Something had been off about Kit since they’d left the Tomb. He didn’t know how she’d spent her time there, though at least the ghouls had refueled the arcana that kept her heart beating. Maybe that’s what’s gotten to her. The sudden release of tension might be a shock, he supposed. But something was off between them, and they’d barely talked on the trip back up the valley to Deepfire.
He was surprised to discover how much that bothered him. Gyre closed the door to his small room and sat down on the bed, trying to quiet his mind. It makes no difference to me how much she drinks or who she fucks, he told himself. As long as she’s there when I need her. That’s all I’m worried about.
Right.
*
“There will be pain,” the old ghoul had said.
Gyre considered himself inured to pain. He’d been shot, stabbed, broken. Had his eye cut out by an enraged centarch. But Naumoriel had taught him he didn’t know what pain meant.
He couldn’t move. There were restraints on the table, but they were unnecessary—Naumoriel’s magic, the soft breath of dhaka, had simply turned off Gyre’s control of his body. Why he couldn’t turn off the pain as well, Gyre had no idea. Maybe the old ghoul was just a sadist.
“The threads wrap around your bones,” Naumoriel said. “It is no use being able to see what is coming but not to be able to respond, you understand?” The ghoul gave a toothy smile. “Of course you do.”
Gyre could, of course, say nothing. But he could feel. One of the table-construct’s narrower limbs was bent over the crook of his elbow, carrying a spool of fine silver wire. A blade had made a narrow cut in the tender skin there, and the wire had wriggled of its own accord, one end plunging into the bleeding wound like an eager maggot. Searing agony marked its path as it burrowed through his flesh, down through skin and muscles, until it reached the bone.
“You are fortunate,” Naumoriel said, through the haze of blinding pain. “In the days of the war, our methods were cruder. The gifts we gave to those who fought at our side were … less subtle.” The ghoul looked down at Gyre, blurry through the tears that filled his eye. “Oh yes. Your kind fought beside us. Those who were brave enough to turn against their masters. Those who wanted a better world. I imagine your Order doesn’t speak of such things.
“All we wanted was to be left in peace. Not so dangerous, you would think. But oh no. That was not enough for the lords of the world, the wielders of the fire of creation. They had to have obeisance. It was only their due, they told us. Were they not the Chosen? Chosen, pfah.” Naumoriel coughed, a tearing sound that rattled deep in his chest. “They feared us. The masters of divine fire feared our power, because it comes from within. Anyone can wield it. Even humans can learn. Dhaka is the birthright of all who live and breathe. And so the Chosen wanted it destroyed. Wanted us destroyed.” He gave a hollow chuckle. “See how well they have fared, with all their power.”
Gyre wanted to scream but could not. The worm reached his wrist and mercifully stopped, leaving a spiraling tunnel of slowly dulling pain in its wake. Naumoriel roused from his reverie, passing his spotted, gnarled hand over Gyre’s skin, nodding approval.
“Very good,” he said. “Very good. You are strong, for a human.” He brushed a finger against the table-construct, and its limbs whirred. Naumoriel poked with one long, ragged fingernail at the tender pads of Gyre’s palm. “The hand next, I think …”
*
Gyre awoke with a mouthful of blood from where he’d bitten his tongue, his teeth clenched against a shriek that seemed determined to work its way out from somewhere deep in his chest. He could feel the wire running through his body, wrapping his skull and spiraling along every bone, a set of blazing threads that seemed to be cooking him from the inside. His new eye was a mass of agony, ghost-memories of the whirring blades of Naumoriel’s construct slicing through flesh and bone.
It’s over, he told himself, breathing hard and fast. It’s over, it’s over, you lived through it, it’s finished. The old ghoul had told them there would be a price, and he’d paid it. It’s only a dream, and the memory of pain.
Slowly, too slowly, the pain faded. Gyre relaxed, the muscles in his jaw aching. He lay on the bed, a shuddering, sweaty mess. His right eye saw the room in darkness, the rafters above only a suggestion of deeper shadow, but his silver eye laid over that a clean, clear image, bright as day. He could see the cobwebs in the corners and count the desiccated flies trapped there.
It was still before dawn, but there was no chance of any more sleep. Not with Naumoriel waiting in his dreams, with his whirring blades and his silver wire, his endless ranting about the war. Gyre rolled out of bed, stripped off his sweat-sodden clothes, and dressed in fresh things from his pack.
The corridor was quiet. Not many early risers after last night, I imagine. A woman, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of trousers, lay snoring on the landing, still curled around a bottle of something. Gyre stepped over her, then paused by the door to Kit’s room. It stood slightly open, and he shifted, peeking through the crack. Just to check that she’s all right.
She lay on the bed, facedown, a line of drool soaking the sheet by the corner of her mouth. To Gyre’s mild surprise, she was alone. Not that it matters to me, one way or the other. He turned away and hurried to the stairs and down into the common room, where several harassed-looking servants were clearing away the remains of the night’s festivities. An older woman sat behind the bar, shouting unhelpful advice.
“Excuse me,” Gyre said, all smiles, letting his old rural accent return. “I have a good friend who works for a grocer that makes deliveries to the Spike. He told me that I might be able to get a position with them, but I can’t seem to find the place.” He waved his hands helplessly. “This city is a maze.”
“There’s a dozen grocers that serve the Spike,” the woman said. “You know which one your friend’s at?”
“I don’t have the proprietor’s name,” Gyre said. He dug in his pocket and produced a couple of decithaler coins. “Maybe you could just point me to the closest? I’m sure I’m in the right neighborhood …”
*
Two nights later, everything was in place.
Gyre was in the driver’s seat of a small wagon pulled by a pair of loadbirds. The name “M. Snadbury, Master Grocer” was rather grandly stenciled on the side in jolly blue letters, and the packet of papers in Gyre’s pocket confirmed that he was to deliver a load of mixed fruits to the palace kitchens. All this was quite genuine—M. Snadbury’s regular driver had been happy to accept the last-minute change of assignments, especially as it had come with a stack of thalers to make up for his time.
Kit lounged on the seat beside him, looking absolutely untroubled by the enormous volume of alcohol she’d downed over the past couple of days. She wore an ugly brown coat and leather cap, with her fighting blacks underneath. Gyre was in similar garb, plus a large brown satchel containing a selection of interesting gear.
They’d rounded the southern end of the Pit and joined a queue of carriages and wagons approaching the palace. Most deliveries came in the morning, but the grocer had received an emergency order to replace another shipment that had gone rotten. All the better for us. Gyre closed his eyes and tried to visualize the grounds, based on the crude map Kit had drawn for him. Main drive, delivery drive, the servants’ entrances. The storehouse.