The Lady by K. V. Johansen

would only let them control the day’s traffic, not prevent any rush of temple guard. No point, tonight. Tomorrow . . . gates could be improvised. Some of the warehouses had great doors that might almost do. And then? He shoved that thought away. Hold this ward. And take the next. And—find that wizard of the suburb and her demons, all hung upon that. A power to put the Lady to flight? Old Great Gods, Ilbialla and Gurhan, speed Varro’s search. Could the spirits of the mountains really have come to their aid?
    A patrol of guards emerged from a northern street, and folk swirled away, fading into shadows. Jugurthos put himself in front of Hadidu, tensed to shove him down. He saw spears, no bows, a helmet crested with ribbons, the tension of his own guards about one of the fires, confronting this. But then one stepped back and nodded, and the new patrol came on. Tulip moved as if she would drop the horn-paned candle-lantern on its pole away over the side of the tomb, to leave them in darkness.
    â€œNo, wait.”
    Only a five-man patrol, but the sixth, the officer, the short, stocky shape, Jugurthos knew, and then stepping deliberately into lantern-light, Hassin Xua of the Riverbend Gate pointed questioningly up at the roof of the tomb.
    â€œHah.” Jugurthos went to catch his reaching hand and help him haul himself up. “Hassin, you’re mad, coming here.”
    â€œI? You should have seen her, Jugurthos, smiling like she thought she scattered blessings with her gaze and soaked in the blood of folk of the suburb, all over her face like—like some barbarian war paint. That was no goddess. Is it true the Red Masks have been destroyed? Because if it isn’t, we might as well cut our throats here and now and have—” He stopped, seeing what lay down to the other side of the tomb, the corpse, the old man sitting by it, the niece standing sharp and nervous over him, with the other folk of the suburb who had dared accompany the sandal-maker close about. The caravaneers were subdued and wary now, feeling themselves few and outnumbered for all they were armed, marked by their coats and braids as folk of the road. Such had beaten to death one of the magistrates of the suburb, in mindless vengeance for the Lady’s attack. That word had come around, as the dusk fell. Hassin looked down at them, and his lips tightened.
    â€œMaster Hadidu of the Doves.” Jugurthos drew his attention back. “Hadidu, Captain Hassin of the Riverbend Gate Fort.”
    Hadidu nodded. Hassin glanced over at the darkness on the eastern side of the square, the pit and rubble where the coffeehouse had stood. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. I had a fondness for your almond cakes. Forgive me—there was a little boy. Is he . . . ?”
    Hadidu’s petrified look broke into a smile. “My son. He’s safe.” The smile died. “My brother, though, and my lodger . . .”
    Hassin murmured his sympathy.
    The Lady had made a mistake, allowing her temple guard to gossip of the outcome of their errand to the Doves. Not only the capture of two wizards, but the death in the fire of a priest of Ilbialla and his family. That, Jugurthos thought, was what had brought Hassin to him, not only horror at the Lady’s deeds. The temple said there had been a priest of Ilbialla alive in secret, and then the city heard that for all the temple’s efforts, the secret priest lived yet. Hassin was a native of Riverbend, which like Sunset had been Ilbialla’s especial care. He would have been a young man on the day of the earthquake. Well old enough to remember his goddess and her priestess.
    Yes, the word was out there, in the errant, twisting breeze of rumour. Priest of Ilbialla . . . there was a priest of Ilbialla, still, all these years later. And following that, tonight, like slow eddying in the depths of a pond, There was a priest of Ilbialla, and he escaped. He lives. He calls us . . .
    Hadidu