The Dark Remains (36 page)

The others had their tasks as well—and Lirith had been grateful for Durge’s display of good, solid, Embarran logic at the hostel. The death of a god was a completely incomprehensible thing, but treating it as if it were something mundane and usual, something that could be studied and understood, had removed the sense of paralysis that had bound them all. Maybe there was no point to it—maybe they would never truly understand the mystery at work here—but at least now it
felt
like they were doing something about it.

So while Lirith had been charged with seeking out the guild of the goldsmiths, Durge was to accompany Aryn back to the narrower and more crowded streets of the Fifth Circle in order to speak to the priests of the god Geb. Lirith had thought it interesting that the Rat God’s temple was not in the Second Circle with the other holy houses, but rather in the district inhabited by the downtrodden folk who followed him. Perhaps Durge had been onto something; it was not likely many of the gods cared for Geb. It was his and Aryn’s mission to discover if the priests of Geb knew any reason why another might want their god destroyed. Lirith was to do the same with the goldsmiths.

In turn, Melia and Falken had ascended toward the center of the city to request an audience with the emperor. It was not likely they would be granted entry, given Orsith’s words earlier, but Melia had insisted.

Ephesian cannot refuse us
, she had said.
Not now that a second god has been murdered. Is this how he wishes to begin the dynasty of his name, with such chaos in the city?

All of them had stared at Melia as she spoke those
words. Her cheeks had glowed hotly, and her eyes had seemed too bright, like beads of spun glass.

At last Falken had laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Melia, it’s the nineteenth Ephesian in the dynasty we’re going to see, not the first
.

For a moment the small woman had gone rigid, her eyes staring but seeming not to see. Then she had frowned at Falken.

I know that
, she had snapped.
Do you think I’m an idiot?

Before anyone could say anything more, she had sailed through the door of their room. Falken had followed after her, but not before casting a worried look back at Lirith. Melia’s spells seemed to be increasing in frequency. But what did they mean? Why was Melia getting so caught up in the web of the past?

And what about you, sister? Why can you not stop thinking of Corantha, and of dancing for Gulthas?

The air was warm, and sweat beaded on her brow. Even her summer gown, tailored as it was for the cooler climes of the Dominions, was heavy and hot here. She wished she was dressed as those around her, in bright, loose, flowing fabric. She settled for unlacing her bodice partway; in the Dominions this might have been improper, but in Tarras she doubted anyone would notice.

She almost passed through the Street of Flames without knowing it. Her throat had grown dry, and she was thinking of trying to find a vendor who sold iced wine. However, the lane she walked down was unusually empty, and its only decorations were dark cloths that draped the tops of marble columns at either end of the street.

Just as she was leaving the street, a breeze—sharp with the scent of the ocean—rushed down the lane, momentarily lifting one of the black cloths and revealing what lay beneath: a curving, coiling shape carved of stone, gilded with gleaming gold.

Of course, you dolt. This is the first street you’ve come to that
wasn’t
crowded. You should have known it would be like this. After all, they’re in mourning
.

The wind ceased, and the black cloth settled again over the gilded stone carving of the flame. Her thirst forgotten, Lirith turned back down the street. There were a score of workshops, although all of them were dark and silent. She chose a large door near the center of the street. It was painted green and adorned with a golden hand—the sigil of the god Ondo, she guessed. She raised her own hand to knock.

“Go away!” said a muffled voice from the other side.

Lirith snatched her hand back. In the center of the hand was a small hole. So that was how they had seen her.

“Hello,” she said, trying to direct her voice at the peephole. “If you have a moment, I would speak with you.”

A snort. “You mean you would kill us and swindle us out of our gold.”

Lirith frowned. If the owner of the muffled voice was at all representative of his guild, then these goldsmiths were a suspicious lot. Then again, having one’s god murdered no doubt did little for one’s sense of security.

“That is not so,” Lirith said. “It would be quite impossible to swindle you out of your gold
after
I’d killed you.”

“Oh, well then, in that case …”

There was the
click
of a lock being turned, then the door swung inward a few inches. Beyond was a dim space and an exceptionally tiny and wizened old man in a yellow robe.

Lirith nodded. “Thank you.”

“Wait just a moment, girl.” A few wisps of white hair fluttered above the old man’s head. “You weren’t mocking me just now, were you? I think perhaps you were.”

“Of course not,” Lirith lied hastily. “I was merely trying to reassure you, that’s all. I’m completely harmless. See?” She spread her arms, showing her empty hands.

“Humph. Well, you’re certainly skinny enough. And
you dress strangely. Are you a beggar, then? Don’t think we’re inclined to be generous with our gold just because your god was done in, too. You’ll not get anything from us!”

“You mean you know about Geb?”

“Geb, Shmeb! What does the Rat God matter when Ondo the Golden is no more?” The old man passed a withered hand before his eyes. “No more gold for the domes of Tarras. Dull and drab they shall be forevermore, like our hearts.”

Sympathy crept into Lirith’s breast. This poor man—he had lost everything that mattered to him, and she was teasing him. She reached out to touch his arm.

He batted her hand away with a stinging
smack!

“Get that thing away from me, girl! The gods know when it’s been washed last. Probably never. Can’t you beggars ever ask for soap? Always so greedy for gold, you are. But you’d do well to make yourself presentable. Maybe then someone would take you as an apprentice so you could earn an honest living. Of course, no doubt you’re stupid and have no talents. But certainly the dyers would take you to stir their vats. That doesn’t require a shred of wit or skill. You’d be perfect for it.”

Any sympathy Lirith had felt for the other evaporated like water in the sun. She tried to speak, but she could find no words, and only by clamping her arms at her sides did she prevent herself from throttling the old fellow right there.

“What?” he sneered. “Have you lost your tongue? Well, I suggest you go look for it somewhere else. We have no use for peculiar-looking, slack-mouthed dimwits here. Now leave me to my woe and suffering!”

The door slammed, coming to a halt a hairbreadth from Lirith’s nose.

She spent another hour on the Street of Flames, but with little more luck. With the help of the Touch, she sensed which workshops were populated, then knocked
on those doors. However, the conversations that ensued were, if possible, even less pleasant than the first. While all of the goldsmiths were bereft at the loss of their god, to a one they were haughty, insulting, and mean. If Ondo had been anything like those who followed him, Lirith could imagine that the other gods would be only too glad to be rid of him.

Weary, longing to return to the cool quiet of the hostel, she forced herself to try one last door. A pretty woman no older than herself answered, and for a moment hope rose within her.

It was as quickly crushed as the woman launched into a caustic tirade that made the greetings of her fellow guildsmen seem warm in comparison.

“How dare you come at a time like this, seeking treasures from us?” the woman shrieked.

“But I’m not seeking treasure,” Lirith said, “I simply wanted to—”

“I demand to know who you follow. Is it Imai? Jorus? Ah, I see.” She jabbed a finger at Lirith’s chest. “It’s Sif that you follow. Well, you might as well leave. You’ll never get your precious gold amulets, not now. Until we are granted a new god by the Etherion, the goldsmiths aren’t making jewelry for any of the temples. And we’ll never make anything for those who would plot to steal from us! Bronze is all you’ll ever get.”

This time Lirith was ready for it. She stepped back, narrowly avoiding the door as it slammed shut. Her good mood gone, she left the Street of Flames and started back toward the hostel.

At the first vendor she came upon, Lirith bought a cup of wine. Or tried to anyway. For after she handed the man a coin, he tipped a clay jug, spilling wine on the street, then handed her a wooden cup with a smile and a nod.

“Excuse me,” Lirith said, gazing at the empty cup, “but doesn’t one usually get the cup first and
then
the wine?”

The vendor slapped his forehead. “Forgive me, mistress. I can’t seem to do anything right today. I keep mixing everything up, I do. Why, just after I came back from temple, I tried to fill my pitcher when it was already full. I spilled wine all over a lady’s feet. She wasn’t happy about that.”

“I imagine not,” Lirith said. She held the cup out.

This time the fellow got the order of things right. Lirith accepted his apologies—and the cup, which he told her to keep for her trouble—but she hardly tasted the sweet liquid as she drank. She did not want to have to tell the others that she had learned nothing from the goldsmiths.

Or had she? Something that last woman had said seemed important. She had mentioned something about Sif, about thinking that was who Lirith followed. Was Sif a god? And if so, why had the other thought Lirith to be one of Sif’s followers?

She remembered the way the woman had pointed at her and looked down. Revealed by the unlacing of her bodice, the bronze spider amulet glowed dully in the sunlight.

Bronze is all you’ll ever get
.…

Yes, that was important, she was sure of it. But what did it mean? Lirith closed her fingers around the Mournish amulet as she turned down another street. She would ask Melia about this Sif as soon as she got back to—

A scream escaped her, half-strangled by terror. There, beyond an archway, she saw it: a writhing mass that filled an entire courtyard. Even as she watched, more bright threads were pulled toward it. The threads dimmed to gray, becoming part of the tangle. Lirith felt the first tugs on her being; her feet skittered along stone, toward the archway.

It was bigger here, far bigger than it had ever been in Ar-tolor. And it was growing. Even as she looked it shuddered, then expanded. The courtyard couldn’t contain it.
It spilled onto the street, gray tendrils probing. It wouldn’t stop until it found and consumed her, until it consumed all of the Weirding and every living thing that was part of it.

Sickness flooded her. The cup fell from her hand. She bent forward to spill what wine she had drunk onto the pavement.

That action saved her life. Something hissed just over her head, like an insect, and there was a flash of silver. She jerked her head up. A slender knife quivered in the trunk of an ornamental tree only an arm’s length away. Already the bark of the tree was turning black where the knife had pierced it.

Poison.

She turned, searching with her eyes; she did not dare use the Touch, not now. The tangle still seethed on the corner of her vision. If she tried to touch the Weirding, it would drag her in for certain.

There—a flash of gold. A figure clad all in black stood in the dimness of an alley. It was him, the one she had seen at the docks. Then she saw the figure lift another knife. There was no time to turn, to run.

At least the tangle will not be able to consume you if you are already dead, sister
.

It was small consolation. The figure in black tensed to throw—

—then snapped his head around. Again Lirith caught a glint of gold deep in the cowl. The figure stood motionless, as if listening. Then, like a shadow before the dawn, he spun around. There was a flutter of black, then the alley was empty.

Lirith lifted a hand to her throat, quite stunned to discover she was still alive. Surely the figure in the alley had possessed the necessary desire and skill to murder her. Why had he fled so suddenly? It was as if he had seen something coming toward him.

She looked around but saw nothing that might grant
her a clue. The tangle had disappeared, and the courtyard beyond the arch was empty. Lirith hesitated, then reached out with the Touch. She sensed life all around, whole and beautiful: people, trees, birds in the air. That was all.

No, that wasn’t true. For a fleeting moment she felt something else: a presence, watching her. But that was not the thing that shocked her most. For a delicious warmth rose within her, flooding her veins like rich, heady wine.

Then the presence was gone, and the feeling spilled out of Lirith, leaving her an empty husk.

Aryn spun one more time, reveling in the soft swish of fabric around her. It was foolish, she knew, and more becoming of a girl than a woman grown, but there was something about her new garb that simply required spinning.

“By the Swiftest Arrow of Yrsaia,” she said, “I thought I would never be clean again. I had imagined that the thieves and beggars in this city might have to dwell in the sewers. But I never thought Geb’s temples would be there as well.”

“Well, he
was
the Rat God,” said Lirith, who sat before a window in their room at the hostel. “I believe they prefer those sorts of places.”

Aryn shuddered, wondering if any amount of perfume would be enough to make her forget the smell. At first, in the Fifth Circle, when she and Durge had asked folk where they might find the Rat God, she had thought their answers to be mocking insults at the god’s expense. However, before long it became clear it was no jest.

They had entered the sewers through the mouth of a
pipe tall enough for them to walk upright next to one another. An old woman had told them to follow the rat once inside. Aryn had wondered how a rat could possibly lead them, then Durge had pointed to scratches on the wall: a triangular shape with two dots. Clearly it was meant to represent the face of a rat. Beneath had been an arrow; they had followed, carrying a torch Durge had bought from a vendor.