He’d been there the whole time, mocking the half-blood’s struggle, a brass cup in one hand and a flaming swab in the other. The flush receded from Adnihilo’s face. The elder placed the burning cotton in the cup, snatched it out, then stuck the brass onto his victim’s chest. Then came popping and crunching and pain like Adnihilo’s heart might break through his ribcage. Back arched, teeth gritted, and fists clenched, he endured White Eyebrows laughing till he could take no more—he bolted upright, seized the cup, hurled it into the rafters. Only after the brass had clanged on the floor did he realize that the pain had gone.
It took another half hour before the elder’s treatment was done and twice as long to return to the docks. Adnihilo walked the streets with his eyes to the west, to the sun setting over the Gautaman mountains. On the harbor, he looked south over the ocean, over the tangle of anchored ships and piers. And as he came upon the chapel, he held out his healed arm to the east. Dawn was calling him, he could feel its warmth, even as he crossed the threshold.
“Adam,” he started, but inside the church was vacant, cold. Adnihilo listened for signs of life and heard murmurs from up the stairs. He must be talking with Ba’al, the half-blood presumed. He arranged a bed of pillows and lay facing the roof. To Hell with him, siding with the bishop. But then his curiosity welled. What lie was his friend being fed? He had to know.
Adnihilo crept onto the bottom stair. He could hear them talking but couldn’t understand, so he climbed a step higher. The wood creaked underfoot. He stood frozen, listened. It seemed they didn’t notice, so he started again, took a step further until there were no more stairs between him and the door. He could hear them clearly now, Ba’al and someone else.
“My deepest regret for the delay. There was trouble with the delivery. My mule nearly lost her. Had to chase her through the streets.”
The stranger answered in a queer accent unlike anything the witch’s son had heard before. “Please, bishop, there is no need. She’s here now, and even a Gaut’s eyes could see that she is worth the wait.”
“I’m overjoyed to hear you say so,” Ba’al replied. “Two years is a long delay, and I’d hate to keep you any longer. If you have the silver we discussed…”
“Ah, of course. Two hundred and eighty-six florns in Mephistine coin.” There was a sound of a heavy purse hitting the floor. “I’m pleased to have done business with you. Hamza Azra Hashim will not forget to spread word of the good bishop.” The stranger paused, and Adnihilo thought he heard a girl whimper. “Come now, my flower. It is a long way to Najmah Janoob, and even longer to Mephisto. You’ll see, Hamza is not so bad.”
The half-blood staggered back from the door, their footsteps drawing closer, but his toes missed the step below, and he found himself groping the air as he fell. It was a short tumble, nothing compared to the blow he received earlier, though it was not injury which worried him. It was Ba’al glaring down on him from atop of the stairs—beside him, a fat, tanned man in orange robe and turban with a beard of black curls. And beside him was the girl with hair red as a sunset, her pale face terrified.
“Who is this?” the stranger asked.
“Don’t mind the Imp. He’s just one of my servants—Adnihilo,” he called down the stairs, “Get up here and help me sort out this coin—would you mind seeing yourself out?”
The Tsaazaari man smiled, said, “Not at all, my friend,” and led the child out the chapel door. They met eyes as they passed, Adnihilo and the girl, as they had that instant together in the alley. Gone was the fear he had witnessed before, and in its wake lay a hollowness. There would be no escape, not for either of them.
He watched them go then rose from the floor trudged up the stairs to where Ba’al awaited. The door shut behind him.
“So,” started the bishop. “How is this going to go?”
Adnihilo looked about the room, at the two huge purses of silver, at the bags and boxes of devices and chemicals. He gripped his sword and felt a cold pipe touch the nape of his neck.
“Wrong answer, Imp. Why don’t you try again?”
“What is that thing?”
Ba’al chuckled. “It’s my bow and arrow.”
“You’re a slaver, just like the other one we killed.” Adnihilo turned, and the bishop lowered his weapon.
“Yeah, and what are you going do about it?”
“I’m going to tell Adam.”
“Go ahead, if you think he’ll believe you. He won’t, though; but even if he did, it wouldn’t save that girl or anyone else.” He raised his weapon, this time toward the ceiling in a gesture of might. “It’s time you learn something, Imp. The only thing in this world is strength. You either have the power to make your reality or you don’t—and remember this: the only route to power is to take it. Innocence is weakness, as is guilt. Speaking of, your friend should be rid of that soon. Mayhap you’ve already noticed?”
A shadow cast over Adnihilo’s mien. “Noticed what?”
“So he hasn’t told you. He comes to me to confess his dreams. I thought for certain he would have mentioned something to you. He must not trust you, though you should forgive him that. You’re weak, after all. You wouldn’t understand the desires of the strong.”
“What in Hell does that even mean?”
Ba’al grinned and opened the door.
The half-blood spent the remainder of that evening
