away?”
Yes. No.
Fuck!
“Try an’ stop me.” The words were reflex. His targeters twitched, adrenals shivered: he was ready to dart for the stone stairs to the courtyard above - or to crush her white throat with a foot if she came for him.
But the cold held her where she was. She said only, “I am the Lord of Amos, and if I say so, you will obey me in word and deed and thought. Yet I would rather you made that choice for yourself. Listen to me, Ecko, and realise: by just standing with me, my enemies are yours. In the friendship of the Bard, you have secured your own death. In the thwarting of Maugrim and ensuring the survival of Roviarath you have angered foes far more dangerous than simply Phylos the Merchant Master. And those enemies will not forgive you - from them, you cannot choose to walk. They will follow you, hunt you and catch you - and your defiance will mean nothing. We are together - we have enemies wherever we look and we must face the unravelling of our culture as well as fight to preserve it. You stand with me Ecko, not because I choose it and not because you do - but because everything else that stands, stands against us.” She rested her cold hand on his cheek, the colour of her skin seeping into his own. “I will not prevent you from walking. But if you do, I will not help you when they find you.”
“If they kill me,” Ecko said, his voice as soft as rust, “you, Phylos, the grass, all of this, ceases to exist.”
“And what in the world,” her smile was gentle, dangerous, “makes you think they’ll just kill you? There are more unpleasant ways to teach people obedience.”
That one had him thinking for a very long time.
6: MWENAR AMOS
Resisting the urge to blow on her chilled hands, Amethea watched the old crafthouse.
Down beside her in a tangle of overgrown garden, Triqueta was motionless, one blade drawn and the beginnings of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. It was cold, the sky was bright and clear, but Triq’s desert skin looked warmed from the core of her soul. Her breath plumed in the crisp air.
Triq watched the sprawl of the house for a moment longer, then shook her head, the stones in her cheeks glittering.
The building was deserted.
Before them, mist and creeper clung to the cracked flagstones. It was barely the birth of the sun and the air was still cold, the night’s chill lingering. They were a way from the city’s heart, here; it was quiet, and an old wall separated them from the outer streets. Amethea watched every direction at once, starting with every stirring of a leaf.
The quiet was disconcerting, but Triqueta didn’t seem to care.
Amethea suppressed a shiver.
The crafthouse was a long, low shadow, and it clearly hadn’t been used in returns. It was half tumbledown, its empty windows Kartian-dark, hiding nameless fears. Once, this place would have been a craftmaster’s home and workplace - one of the single most important buildings in the city. There would have been a workshop here, and pure liquid terhnwood resin of the highest quality, brought straight from the plantation, braids of treated, dried fibres. The craftmaster would have had his moulds and ovens here, and from his skill would have come the finest weapons and ornamentation that the city could offer in trade - sigil-marked items that would travel from trader to merchant, merchant to bazaar, bazaar back to trader, all across the Varchinde.
And in return, he would have been one of the most privileged citizens of the city.
Now, there was nothing. Only his long cellars, empty and lined in stone.
Saint and Goddess, like I haven’t had enough of stone rooms! Amethea thought, and the faint breeze sighed again; enough to stir the mist and scuttle the fallen leaves like insects about her boots. The cold was stiffening her knees.
Frankly, she’d rather be fighting to prevent poor demented Ress from clawing his own eyes out than here, flexing her stiff fingers and trying to stop
Yes. No.
Fuck!
“Try an’ stop me.” The words were reflex. His targeters twitched, adrenals shivered: he was ready to dart for the stone stairs to the courtyard above - or to crush her white throat with a foot if she came for him.
But the cold held her where she was. She said only, “I am the Lord of Amos, and if I say so, you will obey me in word and deed and thought. Yet I would rather you made that choice for yourself. Listen to me, Ecko, and realise: by just standing with me, my enemies are yours. In the friendship of the Bard, you have secured your own death. In the thwarting of Maugrim and ensuring the survival of Roviarath you have angered foes far more dangerous than simply Phylos the Merchant Master. And those enemies will not forgive you - from them, you cannot choose to walk. They will follow you, hunt you and catch you - and your defiance will mean nothing. We are together - we have enemies wherever we look and we must face the unravelling of our culture as well as fight to preserve it. You stand with me Ecko, not because I choose it and not because you do - but because everything else that stands, stands against us.” She rested her cold hand on his cheek, the colour of her skin seeping into his own. “I will not prevent you from walking. But if you do, I will not help you when they find you.”
“If they kill me,” Ecko said, his voice as soft as rust, “you, Phylos, the grass, all of this, ceases to exist.”
“And what in the world,” her smile was gentle, dangerous, “makes you think they’ll just kill you? There are more unpleasant ways to teach people obedience.”
That one had him thinking for a very long time.
6: MWENAR AMOS
Resisting the urge to blow on her chilled hands, Amethea watched the old crafthouse.
Down beside her in a tangle of overgrown garden, Triqueta was motionless, one blade drawn and the beginnings of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. It was cold, the sky was bright and clear, but Triq’s desert skin looked warmed from the core of her soul. Her breath plumed in the crisp air.
Triq watched the sprawl of the house for a moment longer, then shook her head, the stones in her cheeks glittering.
The building was deserted.
Before them, mist and creeper clung to the cracked flagstones. It was barely the birth of the sun and the air was still cold, the night’s chill lingering. They were a way from the city’s heart, here; it was quiet, and an old wall separated them from the outer streets. Amethea watched every direction at once, starting with every stirring of a leaf.
The quiet was disconcerting, but Triqueta didn’t seem to care.
Amethea suppressed a shiver.
The crafthouse was a long, low shadow, and it clearly hadn’t been used in returns. It was half tumbledown, its empty windows Kartian-dark, hiding nameless fears. Once, this place would have been a craftmaster’s home and workplace - one of the single most important buildings in the city. There would have been a workshop here, and pure liquid terhnwood resin of the highest quality, brought straight from the plantation, braids of treated, dried fibres. The craftmaster would have had his moulds and ovens here, and from his skill would have come the finest weapons and ornamentation that the city could offer in trade - sigil-marked items that would travel from trader to merchant, merchant to bazaar, bazaar back to trader, all across the Varchinde.
And in return, he would have been one of the most privileged citizens of the city.
Now, there was nothing. Only his long cellars, empty and lined in stone.
Saint and Goddess, like I haven’t had enough of stone rooms! Amethea thought, and the faint breeze sighed again; enough to stir the mist and scuttle the fallen leaves like insects about her boots. The cold was stiffening her knees.
Frankly, she’d rather be fighting to prevent poor demented Ress from clawing his own eyes out than here, flexing her stiff fingers and trying to stop
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