“That was my friend’s idea.” Varo shook his head. “And anyway, he fell through the ice into a lake we were crossing and drowned. Froze so solid that once we fished him out we used him as a sledge.” Maya raised her eyebrows doubtfully, but Varo went on. “No, the only problem with me is bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck,” Maya said.
“That’s what they all say, until they travel with me,” Varo said. “The other scouts call me Varo Plagueluck.” He stood up, lists in hand. “I’ll take this over to the clerk, then.”
“Do you believe that, about the boy who froze solid?” Beq said when he’d left the table.
“Probably not,” Maya said.
“I wouldn’t want to be stuck with Plagueluck for a cognomen, I know that.” Beq twisted the dials on her spectacles, returning her eyes to a more normal size, and blinked. “It’s different for centarchs, I know. The Council assigns your names.”
Maya nodded, her throat suddenly dry. For a moment they sat in silence.
“Am I doing something weird?” Beq said. “Sometimes that happens.”
“What? Why?”
“You just seem to be alternating between staring at the ceiling and your boots instead of looking at me, so I thought I might have done something weird.” Beq shrugged. “They say the more time you spend around arcanists, the stranger you get, so I must be pretty strange by now.”
“No, it’s … nerves, I suppose.” Maya took a deep breath and looked straight at Beq, trying to ignore the way her curls framed her round face and the spectacular blue of her eyes. Self-control, Maya. Come on. “You’ve been with the arcanists a long time, then?”
“Since I was four, I think.” Beq looked thoughtful. “That’s what they tell me, anyway. Since I can remember. I grew up here at the Forge.”
“My mentor picked me up at around that age.” Automatically, Maya’s hand went to the hard lump of the Thing in her chest. “I’ve been with her ever since.”
“That’s young, for a centarch.”
Maya nodded and found time stretching like taffy into another awkward silence. Say something. But what? “Ever since I saw you naked I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you” lacks … tact.
“All set,” Varo said, rescuing her. He came back to the table and picked up the big catalog. “I’d better give this back, too. Wouldn’t want them to lose their prank piece.”
“Thank you.” Maya looked between him and Beq. “I’ll try not to be …”
“A typical centarch?” Varo grinned. “That would be a nice change of pace.”
*
They set out the next morning.
Maya stepped forward, through the rippling mercury curtain, and in the space of a breath crossed most of the width of the Republic. She emerged from the Gate with her panoply raised, one hand on her haken and deiat coiled around her like a snake.
Jaedia had taught her to be cautious at these moments of transition, but it was more than that. Every previous time she’d gone through a Gate, she’d been at Jaedia’s side. To be without her mentor made her feel raw, every sensation heightened, as though something had scraped away her skin and dug cotton out of her ears.
The Gate to which they’d traveled was set into a rocky hillside, obscured from casual view by a screen of tall bushes. Maya pushed her way through the brush and found herself in a sun-dappled forest, the blue sky visible in patches overhead through the leafy canopy. The breeze raised gooseflesh along her bare arms, and the air seemed to be alive with birdsong.
Tanax pushed his way through the bushes behind her, swearing as they tangled in the straps of his pack. Varo slipped out after him, quiet as a ghost, and then Beq. The arcanist was even more heavily burdened than the rest of them, but she still moved lightly. Tanax was already scowling, pulling himself free of the bushes and brushing the leaves from his clothes. He turned in a slow circle, as though expecting to see an obvious direction to proceed. Nothing seemed to present itself, and he frowned.
“Scout-Trainee Varo,” he said. “Which way to Litnin?”
Varo checked the crystalline compass hanging from the straps of his pack and oriented himself. He made a chopping gesture.
“That’s north,” he said, “unless this thing has gone completely haywire.” His expression went thoughtful. “That happened to a friend of mine, in fact. He kept following that compass until he wandered into the ocean and the sharks got him.”
“You must not have very many friends left,” Maya said.
“It’s a lonely life, being a scout,” Varo deadpanned.
“Litnin is to the northeast, if I recall,” Tanax said, turning. “Follow me.”
“Ah …” Varo gestured at right angles to Tanax’s heading. “Perhaps we should descend to the flat ground near the river first. That would make for easier going.”
The look Tanax gave the scout could have frozen him on the spot. “Why don’t you lead the way, then?”
“Of course, Agathios.” Varo managed to catch Maya’s attention and raise an eyebrow, and Maya had to suppress a giggle. “If someone’s going to get eaten, it might as well be me.”
He hitched his pack up and pushed through the underbrush, moving with an ease that spoke of long practice. Beq, behind him, sounded like a vulpi pup tearing through a pile of autumn leaves. Tanax stalked after them, swatting irritably at branches in his path. Maya permitted herself a sigh before following.
Why, she thought, do I have a bad feeling about this?
Chapter 6
The Moorcat Merchant Combine was one of the wealthiest houses in the Republic, rivaling the most powerful nobles in its reach and power. Some said the Moorcats were richer than the Senate itself, while others confidently asserted they had bought the Senate long ago. Conspiracy theories aside, the reality of their influence was obvious enough. While most merchant houses had to make do with buildings in the West Central district, uncomfortably close to the stench of ordinary commerce, the Moorcats were permitted an expansive complex on the East Rim, within a stone’s throw of the Spike and surrounded by the sprawling mansions of Republic nobility.
Their land was fenced off, the exterior watched by Auxiliaries and the interior by Moorcat house guards. The chapter house itself was near the back of the estate, surrounded by carefully faked woodlands. It was a magnificent structure, sporting an enormous central dome topped with a gilded statue of Galbio the Moorcat, legendary founder of the organization. Up close, Gyre found the statue unimpressive—the gold was clearly a thin alloy coating, and the details of Galbio’s features looked cheap and hastily carved.
I suppose you don’t get to be a continent-spanning merchant combine by wasting money on a statue nobody is ever going to get a good look at. He settled against the stone base of the ugly thing. The dome was large enough that it wasn’t steeply sloped, but the lead roofing provided awkward footing. It was nearly midnight, and the stars were blotted out by thick clouds.
Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. It was only a quarter of an hour before he spotted a lithe figure pull itself up onto the edge of the dome and scramble lightly up toward the statue. Gyre had chewed some nighteye before he’d set out for the evening, and in the weird grayish vision the alchemical stuff provided, Kit’s features were easy to make out. She wore something close to his own working clothes, well-tailored dark silk with a few reinforcing panels of black-dyed leather, and she bore a pair of long knives on one hip and a blaster pistol in a worn holster on the other.