Chapter 12 | Sephania
Sephania
Turns out Skartovius can’t make himself useful and shadowwalk us to the cock bar. Not because of his power, but because of its mysterious location to him. He needs to know the spot where he’s sending us—it must be attuned with his memory and mind.
In fact, he can’t bring us anywhere in southern Nuhav because of his lack of proximity and knowledge of the locations. Not even the Firehold and the Grimsons, since he never got the chance to bring us there after his mother Alacine thwarted his portal.
My group is stuck with walking.
It’s not that I mind the exercise or the brisk nighttime stroll through town.
It’s that danger lurks around every corner these days—doubly so with a target on our backs courtesy of Overlord Aramastun—and I don’t much enjoy the prospect of sneaking hours off the mountain to get to Kep’s place of business so I can find my mother.
Conversely, I can’t just go changing my mind after I waded through this shit-swamp to get here, and fought off Skar’s angry scowls at every turn. I made a firm decision and have to stick with it, or I’ll lose clout and authority with my men.
I’m relegated to losing this technical detail in my inner war of wills with Skartovius Ashfen, and I leave the abandoned rebel hovel with Garroway and Vallan and a final look from Skar that’s arrogant, smirking, and stupidly fucking smoldering.
This devilish prick always wins, even when he loses, doesn’t he?
We don’t have our illustrious carriage because it’s now property of Overlord Aramastun Wyvox, stationed at Manor Marquin. We sneak out of the “abandoned” tavern full of Gilded Ghosts and make our way south through the Commerce Ward.
Our eyes are turrets looking out for any danger that may come to us.
Luckily, because Liolen Sesk’s ward is the financial center of Olhav, it means there’s not much riffraff cruising the streets.
Unluckily, it also means there’s a larger presence of guards and hired mercenaries roaming around than, say, the Faith Ward, which no one who isn’t mad ever goes into.
Overliege Liolen keeps the guards and soldiers here under their employ—since they have the coin to do it—rather than relying on soldiers from the Military Ward or Aramastun’s law-and-order Judgment Ward to keep their roads clean.
“Maybe we should have met with Liolen before going on this expedition,” I say out the side of my mouth as we round a street corner and find an alley between buildings to duck into. “Could have given us the go-ahead to move through their town while we’re fugitives.”
“We don’t know which side of the fight they’re on,” Garroway points out. His fingers itch near his hips at all times, ready to pull his daggers at a moment’s notice. “What if they gave us the do-not-go-ahead?”
Vallan murmurs, “Zefyra is a spy for Liolen, infiltrating Aramastun Wyvox’s army. That gives us some insight as to Liolen’s allegiances.”
Garroway snorts and smacks Vallan on the ass, which earns him a bearded scowl. “Quite right, my overly big friend. Not the insight you think, however, you ask me.”
I nod along, adding, “Overliege Liolen is likely loyal to two things: money and self-preservation. They won’t help us out of the goodness of their heart.”
The hue of this district is flamboyant and bright—emerald, ruby, and sapphire magicked light set in the lanterns and lampposts at every corner.
It gives it a livelier tone than the city, even though it’s always a bit conspicuously vacant here.
As if there’s something the noblebloods and rich folk of the Commerce Ward would rather be doing with their time than roaming the streets like urchins.
Garroway’s bald head shines green as he passes under a wall sconce, and he raises a brow at me. “Is that why you sent Lukain and Master Skar to go see Liolen? Because you’re expecting trouble with the overliege?”
Not trouble with Liolen . . . trouble with each other. I swallow hard, clearing a lump in my throat. “No. They have Zefyra as an escort. She can vouch—”
“We can’t put too much trust in a vampiress we haven’t seen in a year,” Vallan interjects with a firm grunt.
His stoic frame takes up the next light down the damp alley, bathing him in orange before darkness covers him once more as he passes under the lamp.
“Just because the abandoned tavern wasn’t a trap doesn’t mean Liolen’s tower won’t be. ”
Especially since you killed Zefyra’s lover ages ago. Which, honestly, is another reason I sent Lukain with Skartovius instead of you, Vall. Hard memories die hard deaths. Goosebumps ride my arms. He’s not wrong about me putting too much trust in someone we hardly know anymore.
And yet, I do trust Sister Zefyra. Just not for the reason Vallan thinks.
“It’s not her, love. It’s the Gilded Ghosts.
You saw the interfolk miners, destitute and dirtied, outcast and forgotten.
Scared. Angry. They’re tired of it. I don’t trust my old friend as much as I trust the pragmatism of people who are sick of the Three Ministries’ shit. ”
Vallan nods solemnly. “Wisely said, silverblood.”
Garroway scoots up on my other side, putting me in the middle of my sturdy mates. “Is that why you sent Palacia with them, also? To, er, sweeten the pot, as it were, when they speak to Liolen?”
I reel, stumbling over my own feet. “If you’re assuming something promiscuous—”
He waves his hands wildly. “No, no, lass. I only meant Palacia is one of their kind. A halfkeeper like Liolen.”
My cheeks warm as I recall that tenuous situation in the cave I shared with a bored Palacia while the others slept. “It might have crossed my mind that having an interfolk vampire on our side isn’t the worst thing when speaking to another interfolk vampire.”
Mind wandering, I bite my lip. The biting turns to chewing, and eventually my lip is raw enough I taste blood. “Let’s focus on our own mission, aye? I don’t want to fail and look like an idiot for splitting up our party.”
My mates say nothing. I know what they’re thinking because I know them: If the boot fits, and, Why split the party, then?
I don’t want to tell them about Skartovius’ lies to Lukain. Not yet. I’d like for Skar to hash things out with his half-brother while he’s on his quest, and then come to us and we can unify together like one big happy family.
I know things are never that easy.
Our conversation brings us to the outskirts of the Commerce Ward and the wide southern trade road that leads down the Olhavian Peaks to Nuhav. A few times we hide at the mouths of alleys as carriages pass—better safe than sorry—before continuing.
That’s where all the foot traffic is: on wheels.
It makes sense. Why would wealthy people walk when they can ride, get somewhere twice as fast, and be private?
We’re sitting targets out here on our feet.
All it would take is one wrong look from a guardsman who recognizes us to sound the alarm that fugitives are afoot in the Commerce Ward.
“Would really love the carriage right about now,” I mutter, sighing as we reach the edge of the city. “Blend into the crowd.”
“You say that now,” Vallan mutters. “Won’t be the same when we’re in Nuhav and we’re the only people in a carriage.”
He has a point. In Olhav, two black horses leading a nicely crafted wooden cart with a closed hull is as common as the wind. In Nuhav, coaches are scrutinized, sneered at, and often vandalized. It’s another symbol of the wealth and power gap that exists between the sister cities.
We reach the base of the Olhavian Peaks unimpeded. Rather than travel the main road to the gate leading into Nuhav, we decide to hop the high wall into the human city. Since I have a vampire and dhampir with me, it’s easy for them to launch me up to the edge so I can easily climb over.
Once we hit the ground on the other side, which is decidedly muddier and ranker than the cobbled streets of the Commerce Ward, we head southeast. Our travel zigzags us through tent cities, streets filled with mud and shit, and rundown neighborhoods.
Here, mid-evening, the throng of people on the streets is heavy and thick.
Everyone wears a scowl. From the largest bearded blacksmith clanking away under an open-aired awning, to the littlest girl wearing a potato sack trying to sell flowers and pendants to passersby.
Or perhaps trying to pilfer coin from distracted citizens who take her cuteness for innocence.
It’s what I did when I lived under Father Cullard and the House of the Broken.
Truehearts flog me, that might even be the same street corner I worked.
Lost in my thoughts, my nostrils flare at the girl, inadvertently. Her scowl only deepens, and she bares her teeth like a feral animal. She scampers away to accost another group.
“What did the little lass ever do to you, honey badger?” Garro asks with a chuckle, watching the scene play out.
I sigh regretfully and shake my head, not bothering to answer. There’s nothing like a trip through the shit-flooded streets of Nuhav to bring my ugly past to the front of my mind.
“Maybe she was reacting to your pale face, cub,” Vallan says, coming to my rescue. He pulls his hood even lower, so only his beard is visible. “Keep your hood tight.”
The seriousness of our situation dawns on me.
We need to meld into the crowd. I can’t get lost in my dark memories when I’m living one right now.
I’m no longer a rabble-rousing whelp stealing coin for my supper.
I’m with two vampiric mates in the center of a city that loathes vampires, and one of them is very broad-shouldered and tall, sticking out like a stubbed toe.
Coming here puts them in danger. Or, rather, it puts everyone around us in danger. The last thing I want to do is incite a bloodbath just because I want to see my mother.