books. “The dark is sacred. We glorify the Gods.”
“The gods,” Caleb said, and the tall man recoiled, for Caleb also spoke in High Quechal, swiftly and without accent. “The gods spit on your offering. They don’t notice such small gifts. Count yourself lucky. If you met them face-to-face, your heart would burst and your brains boil.” The painters stood sharp and at bay, like surprised rats. Did they understand him? “Leave my house,” he added in Kathic. “Scuttle back to your holes.” He shook, and hoped they took his tremors for rage rather than exhaustion and injury.
“Who are you?” the tall man asked.
“My name is Caleb Altemoc.” For the first time in years, Caleb put the accent on his father’s name. “Leave me in peace.”
One of the shorter men took a slow step back. The others followed. That first step taken, the second followed faster, and the third faster still. They retreated into the Vale.
Caleb watched until they were no longer people or even rats but insects, ants, disappearing into the deepening dark. Night overcame him and he slumped against the side of his house. Bloody paint smeared across his cheek.
Through the shifting world he saw Mal sheathe a knife.
With her aid, he shuffled along the wall to his front door. He searched his pocket and after a brutal interval found his keys. “In the last blackout some kids, same ones maybe, painted half the houses two blocks over. Paint sinks into the adobe. You have to redo the whole wall to get it off. Public nuisance.”
She watched him fumble with the lock and miss the keyhole twice. “Need help?”
“I’m fine.”
“What if they didn’t run? What if they wanted to fight?”
“They believe in the old gods, or claimed to. Anyone who believed in the old gods, and liked to fight, died a long time ago.”
The latch clicked open, and he stumbled into his living room. Mal followed him, and he closed the door behind her.
Caleb lived alone in the Vale, no girlfriend to impress, no pets save a four-foot iguana he kept to chase the larger spiders away. What did such a life require? In the living room, a couch, two secondhand chairs, an unlit brazier, a shelf full of books on poker and bridge and a few cheap Iskari romances, the kind with dashing swordplay and dark Craft and men who raced to save the world from doom. A low table by the couch bore a five- story house of cards. Caleb was almost glad for the blackout: darkness made the room look like the chaotic abode of a dangerous mind, rather than a chamber cluttered with a young man’s junk.
Mal waited by the door. Caleb searched the table for a match and lit the candles scattered on shelves and tabletop. “Sorry.” With a wave he indicated the mess. “I didn’t expect guests.”
Mal turned a slow circle on the carpet. Fire painted the room orange and black, and her the same. “Why all the candles?”
“I like candles more than ghostlight. They feel authentic. Besides, lights aren’t reliable in this part of the city, especially in summer.”
“Is that so?”
“You must live on the west side,” he said, meaning: you’re richer than I thought. She didn’t respond, not that he expected a response.
“Do your lights die so often that you need to leave candles out?”
“No.” He looked away from her, at the shadow she cast on the wall. “My father comes to visit sometimes. Craft tends to break when he’s around.”
She leaned against the couch. “Your father.” Head lolled back, mouth open, she reminded him of a sacrifice in an old engraving, curled around the blade plunged into her stomach, crying out in pain or rage or ecstasy. She whispered: “Caleb Altemoc,” accenting his father’s name.
“I told you when we met.”
“There are names and then there are names. I didn’t think you meant
“Temoc Godhaven. Temoc Last-Standing, Temoc who strikes as an eagle from the heights. Priest of All Gods. Tormentor of Dresediel Lex. Yes. That Temoc.”
“He really is your father?”
Caleb nodded.
Her eyes were dark as the inside of her mouth. “Why did you chase me?”
“That’s not the question you should ask.”
“What is?”
“Ask why I didn’t tell the Wardens you were at Bright Mirror.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I told them, they’d have thought you poisoned the reservoir. If I tell them what you did tonight, they’ll accuse you of blowing up North Station.”
“I didn’t.”
“I believe you. But they wouldn’t. If you’d gone with me two weeks ago, they would have asked you questions—that’s all. Now, they’re eager, and desperate. They’ll tie you to a rack, pull your memory out through your eyes and slice it with silver knives until they find the truth.”
“And they’ll learn I’m innocent. What do I have to fear?”
“Pain.”
“Pain doesn’t hurt.”
“This kind does. It changes people. Bright Mirror wasn’t your fault—it was my father’s, or the fault of those who follow him. Dad’s hurt too many men and women, by his own hand and by proxy. I don’t want him to hurt you, too.”
Candlelight soaked her hands in blood. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me what you saw at Bright Mirror. Give me something to go on, some angle to chase.”
“Nothing. Moonlight on the reservoir. Your guards. The Tzimet.”
“No sign of a poisoner? Nothing incriminating?”
“No.”
“I need more.”
“I have no more to give.”
He walked around the couch toward her. Flames danced in her eyes. The shark’s-tooth pendant hung from her neck. He touched the pendant, lifted it between thumb and forefinger. His hand grazed her chest, and she twitched as if he had shocked her.
“How did you get this?” he asked softly.
“I bought it.”
“Old Quechal workmanship. You didn’t find it at a Craftsman’s boutique.”
“I have sources.”
“In the Skittersill.”
“Yes.”
“You must have paid a small fortune.” He turned the tooth over. Intricate carvings covered its back.
“A lady never tells.”
“I can help you,” he said. “If you give me the pendant.”
“Why?”
“You use it to sneak into places you shouldn’t be. That brought you to Bright Mirror two weeks ago, and to North Station tonight. Someone’s playing you for a patsy. If I take this, maybe I can find out who.”
She didn’t respond. Slowly, he lifted the pendant over her head, and slid it into his pocket.
When he looked up, she was watching him.
“You ran after me,” she said, “even though you might have died, because you wanted to help. And you won the race.”
“I didn’t win. I cheated. I fell.”
The curves and planes of her face were red and yellow and black. “If you hadn’t won, I wouldn’t have caught you.”
