GHOSTS IN THE GLASS Page 5

  The color drained from Kaitar’s face, leaving the cuts and bruises more vivid than ever. “Go? Where the fuck would you go?”

  “Here, to find you. And now we’re going to the Sand Belt.” Mi’et stepped back, pleased to see Kaitar keep his balance. As he untied a canteen from his belt, he looked the scout over with a critical glance, noting the way the ragged clothing hung too loosely from his starved frame. “Take a drink. We’ll have tea in a while. You’ll have to eat, too.”

  When Kaitar tried to speak again, no sound came out. He stood there, mute and pale, the hatred in his amber eyes every bit as baleful as the desert sun.

  Mi’et smirked as he unscrewed the lid and shoved the canteen against the other man’s mouth. “Drink it, or I will pry your jaws open and make you.”

  Kaitar drank without protest. After he’d had enough, Mi’et pulled the canteen away, capped it, and waited to see if the scout would vomit the water up. In his youth, he’d seen men who had gone too long without food or water; even when they were finally offered something, they wouldn’t be able to hold it down and would die.

  Kaitar’s chest heaved.

  “Keep it down, or I will make you drink until you do.”

  The scout grimaced and swallowed hard, but the water stayed down. After a moment, he spoke, voice more ragged than before. “You came here to drag me to the Belt so we can die out there. The world’s biggest pit.” He sighed. “Go away, Mi’et. In an hour, it will be dark, and the threk know you’re here.”

  “They do. They saw us on the way in.”

  Kaitar tottered and fell forward. He made no attempt to rise again as he muttered against the ground. “They’ll kill Molly. I asked you to take care of her for me. Shit, give a man his dying wish.”

  “They won’t kill her if you come with me to the Belt. We’ll all go, the three of us.”

  “They’ll kill you out in the Belt anyway. You know what my father always told us.”

  “Ohrain was wrong.”

  Kaitar snorted weakly. “First time I ever heard you say my father was wrong about anything.”

  One of Molly’s reins trailed near, and he managed to catch hold of the thin, leather strap. Shakily, Kaitar righted himself, patting the mule’s muzzle as she lowered her head at the tug against her bit.

  Mi’et nudged him with a boot. “This isn’t the time to talk about Ohrain. Get up. I’ll put you on Molly and you can ride if you’re too weak to walk.” Repressing a grin, he offered his right hand. People often recoiled from it, afraid of the scars and the mottled skin, acting as though the disfigurement might slide onto them. But Kaitar Besh only reached with shaking fingers, caught his wrist, and pulled himself upward.

  The scout swayed, leaning heavily against the mule. “You should let me die.”

  “No.” Mi’et turned and began unloading some of the supplies from Molly’s back. After he hoisted Kaitar into the saddle and felt confident his old rival wouldn’t tumble to the ground, he piled the packs and canteens onto his own broad shoulders.

  “You can eat some of those snakes on the way. Anaz’dalo had them for you. He made you a coat and boots, too. I’ve got those in my field pack.”

  Kaitar slouched in the saddle, struggling to get his feet in the stirrups. Finally, he gave up and let his legs dangle. “The Enforcers. . . are they alive, any of them?”

  “We’ll speak of it later.”

  Mi’et led Molly toward the place she’d jumped down. “We’ll speak of the Sand Belt more, too. We’re going there as soon as you’re strong enough.”

  “No we’re not.” Kaitar’s voice took on the loose, slurry tones of a sleep-walker. “Can’t go there.”

  “We are going there. It’s the only place left for us.”

  The scout didn’t respond as he stared at the pit with a haunted look. His eyes were dry, but had he not been so dehydrated, Mi’et guessed tears would have streaked that bruised face.

  Cry for us both, then. I never knew how, and you could never stop.

  Ice in the Sky

  The world smelled of ash. That odor followed, trailing like a hungry mongrel, and the harder Kaitar tried to outrun it, the closer it pressed. It swirled in his mind, powdery white at first, then shifting to a deeper color, forming a shadow. A shape appeared—ruddy-faced, with hair the color of rusty earth. Pale, blue eyes peered from under a wide-brimmed ranging hat. A voice spoke, rough with an Estarian that sounded nonsensical and unfamiliar.

  “He says he can do the job, Neiro.”

  Orin. Perhaps forty years old, already tough as leather from years as a caravan guard, reaching with callused fingers to tip his hat back. Though a smile played around his eyes, his lips didn’t so much as twitch.

  “What are your thoughts, Orin? You think a man from the fighting pits can learn anything after that ordeal?”

  Neiro. Dark haired and square-jawed, his mouth set in a tight frown.

  “A full-blooded Shyiine would make a good scout. Hell, I already got Mi’et working out all right, so long as he’s got his space. But he won’t scout, and we need a pair of eyes out there. No one else wants the job. Too risky.”

  Another tide of Estarian flowed between the two men, washing over him like a river where confusion and hope swirled in the undertow.

  “So why do you want the job?” Neiro’s gunshot eyes turned on him. “Why are you willing to take the risk, and can you do the job?”

  His own reflection stared back from the polished acacia surface, too thin, eyes too bright in the half-gloom.

  Desperate.

  “I can ride. . . horses. Mules. Da’mel. Read a little.” The syllables stuck to his tongue, unwieldy and awkward. “Don’t need much water. Not much food. I learn fast.”

  “I say give him a chance, Neiro. He had enough grit to survive the pits, he’s got enough grit to be a scout.”

  Why should a former caravan guard for the Sulari give a shit what chance a slave should have or not have? He needed to see Orin’s eyes to make sure he wasn’t playing a trick. But when Kaitar moved his gaze, Orin wasn’t there. Staring back at him was another face, round and dark, with lips peeled back in a smile so vicious he shrank from it.

  “My Besh.” Madev Al’Daree held up a handful of burning ash and pushed it close. Kaitar squirmed, wanting to run from the office, but his legs would not move. He tried to scream; no sound came.

  “Eat. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  Madev’s thick fingers slid between his lips and pried his jaws open, tasting of blood and cinder. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to bite, but only ashes filled his mouth, burning all the way down his throat—Firebrand.

  Madev laughed. “Do you never learn?”

  As his lungs spasmed, tears of flame filled Kaitar’s eyes and seared the flesh of his face to bone. Madev was gone, and it was only himself staring into the polished acacia surface. There, in his reflection, he saw his own hands wrapped around the hilt of a yatreg, and fire leaked from between his clenched fingers as he screamed.

  “I did learn! I learned that I should have stayed in that cage. Never crawled out. I’m not made for this world. . . something wrong with me. With it. Toros. I’m tainted!”

  More fire splashed down his throat.

  “Drink.”

  Choking against the bitter tea, Kaitar clawed at the hands holding him down, drawing blood.

  “You need to drink more. Stop fighting it.”

  Mi’et.

  Sputtering, Kaitar pressed his face against the sand. Mi’et wrenched his head around and pressed the cup to his mouth. The hot tea—laced with Threk venom, pepper bloom, and something he thought might be cloves or cinnamon—scalded his tongue. He forced it down in a great gulp that made his stomach roll in protest. Even as his mind and belly rebelled, Kaitar’s starved body cried out for water and food and tea.

  Mi’et pulled the cup away and rocked back on his haunches, watching. Numbness spread outward from Kaitar’s midsection, down his legs and arms, until even his toes
tingled. Dumbly, he stared at one ash-and-sand scoured arm. Dark bruises showed underneath the gray powder, but when he moved it across the sand, some of the ash came away, showing clean skin. Slowly, the dizziness subsided and his breathing became steadier

  “That damned tea,” he rasped. “Leigh. Did she make it back?”

  Mi’et nodded once. “She told us what happened—her side of it. You killed Lein Strauss.”

  Kaitar groaned. After the nightmare, he did not want to think of Lein Strauss, or remember the smell of searing flesh. He rubbed his face and tasted ashes on his lips. “Where are my clothes?”

  “I’m going to burn them. I have more with me I took from your footlocker in the barracks. They’ll be loose until you get your weight back, but they’ll fit well enough to travel in.” Mi’et rose, wiped his hands on his pants, and tilted his head toward a small campfire. “You’re going to eat.”

  Kaitar pushed himself onto an elbow. His muscles trembled, but the tea had done its work and the weakness seemed petty. “How long was I out?”

  Firelight shone against Mi’et’s silver hair clasp as he moved. “Two hours. You were asleep in the saddle. You didn’t fall, though.”

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “Behind you. Don’t you hear her?”

  He did hear the mule then, munching steadily on whatever was in her feed bag. Kaitar craned his neck and saw her dim outline a dozen feet away. The orange light caught her eyes as she studied him, long ears drooping to the side in a lazy, contented manner.

  No threk. She’d know if they were near.

  Overhead, a pale sphere sailed against a sky so black even the stars were hard to pick out. Kaitar watched the moon, thinking of how cold it looked, wondering just what it was, exactly. Was it a lump of ice floating high above the world, dispassionate and dead? Did anything live there? He could navigate by the stars and track in the dead of night, but at that moment, he felt his own vast ignorance—a slave, barely able to read or write, and far too stupid to grasp the implications of the heavens.

  Kaitar closed his eyes. For a while, he didn’t think or feel, but only concentrated on breathing; pulling air in, pushing it out, his heart thumping on, refusing to stop, just as it had refused in the pit. For days, he’d hidden in the wine cellar, staring at Mariyah’s bones while the Bloom raged on. After the storm had blown itself out, he’d climbed shaking from his cage, certain it would only take a few hours—a day at most—to die. Wondering if Mi’et would show up before then and listening to his heart beating on and on. Wishing it would just stop.

  “Here.”

  The scent of cured threk-hide hit with the force of a punch as the coat fell across him. Kaitar tightened his fingers around the thick duster, pulling it close. When he opened his eyes again, the shadow of sleep licked at the edge of his vision, beckoning him down into darkness. But Mi’et loomed larger, blocking the moon, grim-faced as he held a steaming bowl of food.

  “Sit up. You can sleep after you eat.” Mi’et’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. His features—a strange jumble of Shyiine and Druen—seemed better suited for scowls than grins. “Or are you still too weak to move without help?”

  Kaitar fumbled with the duster, trying to wrap it around his shoulders. It took an effort to speak now; all he wanted was sleep. “I’m sick of this game. I’m sick of you most of all. You should have left me in that pit.”

  “You’re hungry.” Mi’et squatted, balancing the bowl deftly in his good hand and jabbing with the other. The intact middle finger struck Kaitar’s shoulder.

  “My Besh. . . you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  Baring his teeth, Kaitar thrust the hand away. “Stop!”

  Mi’et jabbed him again. “No. I would if you were really done this time, but you aren’t. If you were dying, you wouldn’t have done that. You’re too stubborn to die. Sit up and eat, and I’ll tell you about what happened in Dogton.” He set the bowl down. There, dried peppers and some sort of meat—Kaitar guessed it was s’rat—swam in a thick, red broth that would probably be hotter than the fire itself. More torture. Mi’et was going to feed him s’rat and pepper curry on an empty, shrunken stomach as some sort of sadistic test to his endurance.

  And yet, despite that fact, his stomach growled for it; Madev’s ghost and Mi’et were both right; he was hungry. Starving.

  Both hands shaking, Kaitar pulled the bowl close and lifted it to his lips, nearly dumping it over his lap. Hot spices touched his tongue. Everything swam wildly for an instant, spinning around and around until he thought he would vomit and pass out on the spot. He forced himself to slow down and chew.

  “I told you. You needed to eat and drink some tea.” Mi’et’s voice held a note of smug triumph. “Any human would be dead by now. How long did you lay there in the pit this time?”

  “Not long enough.” The truth of Mi’et’s words sickened him even more than the first bites of food. If he’d been Pihranese or Estarian, there’d have been nothing left but his bones, picked clean by vultures and bleaching in the sun. Kaitar flexed his stiff fingers and plucked out a piece of stew meat. “You said you’d tell me about Dogton.”

  Mi’et grunted in acquiescence. “Niles came with the Scrappers. They had it planned, probably for months. There’s a bounty out on Gairy Reidur for his part on it.”

  “So, he did take a bribe.”

  “Yes. Niles bought him out. And Niles put the bounty out, too, for treason against Avaeliis.”

  “Shit.” Kaitar shoved the bowl away, nauseous again. His shrunken stomach tightened around the lump of food in his belly like a constricting snake. Molly moved closer, and he leaned against the mule’s forelegs as they bumped against his back. The feedbag hung from her long nose, smelling of dates, da’mel milk and seed head. That odor, unlike any of the others, calmed his churning stomach.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “They have the same bounty on Senqua.”

  “Why the fuck for? There’s no way she could have known. She wanted to go with us to Bywater.”

  “Do humans ever need a reason to put bounties on Enetics?” Mi’et reached for the bowl. He went to the fire, refilled it from the battered tin pot, and took a bite. “Anaz’dalo wouldn’t come with us. I asked him before I left. They’ll kill Senqua if she comes back, and they’ll probably kill him soon, too. Niles hates Shyiine.”

  That bit of information was no easier to digest than the hot curry. “Was anyone else killed?”

  “A merchant got hit with a stray bullet. A few of the Scrappers died. N’jian Printz and one of his men were killed. Now, tell me about Lein Strauss. I remember him from the Bywater rebellion.” Mi’et grinned around a mouthful of food. “Did he scream when you gutted him?”

  Ignoring the pointed question, he said, “You just left Dogton to the Scrappers? Walked off?”

  “You left the Sulari woman to find her way back in a Bloom.” Mi’et spat a piece of gristle and poked at the remaining meat in the bowl with a mild look of disgust. “This is a poor cut of s’rat. Old. We’ll have to hunt fresh game on the way to the Sand Belt.”

  Kaitar didn’t hear the complaint; what Mi’et had said about Leigh bit too deep, gnawing the way the half-Druen gnawed the stringy meat. He stared down at his lap, studying his ash-powdered fingers resting against his thighs.

  “I’m a coward, like my father told me over and over. I run, I hide. And I left Leigh to walk right into Dogton where the Scrappers were waiting.”

  “Kaitar—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Lein Strauss. Leave me alone.”

  “It’s too late for that. But I’ll have the story about Lein Strauss another time. Tomorrow, or next week, perhaps. It’s a long way to the Sand Belt. We’ll have chance enough to speak about it.”

  “I’m not going to the Belt.” Kaitar’s shoulders began to ache again despite the tea. Molly moved away, her warmth replaced by the night’s chill. He shivered. “If you wanted me to die, why bother dragging me to the Belt? You
should have left me in that pit.”

  Mi’et tossed aside the empty bowl without answering, then began gathering up the tattered clothing Kaitar recognized as his own—those he had worn on the ill-fated trek to find Gren Turren. Blood stained those garments, much of it from his own injuries. Some belonged to Romano Vargas, now dead, his bones buried somewhere down by Bywater Gully. The rest had belonged to Lein Strauss, a living ghost who had killed with a ferocity rare even in the Shy’war-Anquai.

  All of it for nothing. I never should have climbed out of that cage. Never.

  Kaitar dragged the duster over his head and curled up against the sand, listening to Mi’et pulling Molly’s feedbag free before unpacking a bedroll. A hush as heavy and vast as the night itself settled over the desert. When sleep finally did offer its quiet mercy, he dreamed of Dogton devoured by flames so high they melted the moon and turned the desert to water.

  The Shade

  Every time Leigh turned to pack more supplies into the Draggin, J.T. was staring at her chest. Erid busied himself coercing his dog into the rover and did not notice the Scrapper’s leer. Even if the boy hadn’t been preoccupied with Aerby, he probably wouldn’t have paid much attention, anyway; Erid had become a study in misery since the death of his father, Romano Vargas, and that misery had only increased when he’d been told by Dramen Frell he was going to the Foundry.

  Doing her best to ignore J.T., Leigh hefted the last pack into the rover. The last time she’d packed the Draggin, Kaitar Besh and Romano had been helping. Together, they had rolled out of Dogton in search of Gren Turren, and found only death and betrayal.

  “Hurry it up.” J.T. tapped his boots against the front tire to clean the dust from them. “I want to get goin’. And if that dog shits in here, I’ll shoot him.”

  “You touch my dog and I’ll kill you!” Erid’s green eyes glinted as he wrapped his arms around his dog’s neck. Aerby raised his hackles and growled at the Scrapper.

  “If that mutt bites me, I’ll gut him.”