Chapter One

[cityofthehand]

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CHAPTER ONE



Maira suspected nothing on her last night as a courier - the night she took her final, most important delivery.

The secret, fragile evening world of the Capitol Complex had not changed. Nothing about its maze of silences, empty shop fronts, shuttered windows and locked doors alerted her to danger.

All that frightened the other couriers remained. For Maira, this came as a comfort. She craved this loneliness though in the city no being ever truly found aloneness. In summer, half the city slept on their roofs to keep cool. Year-round nightwatchers patrolled the tops of buildings and sides of streets. Along her regular routes, they knew each other by face and name.

As for darkness, she never felt the shivers the others reported. Even close to the city’s edge, by the wards that kept out the virulent Undominated Lands and the gray demon people haunting it’s shaded expanse. Those lands terrified Maira in both light and dark.

Within the wards, shadows were as much friend as foe. What she remembered of her childhood had taught her the art of being fast and sneaky and the advantage of a friendly darkness. Not that she would confess this if asked. She claimed money as her reason for volunteering. True enough. Daytime deliveries went slow, delayed by crowded streets. At nights the road opened like a lover’s arms. Likewise, those desperate to get messages sent in the dead of night tipped better than usual. Especially if they meant to buy a courier’s discretion and selective memory.

Maira had every reason to feel safe that night in the Capitol Complex. Marked as a courier, she had little to fear in the safest, wealthiest part of the city outside the five Tracts that formed the fingers of the City of the Hand. The truly well to do of the five races - Dhatan, Asna’isi, Pahali, Tsaqa and Human - lived in those Tracts. Their work and business, however, took place in the Capitol Complex, in the southern heart of the city - the Palm.

Not that the rest of the Palm could claim such riches or safety. But it did claim freedom from being held by any one race. Mostly humans and Rok lived there alongside the less fortunate and outcast of other races. It represented the one space neutral enough to house the seat of the Domain’s power. No one race could be trusted with such an advantage.

Like everything in the City of the Hand, the odd, hobbled, haphazard arrangement worked. Tilted and groaning like a badly built shack, it withstood the storms nonetheless and made itself an oasis of money and power, populated by money houses, banks, trade headquarters, caravan conclaves, council offices and grand temples.

The world’s truth presented itself plainly here. Fantastic buildings and spires and columns praising various deities and spirits found rivals only in the money houses and government offices. It showed what people really worshipped in the end. Gods, power, and money. Not necessarily in that order.

So thieves, thugs, and other criminals knew better than to try anything here. They risked angering a god, or worse yet, a banker. When the mighty left to return to their Tract estates at the end of business, they left nightwatchers to guard their treasures. They paid the watchers well and gave them free license to get nastily violent.

No clue, no trace of anything gone wrong tickled at Maira that night. She turned and corner and waved to the nightwatcher atop the Golden Mother Unity Temple. The half-Dhatan Rok, Karic, waved back. Maira made a mental note that she’d neglected to grease Karic’s palms for a while. Zie had the best look out for blocks. Best to keep in zir good graces.
Confidence came because Maira cultivated her safety like a loving gardener cultivating orchids. She made friendly acquaintences of nightwatchers, prostitutes, tavern owners, gang patrollers (especially those who worked for Mame Bara). She dropped a few coins in their purses once and a while, brought them cheap little sweets on cold nights, or cheap wine cooled in a skin on hot ones. She took free deliveries, off the books, if needed.

In return, they would at least shout, “Knock it off!” if they saw her being raped, robbed, or killed. A prostitute willing to call their lookout or wield their weapons to chase off a predator made for a precious commodity, as did a gang patroller willing to tell would be muggers that she was off limits.

She kept a steady jog rather than a full run. With half the night to go, she’d need that energy to get over the pre-dawn hump. No hurry tonight. The Luckies had ridden her shoulder, kept her ahead of schedule. The prospect of finishing before her shift ended grew more likely. The Happy Pot gleamed in her mind’s eye.

At the beginning of the week, they all threw a coin in a rusty old pot in the office. Anyone who came back with no remaining deliveries to at shift’s end - a relative rarity - got it. Haringe’s way of motivating them. Usually it went to buying drinks for everyone else so there were no hard feelings, but a few extra coins made a big difference.

If she won, everything not spent on good will would go to bribes and gifts, especially for Mame’s people. After that shoes, food, herbs, and maybe a nice bottle of wine if she got lucky.
The tempting prospect overtook her. She sped into a run, watching the rooves above. To her left, Weru Throwinglong made laze aerial circles above the moneyhouse. She heard his flapping wings from the ground. They traded friendly salutes, she with a wave and he with a flare of fire from his hand.

The address she aimed for lay deeper in the Complex than most deliveries. She’d seen this address a lot on the morning run sheets, but never had it on a night sheet. Whoever this was, they were a repeat customer and Haringe would want them kept happy. Maira pushed herself a little faster.

The run ended at a tall, thin house of dark, smooth stone, squeezed between its neighbors like a person scrunching their shoulders. A sign announced the address and the gilded print gleamed in the pale blue sorcerer’s lamp just under the small statues of door-ward goddess mounted there. Either the owner of the house was a sorcerer or could afford to pay one to have those lights.

Maira made a quick cross of her hands behind her back and whispered old Taye words, a precaution against sorcerers. Taye people didn’t trust or like them. She hoped for a harmless rich person with more money than sense.

Her shadow fell long behind her as she went up the steps to the wide front door. She raised a hand to knock and before her knuckles touched wood, a tortured scream seared the night. She jumped back in surprise, wobbled and caught herself on the rail in time to hear the second scream followed by hard, loud grunts.

Without thinking, she grabbed the latch and pushed her shoulder into the door. It opened with no resistance. She stumbled inside and stopped at the edge of a front room. Through the door way, a brown skinned human straddled another one, an older, lighter skinned person with shorn white hair. The younger one raised a knife and brought it down hard, plunging it into the older one’s chest with a cry that harrowed Maira into paralysis. Both of them screamed, blood covered and wild.

Sense caught up with her. She realized what saw and before thinking better of it, shouted, “What are you doing!”

The attacker stopped with the knife in mid air and raised their hysterically wide, crying eyes to meet hers. Their blood flecked face tightened, hysteria turning to sharp focus. Maira didn’t wait for the impending attack. She put her bag in front of her as a shield and threw herself at the assailant.

They rolled over each other. She lost the tossle, ending up on the bottom. The attacker still held the knife and raised it. She grabbed their wrist with both hands and dug her thumb nails into nerves and tendons of the joint. Their fingers reflexively splayed and the knife hit the floor. Metal touched tile with a loud clatter and she let go, twisting her body immediately to grab it first. Her fingers reached the leather wrapped handle and she turned again to slash wild and wide at the attacker.

The attacker got off her and she picked herself up fast, then stepped back to get space. She glanced around for any other weapons; she found none. Her opponent took a smart bent-knees stance, hands turned palm out in a defense-ready position. That was evidence of either training or the brains to make it look good. She held the knife out, stepping in place, shifting weight from foot to foot.

They studied each other, breathing hard. The attacker seemed human - skin a thoroughly human shade of brown, no wings or shape changing; no bright Pahali red or deep Tsaqa green-blue to mark him as being more than one race - a Rok. To her eyes, the attacker was probably Rumadi. A good thing. They were more evenly matched for strength and speed, human to human. Not totally. They had height and wide, strong shoulders, and a far longer reach. But at least it was only human strength. Even a Rok would have had a dire advantage over her.

She waited, held her ground, tightened her grip on the knife. The older person on the floor moaned loudly, and the attacker’s attention shifted instantly. The younger one’s lips tremble, they wept. Maira shifted a step and the attacker remembered that she was there.

Maira didn’t wait to launch herself with a growl between her teeth and a hard thrust of the blade aimed at gut level. The attacker caught her arm in one hand, her shoulder in the other and pushed her away with her own momentum. The motion was effortless and the grip strong. Definitely training.

She wheeled around and repeated the charge, aiming higher and to the side to get past the grabbing arms. She put all her weight into the lunge, expecting the same block. The attacker grabbed both wrists and snatched the knife away. Maira held on and shoved them hard to the wall, planting her knee into their crotch. Her opponent, off balance and in pain, pushed against her reflexively. The blade held between them jutted forward, through the strap of her bag and into her side. Sharp, slicing pain followed. Maira let go and pulled back, bending double over her wound and crumbling to her knees. Slick blood gushed between her fingers.

The attacker gasped and looked hysterical once more, dropping the knife entirely. “Gods, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” They looked terribly nauseous, confused, and horrified. “I didn’t mean - I’m so sorry - I -”

She glanced up, then back at the knife. The wound throbbed viciously, but she could still move and breathe clearly. Both good signs.

Maira made a move to reach for the knife, but before her fingers made contact, the attacker pulled a talisman from a coat pocket and yelled a word she didn’t understand. A blinding flash whited out her vision as a wave of cold pressure shoved her hard against the wall. Her entire body jarred on impact, taking her breath away. She landed face down on the floor. Black spots dancing across her vision and between them, she saw feet fleeing through the open door and into the night.

She’d been fighting a sorcerer, a talented one. Her stunned mind wondered why any sorcerer would hesitate to use their magic like that. Neither she nor the older one should have stood a chance.

Two arm lengths away, the wounded, older one gave a gurgling cry. How could they even be alive after such an assault? Maira didn’t understand how anyone could scream through all that blood.

She picked herself up on trembling, weak arms and crawled across the floor. Her stomach lurched at the sight of what had been done. So many wounds, endless blood everywhere. The air was polluted with the smell of blood, and each sound voiced intense, unbearable pain. She coughed hard and turned her head to stop herself getting sick all over this poor person. Do something, think, she yelled at herself as she pulled off her coat. She folded it sloppily so that it would make a better compress and pushed it to the worst of the chest wounds.

“You’ll be all right, professor,” she told him, assuming he was the one who’s name was on the package.

Suddenly, her hands burned like she had plunged them in scalding water. She pulled them back then looked down. Her clothes sizzled, as did the rug and the wood of the floor, bubbling at the edge of the pool of blood and sending up little wafts of disgusting, bloody smoke. With the pressure gone more blood oozed. Risking the pain, Maira pressed in once again and endured the pain.

"Don't," he gasped. He weakly moved his head side to side. Foamy blood gathered at the corners of his mouth, running down his cheeks, pooling in his ears and his graying beard. She pressed down harder despite the intense pain in her hand.

Blood - life - slipped through her fingers each moment. Maira bore down and winced. The other couriers told tales of surviving stab wounds if the blood was stopped quickly. When they'd taught Maira how to throw a punch to save her life they'd taught her that.

"Help!" she screamed toward the open door, loud as she could. "Help! Please! Somebody!"

"Listen, please," he begged, in a ragged whisper.

She winced, let out a whine between her teeth. "It's going to be all right, I'll get help, I swear. Do you know who that was, do you know who hurt you?" she asked and then bent her head down, gritting her teeth until it hurt, wanting to rush for water to wash her hands more than she’d wanted anything in her life. “You’re the person who lives here, the one getting the package, Professor Decaran, yes?”

“Yes.”

"All right. Good. Professor Decaran, the person who attacked you, do you know their name?" Maira shouted. Her next wince was mostly pain, but some guilt for yelling at him. She screamed toward the door again praying desperately for someone to hear her. Gods and goddesses, if you have any mercy you’ll send someone, she thought.

"More will die."

She quieted herself as much as she could, breathing in irregular puffs. Leaning in, she turned her head so her ear was just over his mouth. "Who? Who will die?"

His chest pressed against the pressure she applied to it. His breath rattled like a stone in a box being shaken. "Many, if you fail."

"Fail at what?"

His eyes fluttered. She yelled in his face, "No! Stay awake, stay awake! You're not going to die, the nightwatchers are coming. Stay awake! Tell me what I have to do!"