Chapter 12 | Sephania #2
Thankfully, I know these streets like my own body. So do they, and between the three of us we make quick work of shrouding ourselves in our cloaks and the dark corners of alleyways, traversing the roughshod roads, and arriving in the southern district of Nuhav unmolested.
Up ahead, a house is on fire. Thick black smoke billows through the windows, and the heat can be felt from two blocks away. A crowd of a dozen onlookers watches with arms crossed, stoically staring at the burning building until it becomes an ashen skeleton of blackened beams.
We have to go past the house to get to the cock bar, which means getting through the crowd. No alleys for us to duck into this time.
I clench my jaw and steel myself, nodding my mates forward. As we pass, slithering between the hardy group of commoners, I divert attention from my mates by asking someone, “What happened here?”
The middle-aged man scoffs. “Slaver’s house. Can you believe it, right under our noses, next to the Temple of the True?” He spits at his feet. “Even worse, the bastard was a Bronze.”
He’s not looking at me, which is perfect. It gives me the chance to glance left to see Vallan’s and Garroway’s hooded frames vanish behind the crowd. “A Bronze?” I say, sounding disgusted. “Give the lawmen too much power, this is what happens.”
“True be true, lass,” the man replies. “Good thing we got new lawmen in town, eh? Silverknights’ll set these brass bastards right.”
I wince. So you’re giving away your bronze shackles for silver ones? Doesn’t sound like much of a transformation, sir. “True be true, sir. Good eve.”
“May the Truehearts hold you.”
I slip by the stranger, hurrying to the back of the crowd where my mates are hiding under their hoods. By this point, the acrid scent of burning wood and metal tickles my nose and I sneeze when I arrive.
“May the Truehearts hold you,” Garroway says sarcastically, blessing me, bowing low, and making a ludicrous salute that means nothing.
I wipe my snotty nose with my forearm, spit in the mud, and smirk at my mates as we walk away from the scene. “You heard that?” My voice lowers, and I bump his shoulder. “Damned bloodsucker ears.”
Vallan, who sees no humor in anything, looks over everyone’s head as we pass them. “This city seems more militant than I remember.”
“Times have changed, my big brute.” I skip sideways between two commoners before hopping over a puddle to get to my mates.
“The slavers are out. Anyone who associates with them is a pariah. I think we helped start a miniature revolution when we showed people can stand up to the slumlords and traffickers. Now the people are taking matters into their own hands, so they don’t have to keep watching their daughters, wives, and sons suffer. ”
Garroway smiles wickedly at me. We share the memory of cutting off the flesh-traders at the source, with the deaths of the slumlord Perevis and the slumlady Bolela of the Stitchers helping the cause.
Now it seems like the lawmen themselves, the Bronzes, have gotten involved on the wrong side of the stick. Things could get ugly here fast if the Silverknights are the retribution the citizens are hoping for. They can’t just move all their faith from one useless sect to another.
Then again, Rirth leads the resurgent Silverknights, and I know he is a good man. He might hate me, and for good reason, but I’d prefer no one else leading this Nuhavian revolution than my old friend from the Firehold.
We cut west, avoiding the busiest streets, nearing the rooster tavern.
I ponder the situation here, with the sharp scents of oiled leather, tanned hides, and shoddy tailoring making my nose scrunch.
They’re already fighting one plague in Nuhav, trying to rid the city of gangs and flesh-merchants of their own kind.
Can we really expect them to shift their anger toward another enemy—an enemy that bares their fangs from the city on the mountains—when the time comes?
Or are we asking too much for the humans to help us destroy the Three Ministries?
I see no ways around it. If either city is going to prosper, we’ll need to continue helping each other.
If Nuhavians want to stop living underfoot of the vampires, they’ll need to help us destroy the worst offenders.
I only hope I can convince Rirth of the same thing, if he’s not too far gone down the path of redemption and ambition already.
After all, in antiquity, as I learned from Skar’s teachings, the Silverknights came about with the express purpose of killing vampires.
It wouldn’t be right for Rirth to shirk their ancient duties now, when times are direst, the Ministries are exposed, and we have a small window of opportunity to act.
If Overlord Aramastun Wyvox takes hold of Olhav completely—or any of the overlords do, for that matter—and is able to use it as his own playground, ruling with an iron fist, then we’re too late. We will have spoiled our chance to rid the world of the Five Ministries for good.
Kep’s tavern is busy, even from the outside. Standing across the street, planning our entry, Garro sniffs and stiffens. He smells the unique, heady aroma of redcloud coming from inside. The old addict in him flares to life.
I squeeze his hand softly, give him a small smile, and take his attention away by kissing him on the cheek. “You two wait here. Can’t be seen barging in with two Buvers if we want any hope of finding the Chained Sisters.”
Jolting, Garro loses his faraway gaze. “Kep hates me anyway.”
“That’s right. Told you not to come back after we saved Sister Cyprilis from a beating.”
Garroway snorts. “Saved her? You mean prevented a bloodbath on her behalf, lass.”
A grin lifts at the corner of my lip. “I doubt he’ll recognize me.”
Vallan says, “I don’t like it.”
“Your bloodsight will know if I’m in danger.”
Garro tilts his head left and right. “As we’ve seen, it’s not completely trustworthy. I’ve got a better idea.”
Before I can answer, he closes his eyes and puts his hands on my shoulders, drawing me close. At first, I think he’s embracing me, but then his body goes partly limp and I realize he’s holding onto me to stay upright while he disappears into his mind.
To a bystander, we look like two drunkards draped over each other, just leaving the busy tavern after a busy evening of too many cups.
A man even chuckles at us, stumbling past, and begins to lurch toward us before Vallan appears from a shadow like a monolith and turns him as pale as Vall with a single glare.
The man shuffles off in a hurry.
Garroway opens his eyes, blinking back to reality. “Found us a rat friend in the basement. Found some folk under the floorboards, as it were, but not anyone I recognize.”
My brow furrows. “The fuck does that mean?”
Garro glances away from the rooster tavern, to another dwelling. “Had a conversation with another mousy friend. The Chained Sisters are in the basement of that house, which I believe couples as Kep’s living quarters.”
I click my tongue. “Thank you, love. You’ve prevented us from having to even step foot in that nasty brothel, or have to put up with Kep’s questions if he recognizes me.”
Garroway bows low. I know it’s as much of a relief for him as it is me, since he doesn’t have to get any closer to the redcloud users in there and be tempted.
“Sorry in advance, Kep,” I mutter, marching across the street.
“For what?” Garro asks, following briskly behind.
Seeing that there are strangely no windows in the ramshackle hovel Kep calls a home, I lift my foot and kick in the front door.