Cythera nodded.
“She made an illusion, made it appear we had far more archers than we actually did,” he said, thinking back to what he’d seen the previous night, up on the wall. “That wouldn’t have consumed her so. But then she made the illusory arrows real. Real enough to kill.”
Cythera looked away from him quickly. Malden frowned, wondering why she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He had only been stating a matter of fact. “Did you… aid her in casting that spell?” he asked.
“It was a powerful operation,” Cythera confirmed. “A conjuration even a sorcerer would find daunting. It would have destroyed me to even assist her. No-she had to do it herself. She nearly perished.”
“She saved us all,” Malden said. He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Coruth’s forehead. Her skin felt waxy and stiff. “The city thanks you. I thank you.”
He nearly jumped off the bed when one of Coruth’s eyes fluttered open. It stared right into him and he felt transfixed, as if her very gaze could pierce him like steel. She tried to whisper something, but he couldn’t make out the words. Leaning close, his ear almost touching her mouth, he heard only a little.
“… never too late. Through the heart. Her father…”
There were no more words. Coruth’s eye closed again. When Malden sat up, he was shocked to see a tiny brown leaf attached to one greasy lock of iron-colored hair. The effort of speaking must have cost the old witch dearly. Clearly she had been desperate to get some message across.
Sadly, he could make no sense of it at all. Yet another mystery, one he had no time to decipher. He got up to leave. No point in disturbing her rest now. “Can you help me get back to shore?” he asked of Cythera.
The new witch nodded and led him back to the door of the shack. “Malden,” she said when they arrived at the ice. “She knew this would happen. She knew it would take more than she had to aid you. She understood the necessity. I hope you do as well.”
Malden bowed his head. She was explaining why she couldn’t be with him any longer. “I understand that fate plays dice with us all, and rarely do any of us get a natural throw.” He shook his head. “I understand what your mother did, and what it cost her. Her sacrifice moves me in ways I cannot find words to express,” he told her.
“That was her way,” Cythera said. “The witch’s way. We go places other people do not dare, and take risks others cannot countenance, for the good of all. It’s a noble calling, and one I’m proud to have accepted. She saw this would happen, and she made sure I was initiated before she exhausted herself-so that you would still have a witch on your side afterward. I see that now.”
Malden reached for her hand, but she thrust it under her shapeless cloak.
“You need to understand, though,” she went on. “My witchcraft is still slight. I can effect some minor workings. I can harness a few natural energies better than others, but-I couldn’t even begin to do what she did last night. I couldn’t even have created the illusion. Don’t count on me, Malden. Don’t make plans that require powerful magics for success. I’ll help you when and where I can, but it may not be enough.”
“I’d rather have your love than all the sorcery in the books of Redweir. Maybe it’s not too late,” he said. “Maybe… maybe you can still give it up. Give up your witchcraft and come be just a woman with me.”
“Oh, if it were so simple,” she said, very quietly. “But could you just be a man, with me?”
“When I’m with you,” Malden said, “that’s all I ever am. Your man.”
She made no reply.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but she had already lifted her hands and tilted her head back. The ice began to firm up just off shore. Malden knew she couldn’t hold it very long. Hardening his heart, he raced for the far side, for the Ditchside Stair and solid ground.
Chapter One Hundred
The Lemon Garden could no longer hold all the supplicants who wanted a piece of Malden’s precious time-and some of the more devout citizens had begun to object to entering a whorehouse just to make their points heard. Malden took offense at that, but he knew better than to alienate his people by venting his personal feelings on them. So he took over the moothall, a massive stone building in the Spires just off Market Square. Once, the masters of every guild in the city had come there to discuss public policy. Now that the guildmasters were all gone, fled long before the barbarians arrived, it stood empty and its hearths cold.
Velmont built a fire in the enormous fireplace of the main meeting hall, while Malden walked around and around the long oak table, studying the coats of arms hung up by the rafters. The guilds those heraldic symbols belonged to had built Ness, and made it free, even more than Juring Tarness-it had been the money they accumulated that gave Ness its power. Many, many times in its history the kings of Skrae had tried to tax the city, or to enslave its population despite its charter. Always they’d been bought off with tributes and fat bribes. Ness had bought its safety and its freedom with money earned by hard work and shrewd dealings.
That was the official story anyway. It ignored the fact that since the beginning of the guild system the actual workers-the laborers, the unskilled and the eternally apprenticed-had been exploited and ruthlessly kept down, all so the merchants who sat in this hall could squeeze out another farthing from their misery.
“I was downstairs in the cellar, earlier,” Velmont said when his fire was blazing cheerfully away and the room began to warm up. “They got some flash regalia down there. Guild symbols all in gold, and enow ermine and sable to make a menagerie.”
Malden nodded. “They had a grand procession every year. They would trot out the symbols of their mysteries-ornamental tools, ceremonial robes and hats and the like. Basically a way to celebrate their own importance.”
“I was just wonderin’,” Velmont said, a sly look in his eye.
Malden sighed. He knew what Velmont was asking for. For the first time a stab of conscience struck him. The regalia down there was steeped in mystery and tradition-it was part of Ness’s folk heritage, and now Velmont wanted to plunder it? How dare he?
Malden, once called Malden the Thief, could only laugh at himself. How far he had come. There had been a time when he would have tricked Velmont just so he could get first dibs at the stuff.
Now he could only think of how to use the regalia to firm his grasp on his people. “Get a team of thieves down here. Pick the ones who are the best archers, and the most loyal. Cart it all away, but be quiet about it.” The thieves had begun to grumble again, now that there was very little left in the city worth stealing. They were happy to serve Malden as Lord Mayor, they said, but if he was also going to be the guildmaster of thieves, he needed to line their pockets. He knew he could not afford to lose their favor, not when they still represented the best pool of able-bodied men under his command.
The whores, conversely, had never complained once. It seemed that they got what they truly wanted- recognition as full citizens, a little respect-just by being associated with him. He could count on Elody and Herwig and the other madams, at least.
Of the honest folk, who made up ninety percent of his constituents, he could be neither sure nor comfortable he knew how to appease them, and that worried him. If Cutbill was right and the siege was about to come to a head-and he had no reason to doubt it-then now was the time he had to solidify his power. Now was when he had to make common cause with his people, so when he asked them to fight-and die-for him, they would not hesitate.
For nearly a week he had refused to meet with any civic group, because he’d had more important things to worry about than their petty concerns. If they were starving, or terrified by the bombardment, or just desperate for recognition, he’d had no time for their feelings. Now, his neglect was starting to feel like a mistake. Perhaps they would not have turned so maniacally toward the Bloodgod and supernatural aid if they thought they had their Lord Mayor’s ear.
That day, he was in a mood to give them anything they wanted. As long as it didn’t mean losing the city in the process.
Velmont ran out just as the first supplicants started filing in. Malden recognized them at once, though they’d changed their clothes. They were dressed in scarlet and crimson now, with even their leather dyed burgundy.
The self-ordained priests of the Bloodgod. Perhaps the worst of his enemies, he thought. At least he knew where he stood with the barbarians.
