Stormtide. Den Patrick
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him so he could command the cinderwraiths to rise up against those loyal to the Empire.’ Kimi’s eyes became hard, her mouth a narrow line. ‘When he was done he destroyed it with that damn sledgehammer he’s so fond of waving about.’
‘No ordinary weapon could unmake an artefact of such power,’ said Marozvolk with a frown. ‘The Ashen Torment was crafted by Bittervinge himself.’
‘The sledgehammer is most decidedly not ordinary, that much is clear.’ They resumed walking at a much slower pace.
‘But the destruction of the Ashen Torment is a good thing,’ said Marozvolk slowly. ‘Those souls could pass on to the afterlife once they had been released.’
‘True enough, but when the Emperor hears that I let his most powerful artefact be destroyed he’ll send soldiers south to Yamal and wipe out every last one of us as punishment.’ Kimi felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and told herself it was the city’s smoke that made them smart. ‘I’d forgotten how fragrant western cities are.’ She coughed behind her sleeve.
‘Why didn’t you stop him from destroying it?’ asked Marozvolk, her voice low, a note of caution in her words.
‘I’ve been asking myself the same question ever since we left the island,’ Kimi growled with frustration. ‘He wanted to make sure no one else rose up as a cinderwraith. It’s hard to say no to something like that.’
‘And what will you do now?’
‘I need to return to Yamal and speak to my father. We need to gather the tribes and prepare for war. I owe the sly bastard that much.’
Marozvolk remained silent and looked uneasy.
‘What is it?’ asked Kimi.
‘Nothing. I just …’ Marozvolk, stripped of her snarling wolf-faced mask, was an open book. Her expressive face told of a deep worry that consumed her. ‘I’m not sure I can go back to Yamal, Your Highness. I want to. I want to help you, protect you if I must, but … my parents disowned me when I failed the Invigilation.’ Marozvolk shook her head and looked away.
‘What would your parents do if they saw you?’ asked Kimi gently, slowing her stride. ‘What could they do? They should be grateful you’re alive at all.’
‘Part of me would give anything to see my family again,’ said Marozvolk, eyes downcast. ‘But they disowned me in a heartbeat. I can’t go back to that.’
Kimi eyed the other woman for moment. They’d shared a cramped cabin for three weeks but carefully avoided any difficult conversations. Until now. All their efforts at interaction had been directed at caring for Maxim. Without the distraction of the boy, Kimi was painfully reminded that Marozvolk had been one of her former jailers, but it seemed even jailers had problems of their own.
The women continued into the city in silence. The buildings stood three storeys tall, so different to the nomadic tents of Yamal. Virag’s rooftops were adorned in grey slate as opposed to the thatch more common in the northern reaches of Vinterkveld.
‘Everything is grey and damp here,’ said Kimi. ‘It’s a wonder anyone gets out of bed.’
‘Hard to disagree with that,’ replied Marozvolk. The further they ventured away from the docks the more people watched them pass. Eyes filled with suspicion followed their passing, or was it merely curiosity?
‘I imagine most sailors from Shanisrond or Yamal stay near the docks,’ said Marozvolk.
‘We’re not sailors,’ replied Kimi. She looked at the shingles hanging outside each of the shops. Each bore an illustration of the profession practised inside. They appeared to be on a street of scribes, judging by the depictions of quills, scrolls and even the odd book. ‘We just need to find a …’ Kimi turned into an alley and pressed on before coming to an abrupt stop. Marozvolk walked into the back of her, apologising in hushed tones until she spotted what Kimi had seen moments before. Three dockers waited at the end of the crooked cobbled alley. All were heavy-set men with deep frowns and mouths set in flat lines. The largest of them clutched a cudgel in a scarred fist.
‘It’s a shame Romola didn’t have a few weapons to spare for us to come ashore with,’ said Marozvolk under her breath. She clenched her fists and a silvery glimmer of arcane power moved across her skin. Her fists began to turn the colour of granite.
‘You can’t use the arcane here,’ said Kimi just as quietly, grasping her arm quickly. ‘It will attract too much attention. Come on.’ She took Marozvolk by the hand and led her through a door.
The tailor was a gentleman who had not seen fit to die despite his great age. The elderly man’s spotted pate and rounded shoulders stood in stark contrast to his sharp eyes and firm jaw, and Kimi doubted she had ever met anyone so old. Even Sundra and Mistress Kamalov demonstrated a blush of youth compared to the tailor. Weak light filtered into the shop through the uneven windows at the front. It smelled of dust and sandalwood, stewed tea and quiet desperation. A fire snapped and popped in the hearth, lending the shop a reprieve from the dismal chill outside.
‘I do not make clothes for women,’ said the tailor slowly, first in his own tongue, then in Solska when it was clear he had not been understood.
‘I don’t want clothes for women,’ replied Kimi with a lift of her chin. ‘I want britches, a shirt, a good coat and some boots that just happen to fit my friend.’
‘And how do you propose to pay for all of this?’ replied the tailor, pursing his lips. He had a sour look about him, but Kimi imagined she’d be sour too if she’d lived a long life in Virag. She unfastened her thick leather belt and laid it across the counter, then slipped a few coins out of a false lining on the reverse side. Each was solid gold and bore the profile of the Emperor.
‘Given you speak their language, I assume you’ll take their coin?’
‘Solmindre crowns are very welcome here.’ The tailor attempted a smile but the expression might have easily been constipation.
‘Half now, half on completion,’ said Kimi.
‘As you wish,’ replied the tailor, smooth as silk. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘Make the three shirts and as fast as you can. I don’t know how long we’re going to be in town.’ She cast an eye over his bony hands. ‘You have assistants to help you, I hope?’
The tailor rolled his eyes, then held up one forbidding finger and shook his head. It took Kimi a moment to realise the gesture was not for her but the three thugs waiting in the alley outside. They looked even more brutish through the uneven glass.
‘Friends of yours?’ asked Kimi.
The tailor took up a measuring tape and bade Marozvolk stand on a low stool. ‘They are not even friends to each other,’ said the tailor. ‘And they are only friendly to me when they come to collect their due.’
Kimi eyed the thugs in the alley. They stared back with dead-eyed indifference. ‘Is there somewhere close by that I can buy a weapon?’ asked Kimi in an idle tone. She held up four fingers in an obscene gesture at the thugs outside.
‘There is always somewhere to buy a weapon in Virag,’ muttered the tailor. ‘Which is entirely the problem.’
The tailor ignored the women in his shop once the measurements had been taken. A young girl was sent to round up seamstresses to begin the work. Kimi and Marozvolk left the shop and headed back to the main thoroughfare. They had barely walked a hundred feet when they spotted an Imperial Envoy, dressed in the customary blue robes of his office, with a soldier’s black cloak across his broad shoulders. His hair and beard were close-cropped, and he could not have looked more different to the men of the Scorched Republics, who wore their beards long and their hair longer still.
‘Frøya save us,’ hissed Marozvolk as Kimi pulled her behind a stationary wagon. The Envoy was escorted by four soldiers, looming over the crowd in black enamelled armour.