Steel's Edge (12 page)

“I'm so glad you think he's smart.” Charlotte smiled at the dog. “The dog stays, Richard.”

He sighed.

Charlotte pushed herself up from the pile of bags. He read exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders. Her magic had come at a cost. He decided not to argue.

“As you wish.” Richard handed her his knife. “We have some corpses to strip. It's easier to cut pockets than rummage through them. We may have to ride hard once we find what we're looking for. Can you do it?”

Charlotte raised her head, her gaze regal and proud. “Of course I can.”

FOUR

JEANS
definitely had their advantages, Charlotte decided. For one, they provided a nice protection for one's thighs when in a saddle. Unfortunately, they did nothing for the ache in her core muscles. It had been two and a half years since she had last ridden a horse, and although her posture and balance were still good, after eight hours, her inner hip muscles and her butt had turned into painful mush. The reality of expending so much magic so quickly had crashed into her a while ago. Her head felt fuzzy. Her eyes wanted to close.

“Almost there,” Richard murmured.

“I'm fine. Please don't worry.”

Considering that he was near death less than twenty-four hours ago, of the two of them she was in much better shape.

They rode side by side on the Salino-Kelena Adrianglian highway. Around them tall oaks dripped long beards of moss. The day had long since burned down to night, and the moon shone from the sky, drenching the road in silver light. Darkness hid between the tree trunks. Strange noises came from within the woods: a deep guttural grunting, followed by the distant snarls of a predator, the high-pitched squeaking of some rodent, and the eerie hooting of the great twilight owls trying to flush out their prey. Somewhere between the shrubs, the dog glided, silent despite his bulk.

They had searched Voshak's bags and found the cipher and another map, hidden in the false bottom of his canteen. Richard translated it while she chose the best horses and searched for useful weapons. The map indicated a pickup point just north of Kelena, a large harbor city. The map gave a specific date and time, eleven o'clock, evening, the day after next. The moment they had finished gathering supplies and Richard finished stuffing some of the more outlandish pieces of leather into their saddlebags, they had ridden out.

Richard slowed his horse.

“What's wrong?”

“My wound is aching,” he said.

Her magic told her that his wound was no worse than it had been hours ago. He was giving her an opportunity to rest, and she was too tired and too grateful to fight him on it. Still, she had to. “I appreciate it, but please don't make allowances for my sake. I'll manage.”

“We're only a few miles away,” he said. “Have you ever been to Kelena?”

“No.”

“It is a noisy, garish hive of a city. We'll be walking into the Cauldron, one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Adrianglia. They call it the Cauldron because that's where the worst humanity has to offer is thrown together and allowed to boil until the scum floats to the top.”

Charlotte laughed softly. She hadn't thought she would ever laugh again after what she had done, but her body had passed the point of pain, and she felt weightless and disconnected. “You've missed your calling.”

“I'm a complete failure as a poet,” he said. “When I was fourteen, I wrote a long ballad about the bleakness of my life and the heaviness of the burden that was being me. My brother stole it and read it out loud at a family gathering. That was the first and the last time I managed to make the entire family laugh.”

The laugher kept coming. She heard the hysterical tone in her own voice but couldn't stop it.

Richard halted his horse and dismounted.

The back of her eyes grew hot. She had to get ahold of herself.

Richard took her reins and led their horses off the road. She slid out of her saddle, her body whining in protest. Her limbs were shaking. A big poplar loomed in front of her. Charlotte circled it and sat on the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs and gathering herself into a ball the way she used to do when she was a homesick little girl.

It was all over.
If you were more grounded, you'd sprout roots, Charlotte.
She wasn't grounded anymore. All of her trials, all of her self-imposed exile, all of it had been for nothing. She murdered people. She held their lives in her hands and snuffed them out. It brought her joy. And Éléonore was dead, and there wasn't a damn thing Charlotte could do about it. Éléonore was gone, and she must've suffered before she died.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Charlotte bit her lower lip, trying to hold back the flood.

Oh Dawn Mother. How did it all go so wrong?
Please,
she prayed silently,
please, please make this all into a nightmare. Please let me wake. I just want to wake up. Please . . .
She would have given anything to turn back the last twenty-four hours. Anything to keep Éléonore and Daisy from dying. Anything to shield Tulip. Poor Tulip. She was all alone now. The slavers wrecked her life. One moment she had a sister and a future, and the next she had nothing, only grief.

The warmth behind her eyes turned into tears. They rolled, wetting her cheeks. Her chest hurt. She sobbed. Suddenly, she couldn't hold it any longer. The tears tore out of her.

A dark shadow emerged from the bushes. The dog lowered himself on the ground by her feet and licked her ankle. She slumped over her bent knees and cried like a child.

Please. Please let me wake up.

She cried and cried, praying in her head even though she knew nobody heard her. It was godsdamned unfair. Why? Why did they have to die? She'd killed the bastards who killed them, but it didn't make things right. It was just a circle of pain and death, and she was trapped in it, angry, grieving, and helpless.

The sobs turned into dry heaves. There was no balm, no poultice, no pills she could create to make things better. Dead would remain dead. Nothing could take back their suffering or hers.

Finally, even her dry heaves died. Exhaustion smothered her.

She felt alone. So utterly, completely alone. She raised her head, straightening, and realized that fabric was touching her shoulders. Richard had draped his cloak over her. She hadn't even noticed.

“Thank you.” She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. It was a kind gesture, completely at odds with his confession of being a killer and the air of danger that still emanated from him.

He was sitting next to her, leaning against the rough bark, his profile etched against the moonlit sky. Had she met him under different circumstances, she might have felt fear at his proximity. Now she was too numb and too beat-up emotionally to muster any anxiety.

“I suppose you're regretting bringing me along,” she said.

“I've regretted it from the moment I decided to do it.”

Her pride was stung. “I won't be a burden.”

He turned to her, dark eyes filled with concern. “I never viewed you as a burden.”

“Then why?”

He looked up to the moon. “In this life, some of us are killers, born with a predatory instinct. I'm one, but you're not.”

He must've forgotten she had just murdered a dozen men. “Why? Is it because I'm a woman?”

“No, it's nothing so obvious as gender. My aunt was the best killer I've met. For whatever reason, some of us are born to kill, and others, men and women both, are born to nurture. Your instincts drive you to help others. My instincts drive me to end lives.”

She sniffed. “You don't know me.”

Richard smiled. Despite the dirt, he really was a strikingly handsome man. Arrogant, predatory, but handsome.

“Those of us who are killers learn to recognize others of our kind. We know rivals because they pose danger.”

“And I don't?” Charlotte asked quietly.

He smiled again, and this time his face was almost mournful. “Even the most peaceful and kind person will become dangerous if backed into a corner. I don't question your power, but you don't have the innate aggression or the predatory drive of a natural-born killer. I've been one all of my life, and what I've done and seen during these past months haunts me. I know what lies ahead. I know it will be very difficult for you. You think now that you're dealing with grief and purging it from yourself, but it's only the first taste of what's to come. Are you sure you don't want to return? I would consider it an honor to escort you to the Edge.”

“No.”

“Do you think the Edgers wouldn't take you back?”

She sighed. “They would, but I can't go back to East Laporte. When the slavers surrounded the house, Éléonore called me. I drove to our neighbors to ask for help. They gathered about twenty people together, all carrying guns, then they stood around.”

“Nobody wanted to fight,” Richard said. “They probably delayed until the slavers were gone. Typical.”

She turned to him. “Yes. Éléonore lived among them all of her life. She helped many of them, and they just abandoned her and left her to die. And when I asked them for help to go after those bastards, not one of them would meet my eyes. I can't go back there. I've made my decision. I don't know what your motivations are, but mine are just as valid. Please respect my need for justice.”

“My apologies,” he said. “I won't mention it again.”

Charlotte wiped her face with her sleeve and rose. Richard got up.

She held out his cloak. “Thank you for your cloak.”

“My pleasure.”

Richard held her horse's reins while she put her foot in the stirrup and mounted. He handed them to her, got into his saddle, and they rode out.

Half an hour later, the forest parted. Charlotte halted her horse. A wide field of waist-tall grass spread in front of her, rolling into the distance, where a nacre sea lapped at the shore under a bottomless dark sky. To the left, bathed in the salt water of the ocean, rose impossibly tall towers. Built of pale gray stone, they were triangular in shape, smoothly curved at the corners. A turquoise metal wave tipped each tower, sending rivulets of metal down the pale stone sides, like climbing plants that had sprouted a network of thin roots. The moonlight played on the metal, and its gleam matched the reflections on the placid ocean. The towers stood in a perfect semicircle, enclosing most of the city, like wave breakers.

“Kelena's Teeth,” Richard said. “During hurricanes the towers send out a magic barrier, shielding the city from the storms and the worst of the surge.”

“It looks as if the city is halfway in the water.”

“About a third. There are canals running all through the city, so when the tide rises, the water simply passes through Kelena into the salt marshes. All that grass is deceptive. That's not solid ground under it, it's marsh flats with a thin layer of water over mud. An ideal home for horned turtles. They grow to five feet wide and can snap a human femur in half with their jaws. Fortunately, they are slow and rarely venture on the road. Shall we?”

Charlotte nodded and they trotted down the highway toward the city. She could see between the towers now, and from her vantage point in the saddle, the interior of the city looked like a mess of roofs, balconies, and bright, frayed banners. A human hive, just as Richard had described it: messy, chaotic, filled with strangers. A vague anxiety rose in her. From here, the city appeared too large, too full of people. While at the College, she had dreamt of traveling, but once she left it, the marriage and the house had taken precedence.

Now she was riding toward this teeming city through the night, accompanied by a man born between the worlds who cut steel with his sword and had flawless manners. It felt surreal.

“My brother says the Broken has a city in this exact same spot. According to him, its citizens have an unhealthy fascination with pirates,” Richard said.

She found his voice strangely reassuring. “The same brother who stole your ballad?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“What does he do?” she asked to keep the conversation going.

“He's an agent of the Mirror.”

Charlotte turned to him. “He is a spy?” The Mirror was Adrianglia's intelligence and espionage agency, the realm's main weapon in its cold war with the neighboring Dukedom of Louisiana. It operated in the shadows, and the exploits of its agents were legendary.

Richard grimaced. “He steals anything that's not nailed down, cons people into going along with his improbable schemes, and possesses a unique talent that lets him win when he gambles. It was the Mirror or a prison cell.”

His distaste had a false, put-upon quality about it. “You're proud of him,” she said.

A narrow smile lit Richard's face. “Extremely.”

“I've never been to the Broken,” she told him. “I tried, but my magic was too strong.”

“Neither have I,” he said. “I also tried to cross and nearly died. The Edge is my limit. I would love to see the Broken.”

“I would, too.”

The Broken's gadgets fascinated her. Some, like microwave ovens, had their equivalent in the Weird, but others, like plastic wrap and cell phones, were completely new to her. When she had received de Ney manor, she had climbed into the attic. It was filled with strange things from the previous owners' travels, and she loved to sort through their abandoned treasures. Each item was a little discovery, wrapped in echoes of adventure. She felt the exact same way about the swap meets she'd gone to in the Edge. She rarely bought things, but accompanying Éléonore on one of her treasure hunts was an experience in itself. Éléonore would find some strange gadget from the Broken, and her face would light up.

Grief stabbed her. Charlotte stared ahead at the city. She would make them stop. They would regret the day they ever came to East Laporte.

“Do we have a plan?” she asked.

“The slaver ship docks tomorrow night,” Richard said. “They will expect a crew of at least ten men and a group of slaves, usually twelve to fifteen, typically adolescents and young adults. If they don't see that on the shore, the ship may not dock. It's imperative we get on that ship.”

“Because it goes to the slave market?”

“Yes. The slavers are run by a board of trustees, like a business. The individual slaver captains don't know who the trustees are.”

“You seem very sure of that,” she said.