Marcel
On Anchor Street in the Maze, almost up against the walls of the Sault, stands a temple over whose front doors have been carved a frieze of dancing skeletons. It had once been the fashion to worship Anibal, the God of death, and it was to this purpose that the temple had been dedicated long ago, when the area that was now the crime-riddled Maze had been swampland and shacks. A million black-clad worshippers had worn down the wide front steps with their comings and goings over the years, even as worshipping the death God fell out of popularity and those who prayed to him began to be looked upon with suspicion.
Finally, when worshippers stopped coming in earnest, the Hierophant, chief priest of the city, had padlocked the doors, covered the windows, and declared the temple closed to the citizens of Castellane. The place is not a ruin, though; fear of Anibal and his wrath has kept vandals away.
Sandoz, professional drunkard and poppy-juice addict, often drowses on the steps of the old temple. Superstition means that few bother him here, even in the small hours of the night. Lost in his usual colorful, poppy-addled dreams, he is imagining himself in a meadow surrounded by laughing girls in bright silk dresses when he hears the strangers approach.
He blinks his eyes open, wincing at even the dim light. Perhaps the noise was part of his dream, he thinks, or perhaps he heard the Shomrim calling to one another on the Sault walls. But the hard ache in his head and the cold stink of the stone beneath him soon dispel that notion. This is reality, and the footsteps are only growing louder.
On hands and knees, he crawls up the last steps to the portico, where he hides behind a column of chipped marble. Vigilants, he guesses. They were always hurrying him along as soon as he found a comfortable place to sleep. But as three shadowy figures ascend the temple steps, a chill runs down his spine. They aren’t wearing the usual Vigilant uniforms of red and yellow. Instead, they are dressed all in black as though they mean to disappear into the night.
One of the figures—a man whose shaved head gleams in the moonlight—speaks in a language that is not soft like Castellani, but full of hard edges and grunts. Strange, thinks. Travelers from Malgasi are rare. It is a secretive kingdom, east of Sarthe, about which dark rumors swirl. “ Cza vayuslam. Vaino sedanto anla .”
In a cold voice, the slimmest of the figures—a woman—says, “Bagomer, remember what I told you. You need to practice your Castellani.”
Thickly, the bald man says, “I was just saying, my lady, that the temple is unused. No one will bother us here.”
“It’s quite grim, isn’t it,” she says, sounding pleased. is able to see what she wears now—a close-fitting suit of all black, tight as a snake’s skin, as if she has been painted with black oil. A hood covers her hair, but the face that looks out from the darkness is as pale and bony as the skulls of the dancing skeletons above. “Janos,” she snaps at the second man, across whose face a wicked scar leaves a puckered line. “Get a message to Artal Gremont. Tell him that the Princess of Malgasi, heir to the Belmany throne, has arrived in his city. That should bring him running.”
As Janos nods and melts away into the night, feels a terrible fear grip him. Princess of Malgasi? If there is one thing he knows after living most of his life in Castellane, it is that no sensible citizen wishes to get caught up in the affairs of royals. Not ever.
Belly-down like a snake, he begins to wriggle away across the portico. Unfortunately for him, his bare, dirty foot collides with an empty bottle lying in a drift of garbage. It rolls across the marble with a scraping sound.
lumbers to his feet; he means to run, but his heavy legs will not obey. He sees the two figures on the steps glance up at him. Sees the face of the woman—the Malgasi Princess—twist in annoyance.
A great, invisible hand seems to seize him and catch him up. He thrashes, but to no avail. He is flung down on his back, the cracked marble of the steps biting into his spine. As he stares up in terror, the figure of the Malgasi Princess looms over him, a cruel smile twisting her predatory features. “Look at this, Bagomer,” she says. “A little Castellani mouse.”
The man behind her on the steps grunts again. “Get rid of him,” he says. “Before anyone sees.”
There is blood in ’s mouth. He sputters around the copper of it, tries to push himself up on his elbows. “Don’t hurt me, please. Please. I’ll go. I won’t tell the Vigilants nothing—”
“No,” the Princess says with an almost dreamy look. “You won’t.”
The last thing that ever sees might well have been a vision out of one of his poppy-juice dreams, all color and fire and danger. The foreign Princess holds her hand up, palm out, and from the center of it comes a bolt of flame: gold and red and bronze at the edges. Magic, thinks, and barely has time to gape at the beauty and the surprise of it before he is charred away to ash.