Dane caught his breath, looked around, and the darkness resolved into several swishing red cloaks. The Scarlet Blades came forward-two men and two women-and each of them looked terrified. They must have known already that they were here to kill someone they had served all their lives.
It was that more than the voice that convinced Dane he was discovered. Jan Ray Marcellan was there, and that was bad enough. But he had never seen a Blade look so afraid. "Jan Ray," he said, trying to level his voice. I'm not afraid of her. "I never thought to see you in this place."
Jan Ray came forward out of the shadows, tall and old and still as graceful as when she'd been a beautiful young woman. There were those who claimed that the Hanharan priestess was pure and unsullied, maintaining her birth-day innocence in deference to Hanharan and to better aid her total devotion to his cause. And there were also those who would whisper, given assurances of anonymity, that on occasion Jan Ray procured young girls from some of the worst rut-houses in Mino Mont and made them fuck her with chickpig hooves.
"I'm no great advocate of it," she said, looking around with distaste. "Hanharan guides our vision; we have no need of the Baker's… monsters. But it gives comfort to my kin. To see the city, they believe, is to own it."
"Haven't we always owned it?" Dane asked, offering a half smile in the vain, evaporating hope that her visit was innocent.
"We?"
The Scarlet Blades had spread around Dane, boxing him in against the viewing mirror and controls. They were not yet disrespectfully close, but neither were they too far away. Any one of them could be on him in a blink.
"I was just about to leave," he said. "I have grave news for the Council-"
"I can relay that news, Dane," she said. She paused before him, and once again he was amazed at her grace. When she moved she seemed to flow, the loose black clothing of a Hanharan priestess a flock of shadows making her their home. And when motionless, as now, there was a stillness to her that was almost unnatural. Her expression never shifted; her mouth barely moved when she spoke. Such economy of movement was the mark of someone in complete control of herself.
And of the four Blades as well. He should not forget them. Inner Guard, highly trained, unendingly loyal to the Marcellans, these soldiers would nevertheless obey priestesses over politicians at any time of the day or night. That was the fruit of their indoctrination.
"It's news I should take myself," he said.
Jan Ray smiled. He rarely saw that. It was horrible. "Where is your deformed bastard today?"
How dare she? Insolent bitch!
"I'm not certain where Nophel is. I'll be reprimanding him when I find him; he should have been here, especially today, when-"
"I suspect he's been reprimanded already." Another of her habits-interrupting. It gave her control over any conversation.
"The Dragarians have emerged," he said. Truth is best right now, just… be sparing with it. "I'm not sure why, or what they've come for, but we should send-"
"Should we?"
"Send the Scarlet Blades north immediately. To protect us."
"Protect us from those unbelievers? They've hidden themselves away from Hanharan's smile for five hundred years, Dane. What could we possibly have to fear from them?"
Dane glanced at the Blades, each of them with one hand on their sword. Ready to draw; ready to move. He breathed deeply, wondering at his chances. I'm fat and they think I'm slow. They know me as a slash user. That's all I have.
"The ones I saw looked like warriors," he said. "Some flew, others crawled. They've been chopping in there for centuries. They were all heavily armed." One Blade fidgeted slightly, another glanced at her companions. That was exactly what he wanted. To unnerve them. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again he knew that his life was changing, here and now. This was when he paid for his beliefs, his passion, and his shunning of the god that had ruled his family and directed their actions for generations.
Doubt came, and he let it flow away once again. It was good to see it go. Its departure made him strong.
"You're a monster," Jan Ray said, voice filled with bitterness and distaste. "A traitorous, stinking, fat, disgusting monster. I've sensed your unbelief for years, Dane, but I never wanted to admit it, even to myself. Never wished to acknowledge that my second cousin could shun the god Hanharan, who made him."
"My parents made me," he whispered.
"And who made them?"
"Who?" Dane said, drawing strength into his voice. "Hanharan? Don't make me laugh." The Blades gasped, and he saw more ways to unsettle them.
He brushed his hand against his jacket pocket, uttered a subtle, deep hum, and something in there began to move.
"You'll be arrested. I sent men after your bastard, and I told them to bring back his ugly head for the wall. They'll follow until he reaches his destination and will kill whoever they find. So who is it, Dane? Watchers? There are many left, we know that for sure."
Dane scoffed. "Watchers? They're harmless ass-gazers. Why should I mix with the likes of them?"
"Because they're enemies of Hanharan. And when someone like you, Dane Marcellan, betrays his blood, any enemy will do. You can't do things on your own, because you're weak, and Hanharan has shunned your treacherous flesh. You need friends. You need accomplices."
"Jan Ray, there's no truth to any of this," he said, feeling the movement in his pocket, glancing at the Blades, and smiling inwardly when they averted their eyes. "Nophel is missing and will be punished."
"You think I don't know you've been feeding him that juice from the dead Baker witch?" she whispered.
Dane shook his head and slipped his hand into his pocket. The contents were wet and warm, and he had maybe a dozen heartbeats before they would kill him. He closed his eyes and summoned his hate and rage, and he was pleased to find it close.
"You'll suffer, Dane," Jan Ray said, "and it will all be in the dark. Your name will be wiped from the family, and no one will ever-"
"You can suck Hanharan's cock while your bitches pig-fuck you," he said, closing his hand around the eggs, "and I'll happily hold my cock and watch."
The priestess opened her eyes in surprise, but it was the Blades' reactions he was watching. They stepped back, averting their eyes from such blasphemy and muttering prayers, and Dane pulled his hand from his pocket. Whatever the outcome of this moment, his time as a Marcellan was over.
He flung the scarepion eggs, flicking his wrist in four motions, letting one egg slip away each time. The first two found their targets, breaking across a Blade's chest and throat and spewing their screeching contents. The third bounced away and broke on the floor at a female Blade's feet, and the fourth missed altogether, disappearing into the darkness.
Jan Ray stumbled back from Dane, leaning against the viewing-mirror controls. The angle on the screen flickered and tilted crazily, and, high above, one of the Scopes would be screaming in pain.
The scarepion young-dozens to an egg-sought blood with their staggering sense of smell. They used their birthing horns to penetrate skin and inject venom, then clawed their way inside. In heartbeats the first two Blades were on their knees, screaming as they scratched and tore at their own flesh. The third Blade made the fatal error of leaning forward to look at the ruptured egg rather than stepping back. Scarepions could jump.
The fourth Blade came at him. His sword was drawn-a deadly weapon that had been handed down through his generations, scored with a record of kills, each scoring filled with dried oxomanlia extract that would turn toxic on contact with blood-and the man's eyes were wide with fear and disbelief that he was going against a Marcellan.
Dane had to turn that disbelief quickly to his advantage. If the fight began, the Blade's training would take over, and Dane would be cut down.
"How dare you!" he thundered. The Scarlet Blade faltered and blinked in confusion, his blade dipping toward the floor.
Dane stepped lithely into the soldier's killing field-his weight and build, as ever, belying his grace-and slid his knife between the man's ribs. The soldier's mouth fell open and Dane twisted, pulling left and right, wanting to kill quickly. The soldier groaned, and, as he fell away, warmth gushed across Dane's hand.
Dane kept hold of the knife and turned, looking for Jan Ray. She was going for the door. If she got away, the Scope tower would be crawling with Blades in moments, and Dane's only escape would be up and off the tower-an ignominious end, but at least one that would be in his control. He thought of Nophel, the poor bastard he had misled for so long, and hoped that his death would be quick and clean. And he thought of the old dead Baker-his friend, his lover, and the mother of his only child, whom Dane had taken under his wing and protected, bitter though the child had remained against the mother who had abandoned him to the workhouse.
"I'm so sorry, Nophel," he said, and he felt wretched now that they would never know each other as father and son. He should have told him the truth, but doing so would have doomed them both.
He could not take a blade to a Marcellan, though, not even this Hanharan priestess who had tried to kill him. He could not punish her for her foolish beliefs.
Jan Ray screamed. Dane looked toward the shadowed corner where she had fled, expecting to see the opened door but instead seeing nothing. And when her scream came again, he knew that fate had steered her to the fourth scarepion egg. And though he had spent his life consciously not believing in such things as gods, he closed his eyes and gave thanks to something, anything, for his fortune.
Dane Marcellan closed the door to the viewing room and descended the staircase. He had sprayed the room with barch oil first, hoping that it would kill most of the scarepion young before anyone else entered. That was the best he could do. He felt wretched at the deaths and sick to his heart at the betrayal.
But, in truth, the betrayal had been a part of him for decades. The Baker, his love, had opened his eyes to the folly of Hanharan beliefs. And when she'd had her own eyes closed at the hands of the Dragarians, he had vowed to see his way forward in the way she would have desired-as a disciple of science and truth. That vow had only now come to action, and it was Jan Ray's fanaticism that had led to those deaths. If only she could have let him walk away.