara.”
Zehr’s voice is sharp. “One dozen men. Two minutes out. There’s a Mask with them.”

“Bleeding, burning skies.” Afya grabs my arm and shoves me bodily toward her wagon. “Get. Into. That. Wagon,” she snarls. “
Now
.”

“Hide them.” I dart forward, and Miladh deposits his son into my arms. “Or I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stand here until the Martials come, they’ll figure out who I am, and you’ll die for harboring a fugitive.”

“Lies,” Afya hisses. “You wouldn’t risk your precious brother’s neck.”

I step forward, my nose an inch from hers, and refuse to back down. I think of Mother. I think of Nan. I think of Darin. I think of all the Scholars who have perished beneath the blades of the Martials.

“Try me.”

Afya holds my gaze for a moment before uttering something between a snarl and a shout. “If we die for this,” she says, “see if I don’t hunt you through the hells until you pay.”

“Vana,” she calls to her cousin. “Take the sisters and the girl. Use Riz’s wagon and the rug wagon.” She turns to Miladh. “You’re with Laia.”

Keenan grabs my shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“We can’t let them die,” I say. “Go—before the Martials get here.” He darts away toward his hiding spot in Zehr’s wagon, and seconds later, Miladh, Ayan, and I are inside Afya’s wagon. I shove back the rug that hides a trapdoor in the floor. It is steel-reinforced and heavy as an elephant. Miladh grunts as he helps me lift it.

It opens to reveal a shallow, wide space full of ghas and firepowder. Afya’s trick compartment. In the past few weeks, many of the Martials who have searched the caravan have found it and, satisfied that they’ve discovered her illegal stash, get lazy about hunting further.

I pull on a hidden lever and hear a click. The compartment rolls back horizontally to reveal a space below the first. It’s just big enough for three people. I drop in on one side, Miladh on the other, and Ayan, wide-eyed, lies between us.

Afya appears in the door of the wagon. Her face is still furious, and she is pointedly silent as she rolls the decoy compartment over us. The trapdoor thuds above that. The rug rustles as she straightens it. Then her footsteps recede.

Through the slats in the compartment, horses snort and metal clinks. I smell pitch. The clipped tones of a Martial are clearly audible, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. A shadow passes over the compartment, and I force myself not to move, not to make a sound. I’ve done this exact thing a dozen times already. Sometimes I’ve waited in here for a half an hour, once for nearly half a day.