Chapter 6

6

Sirsha

The man was surprisingly polite for a client—if enigmatic. He was evasive about the details of the job, and while some might see that as dishonest, Sirsha saw it as intelligent. Anyone trusting enough to put all their cards on the table with a stranger was too naive to work with.

Sirsha held her hands up to the fire that the man kept burning despite the accursed damp. After he hauled her up from the maw of the Jutts, they'd gone to his camp on the south side of the Roost, in one of the many caves that pitted those hills. On the way, he explained the job: To track a murderer. One who targeted young people.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked the man now.

He kept an eye on the storm outside, his back to the wall as she awaited his response. His wariness was oddly reassuring. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Sirsha didn't feel like she was about to get stabbed between the shoulder blades.

"I asked around," the man said. "Overheard your dead nemesis plotting against you. Figured you'd have to escape into the Jutts eventually. The path you took is the one I'd have used."

Sirsha supposed that was his version of a compliment, but she didn't like being so predictable. Then again, she didn't like dealing with fools either. She'd have to tread carefully.

"Migva wasn't a nemesis. Just a greedy Roost rat."

He ripped off a piece of the flatbread he'd warmed over the fire and took a bite. Then he handed the rest to her. She considered him as she ate. There was something familiar about him. Something that nagged at her. It would come to her, eventually. What she needed to know now was how much he was willing to pay—and whether it was worth it.

He was a Martial, that was clear. Built like a soldier and in fighting shape, with a touch of silver threading through his dark hair. Finely made boots, a single, well-crafted scim strapped across his back. He was likely Illustrian—a member of the highest Martial class. Whatever he offered, she decided she'd ask for double.

"You're not telling me everything about the job," she said. "Or yourself. I'd like to know who I'm working for. Do you have a name?"

The man shrugged. "Not one that matters. I've told you what you need to know."

"You feed me dribbles of information and I suss out the rest?" Sirsha laughed. "I don't like games."

His face went still then, and there, in the sudden bleakness of his pale eyes, Sirsha saw all his dead. All his ghosts. The fire flickered and the wind screamed into the cave, an eldritch warning.

"It's not a game," the man said softly. "Sixteen children are dead. Perhaps more."

"I'm not a bounty hunter," Sirsha said. "I track down cheating spouses. Traitorous business partners. The odd jewel thief. If the children were missing, I could help you. Tracking killers seems like a quick way to get a knife in the eyeball. In any case, I can't drag a murderer all the way back from whatever hidey-hole—"

"Rodinius Lucius."

Sirsha started at the name before recovering. "I don't know who—"

"He tricked an entire village out of its gold, up in Marinn. He and his gang killed a family on their way out of town. Authorities couldn't help. The village headman traveled to Taib looking for someone to seek justice and found you. You hunted down Lucius, recovered the gold, and dragged him back to face the villagers. Killed three of his associates in the process. You were what…fifteen at the time?"

"Now, look here, they tried to kill me first—"

"I won't judge you for killing someone in self-defense." The man's face went hard, and Sirsha glanced at his scim. It looked well-worn.

"Don't act like you can't handle this job," the man went on. "Doing so is beneath you." He leaned forward. The fire made his eyes glow orange. "Track down this child-killer. Shove a knife through his throat or bring him to me alive so I can do it myself, I don't care. I'll pay you a thousand marks either way."

Sirsha nearly choked on the flatbread. A thousand marks would get her out of the Empire for good. Set her up with a nice little guesthouse in the Southern Isles. In time, she could hire help. She might be able to avoid tracking entirely.

Freedom , she thought desperately, finally. She knew her hunger was written all over her face, but was unable to care.

"Two thousand," she haggled, more out of habit than because she felt she was being underpaid. "And it's a deal."

"Thirteen hundred," the man said. "And I'll throw in enough for transport and supplies."

Sirsha raised an eyebrow. She hadn't expected him to budge quite that much. A voice inside her head, one that had kept her alive since she'd struck out on her own at the age of twelve, whispered at her. Careful, Sirsha.

Sirsha's skill lay not just in tracking, but in tracking magic—and binding it. But she didn't do that anymore—on pain of death. Such were the conditions of her banishment from her people.

A Martial wouldn't know all that. Still, Sirsha didn't want to directly ask if the killer had magic. Her client would want to know why she cared. She'd have to lie. And he was obviously not the type of man who suffered liars.

"This killer," she said carefully. "There's nothing…unnatural about him, is there? He's not a jinn, say? Or some kind of otherworldly entity that will rip out my innards?"

The man furrowed his brow, incredulous. "Of course he's unnatural. He kills young people for sport. And jinn keep to themselves in the Forest of Dusk. They want nothing to do with the world of man."

Can't say I blame them. "Half the money now," Sirsha said.

He scoffed. "And have you run away with it? I'll give you a hundred marks now, plus twenty more for supplies." He pulled a small leather pouch of coins from his cloak and tossed it at her. It landed in her palm with a satisfying clink . There were at least one hundred twenty marks in here. Maybe more. It was a third of the amount she'd saved up over the last eight years. Sirsha checked the gold with her teeth. Real.

"Before I forget, take this." He pulled a ring from his right hand, flat and silver, with an X etched onto it. "When you find the killer, bring it to any Martial garrison or Tribal or Mariner embassy. They'll help you get him—or his head—back to me. I'll pay you the rest when the job's done."

"I don't walk away once I've taken a job." Sirsha examined the ring before tucking it away. "Ask anyone I've worked for."

"In that case, you won't mind swearing on it."

Sirsha didn't see him draw the blade. She only realized he'd done so when he cut a line into his hand, flipped the knife around, and offered it to her.

She considered him over the fire. He was wily. Cunning. And he knew more about her than he let on. Among Sirsha's people, blood oaths were not made lightly.

"Who are you?" she asked him.

"A man looking for justice." He held the knife out again, but she still didn't take it.

"You managed to track me, so you're clearly capable," she said. "I wager you're good in a fight. Why not kill this murderer yourself?"

"I've tried to hunt him," the Martial said. "For months. He's eluded me." He looked away, jaw tightening. "I can hunt no longer. I must return to my family. I'll travel with you until you catch the trail. Then I'll be on my way. I need you, Sirsha Westering. I don't have time to dicker anymore." He offered the knife a third time. "Will you help me?"

Thirteen hundred marks on one hand. On the other, a blood oath that she could never break—not unless this fellow died or spoke words to release her. If she tried to walk away, the oath would bend her body and mind back to her vow. Eating, sleeping, bathing—it would all become secondary to hunting down this killer and either sticking a knife in his gut or dragging him back to her client.

Ah well. It wasn't like she had any other prospects. From what the Martial described, the killer was human, which meant a relatively quick chase.

She took the blade, cut open her hand, and pressed it against his before she could second-guess herself. Before the warning in her head became a screaming howl.

There was a brief chill between their palms, like they'd plunged them into snow. A moment later, it was gone. Cold flared near Sirsha's neck, and the thin gold chain she wore grew heavier. She fidgeted. It had been years since her magic conjured an oath coin. She felt the ice of the vow she'd made sink into her very marrow, and wondered what in the skies she'd agreed to.

They made their way out of the Roost on horses the Martial had procured. The sky loomed low and threatening. To the south and east, thick bands of rain smudged the horizon. The horses would be ankle-deep in mud by midday. Sirsha glared at the heavy clouds.

"The entire reason I moved to the desert was so I wouldn't have to deal with the bleeding rain," she said.

"It must interfere with tracking."

"Mmm," Sirsha grumbled unintelligibly. The Martial didn't need to know that she wasn't one to paw at the ground looking for boot prints. Sirsha's skill lay in reading the language of the natural elements: The way the sand shifted and the wind whispered and the rain fell, the way the land warped to give her a picture of the past. Of what had passed through and when.

The earth, wind, and water were always speaking. Sirsha was one of the rare few who knew how to listen.

Her people called it Inashi. Scenting. But she didn't use that word. It made her think of hounds, bound to the will of their masters. No, she called it tracking, and it allowed her to hunt down her quarry faster than those relying on traditional methods. Which meant with any luck, this job would be done before the end of the week, her vow fulfilled, and she'd be on a ship heading far away from the Empire with a fat sack of gold.

If the land deigned to tell her its secrets, anyway. All magic—no matter who wielded it—required two things: an emotion and an element. Sirsha had emotion aplenty. Desire, curiosity, anger, annoyance, greed—with enough focus, any of them would work.

The elements, however, were wide-ranging and capricious. Like toddlers or goats, they didn't always cooperate. Reading the earth was simple. It projected a map of nearby terrain in her mind, and told her where her quarry was. But wind and water were a different matter.

Speak to me , she called to the elements. Who walked here? What violence did they carry with them?

"It rains a great deal in the west, yes?" Her client's question pulled her from her work, and she frowned in irritation.

"I wouldn't know." Sirsha refused to confirm anything he might have heard about her origins. She didn't like to think about it, and in any case, it was none of his damned business. Besides, she didn't know. Eight years had passed since she'd seen the Cloud Forest near her home. Maybe the rains had stopped.

"If you wouldn't mind," she said, "I'm working. A bit of space would be appreciated. And silence."

She turned away before he could respond, and pondered the details of the killings that he had been willing to share. The number of dead. How they'd died. When she was sure the Martial was well ahead and couldn't see or hear her, she began to whisper what she'd learned. The earth was always listening.

Around her, shadows emerged from the landscape. Shadows she knew the man couldn't see. Slowly, a figure took shape. She expected it to be marred by violence, trailing the dead. But it appeared alone. It was strangely skittish and she strained to see it better, but it sat at the edge of her vision. When she tried to look at it directly with her mind's eye, it disappeared.

Unusual. Her power was reliable, for the most part. Sirsha told the elements what she wanted. One or all of them provided a trail. She used common sense and poisoned blades to keep troublemakers in line. In a pinch, she could usually wheedle aid from the earth or wind. Most contracts took no more than a week.

Sirsha slowed her horse and peered around, waiting for a trail to emerge, for the earth to show her something else.

"We can head west, to Serra," the man said from ahead of her, and Sirsha realized she had no idea how long he'd been talking. "The last few victims were there, so the killer might be as well. He might even—"

She. Not he.

To Sirsha's surprise, it was the wind who spoke. The wind was taciturn, and despite witnessing practically everything that went on, it preferred to observe, not aid.

Which way should I go? Sirsha asked it, unsurprised when no answer came. She supposed it didn't really matter. She hadn't gotten quite what she needed, but she'd learned enough to realize she shouldn't head west.

"—he's ruthless in his attacks. He—"

"First of all"—Sirsha gave her mount a nudge so she could catch up to the man—"the killer's not a he ."

At the man's surprise, she scoffed. "You don't think women can be so brutal. Or that it might not be a he or a she?"

"I know very well that women can be brutal." The man's shoulders tightened. " He was a general term. The former ambassador of Ankana is a friend. They are a dona'i and their people have multiple classifications for gender—"

"No need to get huffy," Sirsha said. "Your killer isn't male or dona'i. She's a woman. Second, she didn't go west. She went south. If it's all the same to you, I'll go my way, and you go yours. I know how to find you."

The man brought his mount around and considered her from beneath his hood. She stared boldly back, but was again struck by a sudden familiarity. She knew she'd never seen him before. He was a big man, with a face and form not easily forgotten. And yet…

She eyed him, looking for a telltale warp in the air that would indicate the presence of magic. Nothing. But that didn't mean he didn't have it. Occasionally, the strong-minded could bury their magic deep enough that not even a rivulet leaked out.

"If you know an ambassador, you have friends in high places," Sirsha said. "Why not ask them for help?"

"There's only so much they can do. And this is personal."

Sirsha pulled her mount to a stop, though the rain was closing in and she knew she'd regret a delay.

"How personal?" she said.

"South, you said." He stared out at the desert. "I must bear west, to Serra, so I'll be on my way."

"Not yet." Sirsha nudged her mount in front of his. "Why are you keeping so many secrets?"

"I've told you what you need to know," the man said flatly. "Anything else would only put you in danger."

"You can't ignore my questions! You hired me to track for you—"

"Track," the man cut her off, hands knuckled tight around the reins of his horse. "An interesting word. But not the right one, I think."

He knows. Whoever he is, he knows what you truly are.

When Sirsha was a child, one of her aunts had been shunned by Kin Inashi—Sirsha's family—for reasons the girl never learned. Like most of those cast out, Auntie Vee was ordered to give up her magic or face the consequences.

Kin Inashi was vast, made up of scores of smaller families. But Auntie Vee's immediate family was renowned for their tracking. Auntie Vee thought she could use her magic to hide her trail.

Sirsha's older sister, R'zwana, helped hunt Auntie Vee down days after she was banished. She was drowned, her body left as carrion that she might never return to the earth that nourished her.

Years later, when Kin Inashi cast Sirsha out, her mother had unwittingly—or perhaps wittingly, Sirsha never could tell—left a loophole. The girl was told to never again use her magic to hunt as your Kin had hunted .

Since they hunted dangerous magic-users by employing skills that Sirsha possessed but avoided using, she figured she was in the clear.

Still, she waited a year—until she was thirteen—and a thousand miles to use her tracking. And even now, seven years after that, she wouldn't take a job if she risked running into a member of her Kin, no matter how lucrative it was. None of her employers knew where she was from or how she tracked. If she caught the slightest whiff of magic, the deal was off.

But this fellow knew more about her than he'd let on. He could use that against her if he wished. Because while she could still officially use her magic, Sirsha had no doubt that if certain members of her Kin found out she tracked at all, they'd kill her on the spot and ask for forgiveness after.

Her hag of a sister would be first in line.

" Not the right one ," she said. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Sirsha Westering, that I'll let you keep your secrets, if you leave me to mine." He gestured at the empty land to the south, and the boiling purple clouds gathering along the horizon. "South, you said. Best be on your way if you want to beat that storm."

"South," Sirsha ground out before wheeling her horse away and putting heel to flank.