Page 72 of The Book That Held Her Heart

Their first task was to buy some less distinctive clothes. Arpix sold his gold and silver coins to a blacksmith for a fraction of their worth. Using thelocal currency, silver marks and bronze pennies, he replaced his library robe with a set of second-hand clothes, trousers that ended well above his ankles, a homespun shirt that billowed around his spare frame, and worn leather shoes. Clovis opted for a hooded cape.

They made their purchases separately, but Arpix still had the strong impression that the shopkeeper suspected him. He’d heard two men on a corner talking about the massacre in the square as he passed. In hindsight he was surprised and relieved that none of the inn’s patrons had informed on them during the night. He could only guess that the enforcers of the potentate’s laws were not popular in some areas of the city. Or perhaps the locals were just waiting for a reward to be posted. No point giving the authorities something for free now that they would pay for later.

In his new—or at least newer—attire, Arpix turned towards the heights where the rich would live and set off up the slope. He scanned the street, watching for patrols, or anyone in authority, making sure to keep his distance. His main hope was that Evar or one of the others would spot them and suggest a better plan than Clovis’s. He’d suggest one himself if he had one, but all his years of study hadn’t been of much avail of late. For the years since escaping the blazing library he’d felt distinctly undereducated in all of the things that his life had suddenly come to depend upon.

Ever since Clovis’s arrival at the plateau, the life he’d been living, delicately balanced on the edge of survival, had become even less certain. He’d careened from one seemingly fatal scenario to the next, and the current one felt no less dangerous than when he’d been in Oanold and Algar’s clutches. It was, however, infinitely preferable to face those perils in Clovis’s company.

Arpix studied the city as they climbed through it. The similarities and differences to Crath City were both considerable. Mayland had called the place, the whole world, amaybe. A reality where the gods had rolled their dice and come up with a different result. The mountains held the same shapes as far as Arpix could tell, but the world around them was wetter, cooler, and greener. The mists had rolled in off a great lake in the distance. The waters lay in the place his people had called the Dust. The Arthran Plateau must be an island in that lake now.

The higher Arpix took them, the more patrols of soldiers there were, themore black-clad officers of the interior police. Arpix had to assume that the potentate enjoyed support from a sizeable proportion of the populace. The city looked prosperous, its people well-fed, but their leader clearly didn’t trust them further than he could spit them.

Arpix realised with a shock that he’d reached the market square where they’d been about to hang him the previous day. He stopped dead in the street, unwilling to go on. The scaffold had gone, and the bloodstains had been washed away, but it felt as though there were a noose about his throat even now, tightening with each passing moment. A shadow loomed behind him, and he knew with conviction that a hand was about to land on his shoulder, and an officer in execution black would demand his papers.

“Follow me.” Clovis swept past him.

Now it was Arpix’s turn to follow. Clovis set a fair pace for a canith, and Arpix began to sweat as they started up a steep street after crossing the square. Although he had spent most of their trip through the city fighting the desire to run, he had kept to an amble, not wanting to draw the gaze of those in authority. Hurrying was always an admission of guilt, even if the crime was only that of being late, or merely overeager. Hastening after Clovis, he felt even more exposed. The previous day’s mists had not returned, but Arpix would have welcomed them as he puffed his way after his self-appointed guide.

At last, having climbed nearly to where in Arpix’s city the Lesser Palace had stood, Clovis ducked into a largely deserted side street where, between rows of grand four-storey town houses, she beckoned him forward. Arpix came, trying not to look suspicious, and failing by glancing over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m not even sure they’re looking for us.” Arpix wasn’t sure how that could be. “I mean, we walked across the square where it happened, and nobody looked twice at us.”

“A few of them looked twice at me,” Clovis said, “but I am rather fine.”

“We shouldn’t be together like this, not in public.”

“You’re ashamed of me?” Clovis raised an eyebrow, her smile playful. She lifted a finger as he opened his mouth to protest. “You’re forgetting the Exchange. Mayland said it would disguise us. Show people what theyexpected to see. Perhaps it’s still working. And the people in the square clearly expected to see something different from the ones in the inn, or the ones who’ve looked our way today.”

“Ah.” Arpix felt like an idiot. “But why put mud in your mane? Why the hood?”

“Because it will wear off at some point. And I may want to change my appearance quickly.” Her smile broadened. “I thought you were the clever one.”

“I didn’t get much sleep.” Arpix met her gaze.

Clovis laughed at that.

“Why are we here?”

“Because I was walking behind two men who were discussing something very interesting. There’s to be some kind of tourney in Blue Tower Square. A bug-fight, they called it. And from the number of people coming this way it looks as if there’s going to be quite an audience. Who knows, maybe even the potentate will come to see.”

“Bug-fight?” Arpix frowned.

“Could be skeer.”

“How do you catch skeer?” Arpix tried to imagine it. You’d need to get one on its own first. Even then you’d have to be pretty clever to avoid casualties.

Clovis shrugged. “Maybe they’ll tell us.”

“And how,” Arpix continued, “do you suddenly know where to find a particular square in a city you know nothing about?”

“You really do need your sleep.” Clovis took his shoulders and steered him back down the street.

“I don’t—”

She tilted his head until over the rooftops of the houses the tip of a tower came into view, its blue tiles glimmering in the early sun. “I can see I’ll have to do the thinking from now on, because I don’t plan to stop keeping you up at night any time soon.”

Blue-on-blue transgressions are statistically the result of poor comms more often than poor targeting. Fratricide accounted for 11% of losses in the Desert Stork campaign.

Friendly Fire, by Major Tom Thomas

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