Aestith let the blow carry him to the floor. There was no benefit in forcing himself upright, because Haeltania would beat him until he fell anyway. The whip cracked over his back and his teeth gritted. His sisters were not clerics; they would never have the viper-headed whip of such a rank, but it had not stopped them from beating him with whips or whatever else came to hand.
“Speak, male. Explain why you’ve been skipping classes when you are well aware that we pay for it,” she sneered.
Virabel watched indifferently from his other side. The only ones who might have intervened were Jaele and Amalette, and neither were here.
He thought, in a roundabout way, Haeltania particularly hated him because she blamed him for being male, for failing to be the eighth daughter, for driving their mother to so desperately want a female child that she had died in childbirth—a humiliating end for their once powerful mother.
He gasped to catch his breath. The whip stung, but he was wearing too many layers for it to hurt as badly as he pretended. If he didn’t act up, they might want him to remove some of his clothes for the beating. Aestith said, “A group of my peers attacked me. I think they were paid to, so I was investigating.”
“And you failed to report it to us?”
“I had nothing to report, beyond that I was attacked,” he said. It wasn’t true, but he didn’t want to explain Ondalia to them. It would infuriate them.
Virabel’s boot shoved against his hip and he let himself roll onto his back. He turned his head away when she glowered over him. She said, “Aestith’Rix.” Vitriol dripped off of her voice like water, reminding him of how little value he held. He was so worthless he didn’t have a name, just a single monosyllable tacked on to the family name as an afterthought, a way to differentiate him, and nothing more. He possessed nothing, save the measly letters that composed that part of his only name. Not even his life was truly his. His death might truly be his—was that why he pondered it so often? “I will extract every wasted copper penny from your pathetic existence, male. If you do not benefit this family, you are not worth even your name.” Her boot alighted, gently, over his groin.
Aestith cringed, but he knew better than to try to stop her, or to beg. He had been trained, from a young age, to not so much as defend himself if they chose to strike him, for any reason. He didn’t know if they wanted him to apologize, or to remain silent, but she applied pressure to his groin, and he blurted, “I’m sorry.”
She pressed down, hard enough to be uncomfortable, for him to cringe, then she eased off, slowly. Virabel liked the terror of the anticipation of pain more than she liked delivering pain. She said, “Continue.”
He rolled onto his stomach, where his male genitals were better protected, but as low as he could make himself. He let the apologies roll off of his tongue, a string of meaningless, pleading words that his sister enjoyed but what meant so little to him that he didn’t care. He could say anything and mean it less. They were just words and they cost him nothing, and might purchase him one less touch of a whip or slap, so he groveled and pleaded with her to forgive his transgression, humiliated himself for her amusement because it meant nothing to him.
Virabel turned from him. “You disgust me, little brother.”
He, wisely, said nothing, and listened to her footsteps as she left him. But she left him with Haeltania and Descaronan.
When neither moved, he slowly, tentatively, started to pull himself up. The butt of Descaronan’s spear on his back sent him tumbling back down. Haeltania made some motion to Descaronan and the woman’s fingers buried in his hacked curls. She gripped hard near the root and hauled his head back until his neck strained. It was difficult to breathe.
Haeltania stepped in front of him. “I have potions that strip away a person’s voice, or can render them deaf or blind. I can make you paralyzed if I wish, or scramble your wits.” She removed a slender vial from her belt. “Virabel would take away your name, and I’d take anything you have left. Even your ability to kill yourself, little brother.”
She wanted him to be terrified, and he did not have to pretend. He only had to make his terror more obvious. He knew they weren’t idle threats. He had seen her poisons work on slaves or captives. Nobles even bought her brews.
She uncorked the vial. “Open your mouth.”
He didn’t have a choice.
When she tipped the liquid in, it was swallow or drown. He wanted to drown, but his body, which had always been a traitor to him, swallowed the contents. It burned going down his throat and he coughed.
They laughed.
It was only alcohol, and they let him go. He stumbled, dizzy. He couldn’t see straight, could barely walk, but at least it wasn’t something she had made. This was just the alcohol they used to steep the mushroom extract in. He leaned heavily against the door.
How long before they started to wonder why he wore so much? How long before his acts were seen through?
He was drunk, and between the drink and his worry, he didn’t know which made him sicker.
#
Jaele had bullied her way onto the caravan. “No” to Jaele often just meant “find a different way”. She had given a map to brooding little Aestith and told him to meet her at the rendezvous point. She told herself that her younger brother wasn’t stupid. Fact of the matter, she thought he’d grow up to be at least smarter than Virabel. Blasphemous thought though it was to consider a male to be more intelligent than his sister, nonetheless, she believed it to be true. She justified the thought by admitting that it was less about Aestith, and more about Virabel’s intelligence.
Virabel disliked Jaele’s presence, though Jaele mostly ignored this; Virabel didn’t like much. She was also jumpy. Why wouldn’t she be? Her supply trains had been hit mercilessly the past few turns. The scarcity was driving up cost, but that waterskin would burst before long. Though upon reflection, sending Aestith with Virabel would have been easier. He was slight, even by male standards. Fewer people noticed when he did things. Or, even better, they attributed it to his absent-minded, sleepy demeanor.
In contrast, people noticed where the fine-featured woman with spun rose gold hair went. Which is why, when they stopped to make camp, Jaele found it simple to pin her locks under a pale wig and wander into the camp. She hunched to disguise her height. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her, but it was shocking how few people would recognize her without her standard red hair and makeup—and, thanks to years of wearing heels, no one should recognize her poise or height. People were incredibly stupid.
She had only to avoid Virabel and speak little and less. She mostly wanted to listen anyway.
Someone walked from the end of the train to the front. Jaele watched their progress. It was too steady to be a regular patrol.
A normal patrol would meander around the line and occasionally chat. They poked around any of the honeycombed side passages or stopped to take a drag on a rolled cigarette from one of their fellows. They acted ordinary, and slightly bored if veterans of their craft.
Except this one. He cut a line straight from the back of the supply train to the front. Single-mindedly, he kept on his path until he stopped as if jerked on an invisible leash. Jaele inspected her nails idly.
He started forward, but as though he were treading through thickened sludge, the way someone walked when they were expecting something.
Jaele followed him from the other side of the wagons. He wasn’t on the other side when she rounded the corner. She took a step back. Nothing. She stilled, then looked from side to side. Satisfied that no one was near, she bent as if to adjust a buckle on her boot, then looked under the wagon. The man stood there, next to a second pair of legs. The man turned back. Jaele rose slowly and crept to the side of the wagon in time for Virabel to walk past.
Jaele’s eyes narrowed. She waited half a minute, then snuck after her, keeping the wagons between them. Because it was Virabel, whatever message that had been delivered may very well be nothing. Virabel wouldn’t plot her own destruction.
The youngest Tith'Rix sister turned and walked back down the line, the corners of her mouth downturned in thought. Something wasn’t right.
They had a date. Another house scheming, but with who? It could be the house alone. Why? Namika had been involved, at least as a courier—and finding that out had been expensive. Maybe the Innis family wanted the territory and to corner the market. Her thoughts strayed to the ledger at the jeweler.
In Enainsi, one had to assume that everyone was spying for someone else, but something about it felt too coincidental. Velweb, Innis. She had done some digging, but unearthed nothing substantial. Velweb might be in some financial trouble—Velweb may have struck a deal. She suspected that if her elder sisters did not pull together, they might destroy their own house before Innis had the chance, but starving them out with raiding was a good strategy too.
If it were bandits acting alone, there were less complicated ways for them to learn the trade routes to hit them.
Aestith should be in position by now, if he hadn’t run into trouble.
#
Aestith waited. He had few problems with waiting. Most of hunting was waiting. Even sparring was waiting for a moment to strike. He could wait. Alone, he could move faster than the caravan and made it to the rendezvous marks ahead of time. He appreciated the time alone, the seclusion, and the quiet. He hadn’t gone back to class since Nier had betrayed him. He couldn’t bear seeing their faces. The thought of having to spar with them filled him with dread. He was glad when Jaele had told him to leave, to miss the classes to run the errand. It gave him time to think.
He couldn’t tell Jaele, or anyone else, what had really happened. The beating had served its purpose; to them, the matter was settled and he knew what to expect if they found him missing classes baselessly again. Jaele would deny sending him on this errand, so he would have to answer for this again too. His back ached with bruises.
He didn’t see anyone watching him, but he stayed in the hiding place anyway. It was a small, snug fit even for him, but he felt secure in it. Anything wanting to grab him from behind would have to somehow quietly tunnel through layers of rock and earth.
Plus, if the tunnel collapsed, he’d probably die instantly. No worries then.
The soft sound of many feet creeping over the packed earth and rock tunnel made him still.
No voices, but armor and heavy weaponry aren’t silent. Some shuffling, then quiet. Bandits? It was possible it was House Lyfeissidis, the dispossessed house. The Mad Matron of House Lyfeissidis was more likely to feast travelers than rob them, if their dues were paid. He knew his family well enough to know they were paid, though; he didn’t think it was Lyfeissidis, not unless the house had been paid to turn against them anyway. His stomach churned. He hoped not. That would ruin their entire house.
They had come from a side tunnel, a crevasse a few feet from the cavern floor. When they passed and were well away, he lifted the tin canvas aside to squeeze past it. The tin grated and crinkled together. He cringed, but it settled back into place when he dropped it. There were scuff marks from armored boots on the wall, marks from a grappling hook.
He snuck back to his hiding spot and wedged himself into the dark. From the other side, it would look just like the cave wall so long as it stayed cool here and no one had a lantern; Desarandian had never opened a book and couldn’t carry on a conversation to save her life, but when it came to metalworking, she was a genius. He had to get the prototype back to her workshop before she noticed it was missed, but he probably had more than enough time to do that. To think that a drow’s infrared was foiled by a sheet of cool tin.
A candlemark later, the greased wheels of the wagons echoed down the cavern. Then they passed him. No one investigated his nook in the rock. No one listened to his steady breathing, or saw any careful movements. An advance guard roamed ahead, looking for any debris they had to move. An ironwood wagon rolled past. More people, then another. Then they were only echoes in the dark.
Someone ahead called. A clash of weaponry, yelling. His nostrils flared.
Burning pitch. The bandits had set a damned wagon on fire—which wasn’t a bad tactic against drow, provided the attackers weren’t also dark elves and the caverns were ventilated. He frowned in thought. It was an incredibly risky manuever; the smoke would choke everyone away from the area left uncontrolled.
The way Aestith saw it, there were several reasons to use such a foolish tactic, each more troubling than the last. Did the attackers actually not need to breathe, or were mad? Did they have a spellcaster who could neutralize the smoke and fire? Or did they know Tith’Rix did?
Still, he kept where he was. The scent of blood and earth consumed his olfactory senses. People shat when they died. They stunk when a spear disemboweled them and ripped their intestines open. They pissed themselves. They threw up. It stunk. It was part of life—and death.
Some yelling, a wagon turned and rushed back the other way. Then it was quiet.
Aestith lifted the blanket and crawled under it. He crept from the alcove in a crouch and ran past the carnage. The light from the fire hurt; he shaded his eyes with a palm. The bandits, a variety of goblins and bugbears, seemed to be fleeing.
“Aestith.”
He froze, then his head turned slowly toward the sound. His mouth felt dry. He almost tripped over the spilled contents of a crate. He slipped in the fermented liquid, then knelt beside her. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. What could he say?
“Aestith.” Jaele’s eyes rolled toward him. Her left hand clutched at her middle. Red hair slipped from pins, a short white wig in the dirt beside her. “It’s—” Her eyes widened.
He dove to the side. The knife quivered in the ground. It had missed him by inches. Virabel stalked toward him.
“Oh. I didn’t recognize you, Aestith. Fuck are you doing here?” she said.
He kept his head down when speaking to her. He said, “I—”
Jaele tried to rise, then fell. “I asked him to come,” she gasped.
Virabel looked around the caravan. “Right.” She cocked her head at Jaele. “How bad is it?”
Jaele grimaced and moved her left hand enough for her sister to guess. Virabel’s lip curled disapprovingly.
Aestith swallowed. “I’ll fetch the healer—”
Jaele grabbed his arm with her other hand, her eyes wide. She made a short gasp. Her head drooped. She mouthed, so only he could read her lips, Don’t leave me with her. Her grip on his arm tightened. Jaele was a handful of inches taller than he, heavier. He couldn’t carry her.
“We should carry her,” he said slowly. “If the healer is dead, we can still get her to the end of the line where they weren’t hit as hard. We can rush her back home.”
“Moving her is dangerous.”
Someone shouted, then trotted up to them. A man bowed to Virabel. “My lady, the bandits have fled. We’re still analyzing damages—”
“Find the healer. Run, now.”
The man turned and fled. Aestith breathed in relief.
Virabel, still reluctant to give Aestith or Jaele any ground, said, “Aestith. Tear your sleeve for a compress. The Spider Queen knows you’re wearing enough clothing not to miss it.”
He hesitated, but Jaele let go of his arm. He glanced at Virabel, then carefully shrugged out of the jacket. He had to use his boot knife to tear the wool sleeve, then he rolled it down his arm and tucked his knife back into his boot. He held the makeshift compress to her stomach.
Virabel squatted on her haunches, looking distantly at Jaele’s features. She touched Aestith’s scabbed arm, the unique slicing pattern toward the elbow. She rotated it to examine the marks with a curious frown, then let go, disinterested. Aestith stared straight forward. Jaele blinked, dazed, her head rolling. Virabel slapped her gently.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Virabel snapped. “Stay awake, damnit.”
Jaele blinked, then her eyes slid closed again. Virabel shook her. Aestith cringed. “Don’t fall asleep!” she snapped. “You must stay awake!”
“I’m so… tired. It’s cold.”
“You have lost a great deal of blood.”
Aestith’s hands were soaked in it. His eyes watered against the smoke and the blaze of the fire. Please, Jaele. Please.
Jaele’s head lolled to one side. “Jaele!” Aestith called. She did not stir.
Virabel shoved him back and lifted her younger sister’s chin. “Jaele, stay awake.”
Jaele’s lips moved, then her eyes closed. Virabel dropped her chin and her head fell. Her neck twisted at an awkward angle. “Where is that damned healer?” Virabel sighed. She pushed back and looked around the wagon.
Aestith crawled back beside Jaele. He didn’t want it to be true. Was she—? Had she—?
He felt her wrist for a pulse, but between his fright and labored heart, he could not tell.
Virabel frowned down at him. “Aestith,” she said, an odd expression on her face. “You…” Her gaze, he saw in dim horror, was fixed on his chest. The angle, the sweat, how he had been confined for so long, and now without the jacket.
Aestith’s fingers touched Virabel’s knife, still buried in the dirt beside him. He’d never be able to match Virabel, not with a knife. Not, to his knowledge, with anything. And if he killed her… But what else could he do?
Her hand rested casually on the knife at her hip.
She knows. His eyes widened. She knew. His eyes flicked toward Jaele. And who had killed Jaele?
Don’t leave me with her.
Her eyes fixed on his chest. “You should have stayed dead when you were born, little brother.” A blade flipped into her hand.
Reacting to terror before his brain caught up, he snatched the knife in the dirt—more from fear than intent. He threw himself backwards, clawing his way to his feet. Every drop of blood sang his body to an electric state of shock. His muscles grew taught with tension. He was running before he realized he was, a frightened prey animal fleeing from the predator, even when it knew the act would make it give chase. The chase was better than only waiting for the pounce. It gave the illusion that he stood a chance if his legs could only carry him, if his lungs could supply him with enough air, if he were very lucky.
If he could make it around the crates, if he could turn at the wagon. If he could only get away, hide, wait. Then what? His feet moved faster than his brain, in its panicked state, could follow. He wanted a plan, but he couldn’t pull himself together to formulate anything beyond a prey’s instinct to run.
He was no spider. He was the prey.
The thin blade took him in the back of his right thigh.
For an instant, he only felt pressure, a warm sensation of blood, then his foot came down. His weight fell on the injured leg. Exquisite pain shot through his nerves. His leg buckled under his own weight. The knife in his hand tumbled to the ground as he collapsed. He pushed his hands out to catch himself. He landed hard on one elbow. The stiletto dug into the muscle. Every flex and spasm of his leg sent new tendrils of pain arcing along his leg. Pain shot up his left thigh like a torrent of water.
It wasn’t Virabel’s best throw, but, from her point of view, it didn’t need to be. Predators often injured their prey so the creature would collapse, the predator pursuing at a more leisurely pace to finish its work.
He reached for a crate and forced his way upwards, gritting his teeth. Training hurt. The razors he danced across his arms hurt. Starvation hurt. This was just one more pain. He could endure it. His heart hammered a tattoo against his ribs. A lump of pain in his throat threatened to choke him. He staggered forward, dragging his bad leg. He had to get away.
The pommel of the second knife struck him in the back. He flinched, but it fell to the ground. He swung his right leg forward. Every movement hurt. He had to move. He reached down. His fingers touched the stiletto. The slight twitch of the blade made him gasp. Spots filled his vision and he fell forward. He wrenched his arm back, fingers twitched around the jeweled pommel, then slid down the handle. With a strangled scream, he wrenched the dagger free. Sweat beaded over his skin. Fear had a distinct smell, a sour taste like bile after too much ale. It was dead blood and broken intestines, leaking pores and curdled tears; a taste like someone wanting to run because they couldn’t fight.
Virabel’s boots crunched over loose shale.
She grabbed his mangled hair in one hand and caught his wrist in the other. She twisted his wrist until he dropped the blade. It hit the ground with a clatter and she dropped his arm. A boot slammed against his injured leg, idly as if she thought it amusing. His teeth clenched. Tears stung his eyes. Aestith was going to die.
The point of the knife dug into his throat. A tiny droplet of blood formed like a ruby on his charcoal skin. He might have whimpered. He wondered if he would feel the knife when it opened his throat, if he would feel his body growing colder as he bled out on the shale. He wondered if anyone would remember him.
Virabel crumpled. The knife spun from her hand. Blood trickled from his throat and he turned toward his sister.
She lay on her side, her expression slack. An arrow jutted in the base of her skull.
Jaele’s bow fell from her hand, and she slumped to the earth.
Aestith staggered upright and fled.