“Who are you?” the woman lying on the bed asked. Her drawn complexion betrayed a deep sickness, and Micol braced himself for the inevitable wave of heat. The woman cackled as he recoiled. “Do I look that bad, boy? Go on, tell me the truth. I can handle it.”

  He forced himself to stand up straight, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid slipping into the dewy vapors fogging his mind. “You don’t look well,” he managed. “Your daughter brought me here so I could escort you to the warehouses.”

  “The warehouses? I’m not dead yet. And even if I was, my corpse would rise from its grave and box you about the ears, you try to bring me there!” Her face took on a hard edge, reminiscent of her daughter’s expression earlier.

  Micol drew in a deep breath. “I understand. If it were just you, I’d tell you to make your choice and applaud your bravery. But it’s not. You don’t want to leave your husband with the burden of trying to raise your children, do you?”

  The woman’s cackle reverberated through the small room. “My late husband was a gambler and a drinker, and he’s the reason we’re in this mess. Spent all of our savings before those soldiers closed the gates. Least he had the decency to catch dysentery and die.”

  “All the worse for your kids, then,” Micol said. “You’d turn them into foundlings? The way things are right now, they’d end up in Death’s care anyway. Or starved and forgotten on some corner in the shadows.” He hadn’t intended the words to come out as aggressive as they did, but the woman’s sour face confirmed he’d gotten through to her.

  “They –” a hacking cough interrupted her. Her eyes watered as the fit continued, forcing her to double up beneath the sheets. When her hand came away from her mouth, Micol could see specks of blood. When he inhaled, he smelled a sickly sweet aroma that made his vision blur.

  “They must be taken care of,” the woman said, her voice coming out strained. “Promise me you’ll make sure of that.”

  “I can promise no such thing. You’ll have to stick around and take care of them yourself.”

  She shook her head. “I’m on my way out. Starving or no, I don’t think I have much fight left in me.”

  He felt the truth of it, a confirmation stemming from the miasma permeating the air. “I’m not the man for this,” he said. “I’m a coward and a deserter.”

  “Call it a chance at redemption, then. Call it a good deed. I don’t care how you frame it in your mind; just tell me you’ll do it, damn it!”

  “No!” His hands balled into fists at his side. “Find someone else to be your nanny!”

  “You said it yourself, boy. It’s this or let them become foundlings. When I go, it will bring me a measure of peace to believe they’ll be okay. Do you understand?”

  Her meaning was clear: lie to me if you must. So long as you can do so convincingly. Micol gritted his teeth; the prospect of lying to a dying mother made his stomach turn, but the alternative – agreeing to take care of two children who weren’t his own – seemed even worse.

  “I cannot,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be the one you’re looking for. But I’m not. You’d agree if you knew me. People who place their trust in me… they tend to be disappointed.”

  The woman’s face contorted with hatred. “Then get out, you useless bastard! Leave me to my deathbed!”

  A fell power gripped Micol, stemming from the heat he’d felt upon first meeting the woman. As she raged it tightened around him, causing the world to shrink in his eyes. He struggled against the sour feeling sweeping him up in its current. It demanded release, straining against the rusted iron of his will. Soon enough he gave way, succumbing to its insistent assault.

  When his vision returned, he felt his face flushed and his tongue numb. The woman had collapsed, the muscles in her face falling slack. He didn’t have to approach her to know she was dead.

  Skora, why did Visala have to send me of all people? He imagined someone else might have made the promise the woman had demanded so her soul would rest easy in passing, even if it would have been a lie.

  “I’ll make sure they’re taken care of,” he muttered to the corpse. “Whatever happens to this city, I’ll make sure they survive it.”

  Outside the shop, he told Jin what had happened. She insisted on entering to see for herself; when she returned, her gaze was as stormy as the dark sky above. Micol led her to the warehouses, asking one of the priests he found there where her brother had been placed to see if they could find a cot nearby. The only one they could find was a couple rows over, close enough to see him but not be next to him.

  Jin collapsed on the cot she’d chosen. “What am I going to say to him?” she asked, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had fallen on them.

  “I don’t know,” Micol said, kneeling down to meet her eyes. She was too young to have to bear such responsibility. Too young to be asked to explain death, when she likely barely understood it herself. He grasped one of her hands, finding the words his mother had shared with him after his father had died. “Tell him she loved both of you very much, and her soul will watch over you.”

  The girl scowled at him. “What good is that gonna do us? Don’t you have anything more than empty words?”

  “No,” he said earnestly. “That’s more or less how it goes. A bunch of strangers offer empty words – none of which do anything to fill the hole in your life – and then eventually you learn to live with the hole. Words won’t help; you just have to experience the loss before you can start healing.”

  “Huh.” The girl’s eyes drifted away, toward something over Micol’s shoulder. “So maybe it doesn’t matter what I say.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe all that matters is that you tell him.”

  She squared her jaw, pushing off of the cot. Micol watched her march over to her rother, wearing a mask of calm as she spoke with him.

  Someone rested a hand on his shoulder. “They told me you’d found the mother.” The voice belonged to Visala. “But they also told me you only asked for one cot. What happened to her?”

  Micol shook his head. He released a deep sigh. “Promise me they’ll be looked after, won’t you? Don’t let any of the others pick on them or steal their food or anything like that.”

  “Of course.” Visala bit her bottom lip. “You could visit them, you know. Look after them yourself.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Silence reigned for several seconds. Finally, Visala tentatively asked, “What happened to their mother?”

  “She was sick. We got into a bit of a disagreement and then… I don’t know. It was like this heat was suffocating me, and the only way out was to wade through it. When I made it out to the other side, she’d passed on.”

  Visala gasped. “By Loss’s coin! Don’t ever tell anyone else what you just told me.”

  “What? Why not?”

  She took him by the hand, pulling him down the rows of cots. Her head jerked left and right as they walked, until they reached the warehouse walls. Visala threw open a side door, pulling him in the direction of the docks. At first Micol was surprised at the absence of people there, but then he remembered the blockade; with no goods coming in, there’d be no money to pay the dock crews.

  They continued until they were nearly at the water, pausing only once Visala seemed satisfied there was no one close by. “Do you know why Death chose you to join the Wolves?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “After you came to us, I sent some men to check the alley you’d come from. We found a few rotting corpses, and one who had burst out in pustules. No other wounds, just… pustules. The men described the smell as that of rotting garlic. When I informed Death, he told me he wanted to keep you close.”

  Micol frowned. “Okay, I don’t understand. Why?”

  She continued, ignoring the question. “Earlier today, when you told me about what happened before you deserted, I thought to myself ‘maybe it wasn’t coincidence.’ A man falling victim to his illness in the midst of a fight? Seems unlikely. Unless there’s something else there.

  “And just now, you said you were – what, arguing? – with a woman, who dropped dead of disease in the midst of the argument.” Visala looked away. “Who was closest to Pestilence when she was killed? You or your friend?”

  “I was. She was practically right on top of me.”

  “Was there anyone else nearby?”

  Micol ground his teeth against each other. “You mean besides the Ma’isan army?”

  “So she was with her army? How far away was the closest Ma’isan soldier?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe… a dozen paces or so.”

  “You understand where I’m going?” Visala asked.

  He exhaled slowly. “Maybe. But I don’t want to say it.”

  “It seems you’re the new Pestilence.”

  Chapter 21

  Itan

  A droplet of water trailed across the line of the rusted bars of the dungeon door, wending its way to the bottom and finally plopping into the middle of a puddle that had formed in the span of the last few hours. The smell of mildew hung thick in the air, cloying at Itan’s senses no matter how desperately he tried to ignore it.

  The sound of footsteps scraping down the corridor caused him to open his eyes. He watched as a young guard came into view, stopping outside of his cell.

  “It’s time for your trial,” the guard said, gesturing for Itan to approach the door. When he did the guard unlocked it, slipping irons over his wrists.

  “Have you ever witnessed a trial in the Ma’isan Protectorate?” the guard asked, pushing Itan forward.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve read accounts of the Trial of Esme, though.”

  The other man chuckled. “Was she the husband killer?”

  “I don’t think so. She was accused of a triple homicide, but she called several witnesses who confirmed she had been in Donas when he passed. When the magistrate declared her guilty—”

  “Ah, I remember now. ‘You have wasted my time, your own time, and the time of every poor soul that came here to see justice done. Let this farce end the only way it can: a trial by way of the immortals.’”

  Itan nodded. “And so the magistrate revived the old rules. They say she screamed so loudly they heard her on the other side of Accalia.”

  “Horrible way to go.” The man stepped forward to push open a door leading up out of the dungeon. “At any rate, most of our trials don’t go that way. What you need to know is you’ll always have a turn to talk. Each witness, each piece of evidence. Even the final arguments. As the accused, you will always go last. Oh, and this is important: don’t ever disrespect the magistrate. He’s the king of his court – and ultimately it’s his good favor that will determine what happens to you – so you want him on your side.”

  “Don’t poke the man who decides whether I live or die,” Itan said. “Got it.” He had to squint as they stepped out into the light. Thankfully, it was an overcast day, making for an easier adjustment for his eyes.

  The guard walking alongside him gestured toward a path to the left. “There’s quite a crowd gathered for your trial. Men and women of the sort that don’t usually care for these kinds of things. Whatever it is you did – or didn’t do, as the case may be – it must have a lot of people riled up.”

  “Hmmph.” In his head, Itan felt like he was already in front of the magistrate. He’d organized his thoughts dozens of times, figured out what felt like every argument and counter-argument he could make. A pang of hunger echoed through his insides. If only I hadn’t spent the last month starving in my cell, too cold to sleep.

  It seemed the courthouse was insufficient to hold the crowd that had gathered for the trial; a makeshift arena had been set up outside, complete with raised tarps to cover most of the onlookers from the morning sun. The magistrate sat at an ebony table, the forest green of his three-quarter sleeves catching the light as he fussed with the close-fitting silk.

  To the left, two men and a woman – Elysa – sat at a set of chairs that had been arrayed underneath a tarp. To the right, a single barstool sat in the sun; Itan made his way toward the stool, conscious of every detail of his posture as he approached. He felt every eye was on him, watching carefully for a single mistake that might be used to condemn him later.

  “Itan Mirao,” the magistrate said, raising his voice for the gathered crowd. “Or do you prefer Itan Ade?”

  “Mirao, if you please. Like most members of my order, I chose to abandon my family name upon my induction into the priesthood.”

  The magistrate nodded. “Very well. Itan Mirao, my name is Magistrate Nur. Are you aware of the charges against you?”

  “I can guess at what they might be, but it couldn’t hurt to hear them out loud.”

  “There are four charges. The first is the murder of Matsu Shino. Premeditated. The second –”

  “I’m sorry,” Itan interrupted. “Who is Matsu Shino?”

  Magistrate Nur’s thick gray eyebrows drew down in consternation. “He was the baker whose shop burned down several months ago. Miss Crane has alleged that you doused his store in oil and ignited it to prevent him from tempting away one of your wards.” He cleared his throat. “The second charge is grand arson. Premeditated. The third charge is the murder of Ox Ughra. Aggravated. The fourth charge is attempted murder of Ponto… well, we don’t have a family name for him, it seems. Also premeditated. Any questions?”

  Itan squirmed on his stool; the hard wood was cracked in several places, promising a rough time if the trial lasted more than a few hours. “Yes. If I’m found guilty, what will be the punishment for these crimes?”

  Magistrate Nur pursed his lips, apparently displeased by the question. “It’s difficult to say. For premeditated murder and attempted murder, the punishment can vary from ten years civic labor to death. For grand arson, twenty years civic labor to death. And for aggravated murder, it ranges from two years civic labor to twenty. If you are found guilty of all crimes, the minimum punishment would be more than forty years civic labor. More likely, you will be sentenced to death.”

  Itan’s breath came in as a hiss through his teeth.

  After a few moments, Magistrate Nur cleared his throat. “Advocate Leda, would you please outline the version of the story to be presented by your side?”

  A diminutive man rose, taking a few steps forward until he was standing in front of the table where Magistrate Nur sat. Like the magistrate, he raised his voice so all of those around them could hear. “Certainly. Everyone here is aware of the circumstances that led to the departure of the last death priest who darkened our city’s streets, so I won’t waste time rehashing them. Suffice to say, when this death priest arrived, there were many who greeted him with less-than open arms. Our co-advocate, Miss Elysa, took it upon herself to speak in favor of leaving the man in peace. Until he proved himself to be a threat, at least.”

  Itan massaged his throat with a hand. His mouth felt like gray ashes; he tried to swallow, but it only made the pain worse.

  Advocate Leda continued, “The two formed something of a friendship, and when the death priest expressed an interest in helping the orphans of this city, Elysa sent those most in need into his care. As you will learn from our witnesses, his care turned out to be more curse than boon.

  “As you mentioned a moment ago, one of these orphans – Ponto – received an offer of apprenticeship from Mister Shino several weeks ago. That very day, one of our witnesses saw the death priest visit Mister Shino’s bakery with a barrel of oil, with which he doused the store and ignited a fire that nearly burnt down Kazu’s Row.”

  Hisses from the crowd. Itan found himself on his feet. He barely stopped himself from shouting a defense of his actions; Esme had done something similar in the account of her trial, and the author claimed it had been the beginning of the crowd turning against her. The still-blackened skin of my left arm will be proof enough, he told himself. It had to be.

  Advocate Leda looked back at Itan with a small, gloating smile. A moment later he turned back to the magistrate and the bulk of the crowd. “Would that this crime had been his last. Elysa – unaware he was behind the murder of Mister Shino – continued to visit the orphans that had been left in his care each day, until one night he snuck into her home and threatened to murder her if she did not cease contact with them.

  “Now, you all know Elysa. Some have called her the mother of this city. Some have called her the Aspect of Healing. Whatever you call her, you know she is not one to allow herself to be bullied. Not when the lives of the vulnerable are at stake. She and her husband went to visit the death priest to demand he leave the city peacefully, whereupon he flew into a rage and grabbed the only orphan in the temple at that time. Several witnesses will attest they saw the Death Priest fling the boy from a window and land head-first in the street, where he would have died if not for the attentions of Elysa.”

  Gasps from the assembled crowd. Even the magistrate’s brow furrowed with disgust.

  “Ox – Elysa’s husband – had tried to stop the death priest, but he used magic to hold the other man in place. When Ox finally broke through the magic, the death priest stabbed him in the chest with a knife from the kitchen. As Elysa tended to the boy in the street, her husband lay dying on the floor above.”

  Advocate Leda shook his head, his voice taking on a sorrowful tone. “Those who saw the death priest’s crimes attempted to subdue him then and there, but fortunately he escaped them.” He turned to face Itan again, his voice rising. “Oh yes, Priest. I’m glad we can have this trial, that the whole city might hear the truth of what you’ve done. A monster like you deserves – “

  “Thank you,” Magistrate Nur said, cutting him off. “I take it that will be all?”

  “Yes.” Advocate Leda walked back to his chair, a false sorrow painted on his face.

  Itan felt Magistrate Nur’s eyes on him. “Accused Mirao, will you please outline the version of the story to be presented by your side?”