Ah, he’d been taught such things. Yes, in a class taught by an old veteran knight. It had seemed like the ramblings of an old man. The students of his cohort had played dice while he babbled.
We should have listened. I should have listened!
Oh, to sit at the feet of my elders once more and learn the science of killing!
The devices shamed him now. His skull throbbed, burning at the seams. What a fool I have been, he thought.
No time to dwell on the past now. Not now when his present life was at risk.
He focused and moved his presence through the strands, his body staying fixed on the cellar side of the opening. His mind crept from strand to strand like a spider moving over its web. There was a narrow tunnel at the end of the chute. His target had moved through it quickly, in a straight line, without pausing.
He’s afraid of us, the devices said as one.
Taul’s spine heated; his limbs tightened. They wanted to kill their quarry, to know the victory of protecting their house once again. At this moment, he was grateful Balniss had discouraged him from bringing the assassin’s kithaun blade.
He followed the trail until it ended abruptly. Leaning against the side of the tunnel, he grasped his head.
Something like a creeping whisper entwined his throat.
Down, it seemed to say. Down into the crater’s heart.
Taul crouched and touched the edge of the tunnel where it met the floor. His hand vanished. Startled, he withdrew it.
Illusion!
The voices in the device seemed to cheer; they were gathering strength. Taul had worn the devices too long. He felt inside the illusion space. There was sufficient room to crawl in. He searched first, beyond, extending his awareness, but the tunnel was empty.
Go further!
He obeyed, extending his awareness down the tunnel, and found people.
Stop!
The voice screeched, and his head tingled.
Go!
Drawing his awareness back, he slid through the veiled opening into the next tunnel. The tunnel was so narrow he had to turn sideways and slide along. There’d be no room to fight or grapple or anything. Barely room to escape.
They do it this way on purpose, said a voice deep within the ring he wore on his right hand. The former kithvyrae seemed elated instructing him. Such was their nature, but they seemed alien to him. He was not a man who’d ever considered how to kill anyone. These ancient spirits craved it.
He reached the end of the tunnel and reconnoitered a vast cavern. Inside, from wall to wall and down in alcoves and dark spaces, was an underground market. He’d heard rumors of one but had convinced himself not to enquire further. It sounded desperate to sell precious heirlooms—even a crate of prized brandy—just for chits. Toshtolin was four months behind on taxes, though. No… it was seven months. Or was it eight? This was all on him. Ryldia wasn’t even aware. He’d been so good at protecting her from his failures. The devices wailed as he wondered how much one of them would fetch.
We’ll kill anyone not of our house, they seemed to say. House above all!
The voices hummed in his mind, and he hummed with them.
Disguise yourself, the ring said. Think of a face, anyone not you, not of our house.
He tried desperately, but his mind blanked.
I’ll dress him, said the elder voice. Let them look at me once again.
The voices seemed pleased. Taul felt no different, but the market goers and vendors turned to look at him. Too much attention, he thought.
Put your hood up, fool! Must I think of everything?
He obeyed and moved to the side.
The trail has dwindled. Let us search for it.
The market sprawled in the enormous cavern. It had a barrel ceiling and hollowed out alcoves and tunnels leading to more lamp-lit chambers. It wasn’t a natural place at all. Signs of sorcerous craft etched the stone; fingers and palms had shaped the place. How long had it been here?
From the beginning, the elder said. There has always been the need.
He passed the table of a vendor selling house treasures: trinkets, jewels, mirrors, things used by Mornae. Answering the thoughts building in his mind, a device said, There are more valuable things in the world. He walked through the foreigners’ tables, perusing the wares: dusts, tinctures, dried herbs in pouches, tools and utensils, pens and inks. All imports from distant lands. The vendors, too, despite their efforts to hide themselves. He spied golden strands and reds, browns, of course, and skin of all shades. The Mornae vendors huddled together on one side. They were unmistakable to him. The foreigners had strange auras in the Dark, though.
Could one of these foreign potions help Ryldia?
He moved on. A failed diviner, someone familiar, stood at a small table with a miniature forest of seedlings growing in kithaun cups—priceless items. Toshtolin only had a dozen.
Yes, he knew the man. He’d been in the cohort ahead of Balniss and had grown up near Zeldra. The ancient potholes had fascinated him.
Sadness welled up in Taul. He wanted to talk to the man, but the voices urged him on.
Dazed by all he saw, Taul berated himself for living in a delusion. This is how we live now, the elder said. The boundary between his thoughts and the devices was blurring. He needed to hurry.
He turned the corner into an alcove where a priestess and her consort sold grafts, seeds, and jarred fruits. He knew the sigil. It was a branch of Lor’Pelaun, an honorable house. He whirled about, scanning the garb of the Mornae vendors. Was his own house selling here? Anger swelled in him, and he reached for his dagger.
