most fashionable place to be dead.”
She asked, “The Soultrapper is a forward thinker who buried himself before his time?”
“No, his time is long past. His magic keeps him bound into ancient flesh. He'd not take kindly to me opening tombs at random, but your heroic brain could find the one crypt among thousands. His burial haven.”
She had to hold in her next remark while a passerby walked close. The pilgrim laid a clay plate at the base of the spire, among hundreds of other tablets. In a hushed voice, he said, “May you have overcome every trial in the afterlife, my brother.”
Scribes had taken up positions around the tower, accepting coin to write benedictions on tablets for pilgrims.
Hiresha resumed in a quiet but pointed voice. “The hieroglyphs are not the same as Soultrapper glyphs.”
“But similar,” Tethiel said. “Every Soultrapper has traveled, has visited Oasis City. At least those my children have killed.”
“Every citizen of the empire aspires to the pilgrimage.” Hiresha turned to Bleak Wells Prison and saw the blue robes of priests at the doors. Soon the guard captain would notice, and she had little time left with the Lord of the Feast. “Assuming I do find some non-speculative evidence of a Soultrapper, you would assist Chandur and me in leaving? Hypothetically, of course.”
“Catch and kill the Soultrapper, and you won't need my help. He is the city's silent ruler. Leave him alive, and the night has nothing that can save you.”
Hiresha asked, “You believe the Soultrapper is influencing the vizier?”
“If the Soultrapper has hoarded spirits for centuries, he could influence most anyone. But I'd like to think that I'd distrust the vizier regardless. He has thirty titles but won't wear an ounce of gold. Nothing is more pretentious than humility.”
Hiresha remembered thinking the same, but her eyes were on the guard tromping toward her. She said, “I must go.”
“One last thing, my heart.” He matched her stride toward the priests. “Why would you be afraid of my noticing your jewels are not...something. Amethysts?”
She pressed the fingers of her left hand into her neck. Chandur should have said something, she thought, not him. Hot bile filled her stomach, and a cramp panged within her and broke her stride. At least the Lord of the Feast had not identified the jewels as garnets.
Walking stiff-backed, she accompanied the guards to the round building of Bleak Wells. With each step she took away from Tethiel, fatigue piled onto her shoulders. She closed her eyes for paces at a time.
One guard asked her, “Who was that wigged hyena?”
Another guard snickered. “Bet he has sand in his salt.”
“He is a lord, and you would do well to remember it.” Hiresha was surprised that she had not hesitated to defend him.
The priests waited for her in the shade of the building. The larger one with plump cheeks burst out talking. “Once the Golden Scoundrel is found, the enchantress will be reinstated as his bride.”
“With full honors,” the older priest said. He wore a false beard of silver.
“I do not consider death an honor.” Hiresha wished her eyelids would stop drooping so she could give the priests a proper glare.
“You are nervous. Most brides are.” A priest folded his hands together. “Come. We've collected a possible accomplice.”
The other priest said, “Of the god thief, he means.”
Hiresha's eagerness to begin a search for the miscreant warred with her fatigue. Through lidded eyes, she glanced back and was surprised to see the Lord of the Feast. He seemed ready to follow her into the prison.
Can I trust Tethiel? she wondered. More to the point, she wondered if she could trust herself to not get too close to him.
Chandur felt scorings on the cold stone, carvings to mark days or perhaps desperate scratching. The oubliette smelled of sand caked with old piss and less pleasant things. Voices trickled down from above, but no light made it so
She asked, “The Soultrapper is a forward thinker who buried himself before his time?”
“No, his time is long past. His magic keeps him bound into ancient flesh. He'd not take kindly to me opening tombs at random, but your heroic brain could find the one crypt among thousands. His burial haven.”
She had to hold in her next remark while a passerby walked close. The pilgrim laid a clay plate at the base of the spire, among hundreds of other tablets. In a hushed voice, he said, “May you have overcome every trial in the afterlife, my brother.”
Scribes had taken up positions around the tower, accepting coin to write benedictions on tablets for pilgrims.
Hiresha resumed in a quiet but pointed voice. “The hieroglyphs are not the same as Soultrapper glyphs.”
“But similar,” Tethiel said. “Every Soultrapper has traveled, has visited Oasis City. At least those my children have killed.”
“Every citizen of the empire aspires to the pilgrimage.” Hiresha turned to Bleak Wells Prison and saw the blue robes of priests at the doors. Soon the guard captain would notice, and she had little time left with the Lord of the Feast. “Assuming I do find some non-speculative evidence of a Soultrapper, you would assist Chandur and me in leaving? Hypothetically, of course.”
“Catch and kill the Soultrapper, and you won't need my help. He is the city's silent ruler. Leave him alive, and the night has nothing that can save you.”
Hiresha asked, “You believe the Soultrapper is influencing the vizier?”
“If the Soultrapper has hoarded spirits for centuries, he could influence most anyone. But I'd like to think that I'd distrust the vizier regardless. He has thirty titles but won't wear an ounce of gold. Nothing is more pretentious than humility.”
Hiresha remembered thinking the same, but her eyes were on the guard tromping toward her. She said, “I must go.”
“One last thing, my heart.” He matched her stride toward the priests. “Why would you be afraid of my noticing your jewels are not...something. Amethysts?”
She pressed the fingers of her left hand into her neck. Chandur should have said something, she thought, not him. Hot bile filled her stomach, and a cramp panged within her and broke her stride. At least the Lord of the Feast had not identified the jewels as garnets.
Walking stiff-backed, she accompanied the guards to the round building of Bleak Wells. With each step she took away from Tethiel, fatigue piled onto her shoulders. She closed her eyes for paces at a time.
One guard asked her, “Who was that wigged hyena?”
Another guard snickered. “Bet he has sand in his salt.”
“He is a lord, and you would do well to remember it.” Hiresha was surprised that she had not hesitated to defend him.
The priests waited for her in the shade of the building. The larger one with plump cheeks burst out talking. “Once the Golden Scoundrel is found, the enchantress will be reinstated as his bride.”
“With full honors,” the older priest said. He wore a false beard of silver.
“I do not consider death an honor.” Hiresha wished her eyelids would stop drooping so she could give the priests a proper glare.
“You are nervous. Most brides are.” A priest folded his hands together. “Come. We've collected a possible accomplice.”
The other priest said, “Of the god thief, he means.”
Hiresha's eagerness to begin a search for the miscreant warred with her fatigue. Through lidded eyes, she glanced back and was surprised to see the Lord of the Feast. He seemed ready to follow her into the prison.
Can I trust Tethiel? she wondered. More to the point, she wondered if she could trust herself to not get too close to him.
Chandur felt scorings on the cold stone, carvings to mark days or perhaps desperate scratching. The oubliette smelled of sand caked with old piss and less pleasant things. Voices trickled down from above, but no light made it so
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