Why Do Titans Smile
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The great, dark-skinned woman had a broad face, but her eyes were sharp and small. “You are not here to kill us?” she asked with quiet surprise. She looked at the girl. “I would have thought that you’d be more afraid of your god.”
“She’s got no interest in me,” said Tavi. “And I’ve just come to ask you something, too.” He took out the knife he used as a letter opener and held it up for them all to see. “Can you help us?”
They were silent, looking from his weapon back to him with grave expressions. They had seen the weapons; they must understand why he was asking them. But then she spoke, and her voice was so low that he could hardly make it out. It sounded like she was trying to speak quietly while being strangled by someone who liked it very much.
Tavi frowned and stepped forward into the room where he might hear better. His head came within sight of their faces. There were two women: one tall, with close-set eyes, a narrow nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, and a square chin; the other shorter than any human being Tavi had ever seen.
Their skin seemed oddly grayish-white, and they both looked to be about the same age. The taller woman wore only a short, ragged shift of some coarse fabric—she had clearly been outside when Tavi found them.
The second woman stood beside her in a similar garment and had a cloth tied around her upper arm—as if she’d recently suffered an injury or had been bitten by a snake. In either case, her hair and clothes were tattered. Neither wore shoes, and neither seemed particularly clean.
“What is happening to us?” asked the smaller woman in a hoarse whisper, staring at him with huge black eyes. Her skin had a greenish cast that reminded Tavi of old parchment.
Tavi nodded at her. “We’re going home.” He hesitated. “But—”
The shorter woman interrupted in a deeper, richer voice. “He wants to know how we can help him.”
“You don’t have the right to talk to me like this!” the man growled and lunged for him.
Tavi dodged easily and slashed across the side of his enemy’s thigh with his letter opener. The blow opened up a deep gash. Blood welled up from the wound, bright red on the gray stone.
His enemy fell back, swearing, holding his leg with one hand. Tavi kicked the other man hard in the chest and sent him stumbling back against the wall, blood leaking from his wound. The big man’s face turned pale with rage; he grabbed at the letter opener and stabbed out at Tavi with it.
Tavi ducked quickly under it. He brought it down onto the man’s wrist; the bone shattered with a loud crack. The blade dropped to the floor, leaving behind two smoking edges.
Tavi kicked the fallen man hard, in the head. “Don’t bother,” he said calmly. “Your sword isn’t here anymore.”
With a look of mingled amazement and disgust, the other man reached down and picked up his sword, which lay next to the broken letter opener. Tavi waited until his eyes focused again on Tavi, and then struck swiftly. With the first stroke, he sliced off most of the top half of his foe’s left arm at the elbow.
Blood spurted out of the wound as he did so, splashing onto the walls. His opponent stared down at his arm in astonishment for a moment before roaring and lunging forward. Before he could close with Tavi, though, the man had to let go of his sword and hold his severed limb up.
Tavi dodged to the side of his opponent and thrust the point of his knife into his throat, pinning his arms. His friend was already dead, and now the man’s own efforts were killing him. The body jerked spasmodically with each breath, and he choked to death in moments.
After that, the women watched Tavi with grave respect and a certain degree of awe. He didn’t care what they thought of him, and he wasn’t interested in anything else they could do.
He walked back toward the door and paused, looking back at them. “If anyone asks me where I’ve been for the past two days, tell them you saw me leave with a pair of men you couldn’t identify. Tell them they were carrying swords. Tell them nothing more.”
He started away again at once and stepped through the doorway without pausing.
“Who are they?” asked the taller woman in a shocked tone, after Tavi vanished into the corridor beyond.
There was a long silence before she replied. “That’s my husband. And that’s…that’s…” She broke off and looked down at herself as if noticing for the first time that she was nude. Then her expression cleared, and she nodded. “Yes. That’s me, too.” She looked down at the stump of her arm, then grimaced and spat.
She glanced over at the woman in front of her, and said, in a softer voice, “My name is Antillia. This is my wife, Rada. We’ve been together for almost eight years now.” Her lips curled sardonically, but there was no real malice behind it. “It’s just as well that we’re going home, though. It hasn’t been much fun here for any of us these last few weeks.”
Rada frowned slightly. “You were all going to be killed, and you’re not angry?”
Antillia shrugged. “What did you expect? The First Lord has been doing some things that we didn’t think he ought to have done—but we knew that he would. If the people had known about our troubles, we’d have lost everything.” She shook her head slowly.
“I’m just glad it worked out.” She sighed, and her face took on a wistful expression. “It’s a good thing we found him when we did, though. There’s something going on here—something big enough to worry the whole Senate. The whole world knows it now, but no one seems to know why, or what it is. Not even the First Lord.”
They talked for a while longer; Antillia told her of how they came to Alera Imperia from their homeland and joined the city militia, and the difficulties they faced getting used to live among strangers.
They spoke of politics and the state of the world outside the walls of Imperia; of changes in the weather and sea currents they felt and heard on the shores of the harbor. They spoke idly; with nothing specific to discuss, they settled into an easy conversation of mutual interest instead.
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. In the evening, Tavi returned to the kitchen and washed thoroughly, including shaving off a little beard that had begun to sprout under his chin. When he finished, he dressed in his best clothing: black breeches, a white shirt, and a simple leather vest with a gold clasp in the shape of a hawk.
After that, he made his way downstairs to the common room of the inn and ordered another dinner.
“Where have you been?” demanded the serving girl who brought out his meal. She had to lean far across the table to speak in a low tone, and she did so only after glancing around carefully to make sure no one could overhear her words.
“Out,” he said shortly.
She eyed him narrowly. “Did someone try to kill you?”
“No.” The truth would have given away too much about Valiar Marcus. “But there was trouble in the street today—a fight. Someone tried to run me off a bridge.” He shrugged and turned to face the door. “And I’ve got to get out of here tonight. I’ll be gone until I can arrange for passage back home.”
She hesitated briefly, and then said, “I don’t like leaving things up in the air for too long, but…if you say you’re not going to be bothered here anymore, I won’t. No one will ever hear a word from me that you’ve been here.”
She reached over and took a knife off the table beside her, and handed it to him. “This belonged to one of the guardsmen. His father gave it to him when he left home for his first posting, and when he went missing on duty, it was sent to us along with his body. Take it and go.”
He took the dagger, which he recognized as being nearly identical to that carried by Marat—and Valiar Marcus, and the others—with a nod. “Thank you.”
She nodded back, her eyes suddenly cold. “Don’t come back here.”
“Good night, Miss—”
“I’m not your ‘Miss,'” she snapped. “Call me by name.”
Tavi bowed his head. “I am Tavi, sir. And I won’t be bothering you again.”
She scowled. “All right. But I’d appreciate it very much if you stayed that way. Don’t do anything stupid, all right? It wouldn’t be fair for us both to lose our reputations because of you.”
“I won’t be doing anything.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Tavi stood quietly at the inn’s rear entrance for several minutes before it opened. He was surprised to see that it was Marat who stepped out onto the landing platform and looked down to regard him.
At the bottom of the steps, he paused for a moment and stared hard at the boy; he seemed to be trying to decide something, his features shifting from one expression to another. Finally, he shook his head, turned around, and headed quickly back inside.
In a low voice, Tavi called after him, “Marat!”
The Cane stopped and turned back to look down at Tavi. “Yes?”
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Why did you run? What was wrong with you this afternoon?”
Tavi considered it. It was a question that should not have been asked; even so, it seemed to Tavi that Marat would never have broached the subject otherwise. He was probably asking for his sake alone.
“Nothing. Nothing was wrong with me,” Tavi said. “I just couldn’t let them hurt anyone else.”
“You ran away.”
“Yes. From them. If I hadn’t run away, then they might have killed someone.”
Marat frowned. “There were two men. Both are armed with swords and daggers. You fought them both, and you won.” He shook his head. “How did you manage such an impossible feat? Even my son cannot win against a trained warrior without some trick or enchantment.”
“They weren’t warriors. They were criminals, and they came looking for me.”
“But they knew how to use a weapon and take cover. They wore armor. How—”
“My uncle taught me,” Tavi said simply. “It was easy once I realized what was happening.”
Marat stared at him for a moment, his expression blank, as if he had forgotten exactly why he had come out here to begin with. Then he blinked and said, “Your uncle…you mean Lord Rillanon? Your father’s brother?”
Tavi nodded, and watched Marat closely, waiting for him to notice the change in Tavi’s eyes. There was no hint of recognition, but it didn’t matter anymore. He knew who Marat was, and Marat must know who Tavi was now.
“You’re a Cursor. You work for the First Lord of Alera Imperia.”
“Not exactly. My family is sworn to House Lien. We have a contract with the Legion. My mother has worked for the Cursors for years.”
“Cursor…” Marat murmured. “Is it true that Cursors are always young? Did you really kill those men in the streets of Arach-Tinilith today?”
“I did. In Araris’s memory.”
Marat frowned slightly, considering that. “And your Uncle Rillanon…he’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Then you aren’t just a Cursor. You’re a Cursor’s apprentice. Is it true that you are only fifteen winters old?”
“Sixteen.”
Marat snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re too smart to be that young.”
“Well,” Tavi replied, “my father says that I’m smarter than most boys my age.”
“Your father?”
“My uncle, who was also my father’s mentor.”
Marat glanced at his sword and back at Tavi. “You don’t want to do anything foolish tonight. Stay inside where it’s safe. The city is full of people who’ll try to find reasons to hurt you if they can. Do you understand?”
“All right,” Tavi said, nodding.
Marat stared at him for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely strained. “If you need anything, please call on me.”
“Thank you,” Tavi said politely. “Good night, Marat.”
After Marat left, Tavi remained at the back door for nearly half an hour. It was well past the time when Tavi’s mother expected him home. She had already sent word ahead to ask his whereabouts, and she was furious when he told her that Marat had refused to tell him the truth of his whereabouts. He thought he saw a flicker of relief in her face before she turned back to their supper. He tried to eat with some enthusiasm but found that difficult.
He spent much of the meal trying to convince himself that Marat wouldn’t betray him after all; that Marat wasn’t going to leave him in the hands of his enemies—that there was no reason to fear that he’d been betrayed by the Cane, that Marat was just worried because he didn’t like to see a youth in danger.
And yet…what did it mean? Why was Marat so willing to help a boy he didn’t know? Why was Marat suddenly so interested in seeing Tavi safely home? And why had he brought up the name Rillanon, which Tavi knew meant nothing to the Cane?
Something about all this did not feel quite right.
Tavi finished his supper and went into his study. He sat down at his desk and opened his maps and charts and looked at them absently. His thoughts were far away. Something felt wrong to him—something important and vital.
It kept him from focusing on the task at hand. But his mind was full, too. He had so many questions to answer and things to think over. The more he considered it, the less certain he became of the answers he sought.
He had never really thought that he could do it. That the plan would succeed, that the people of the steadholts would join him and give him the support he needed. Yet that was what Marat was telling him: That he must do it or die. He wanted to believe that Marat meant what he said. He wanted to believe Marat believed that it was worth doing, too.
There was no choice. He couldn’t let anyone else do this job for him.
So Tavi decided. He would follow through with his plans and see how the future played out. If everything went wrong and Marat died as a result, then Marat was gone anyway, and his death would serve him right.
If it all went well, then Marat might survive and Tavi might live to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Either way, he was ready now.
With a quiet sigh, Tavi began to set down the tools that had accompanied him to the back door—the small wooden stool, the inkpot and brush, the small slate board upon which he took notes.
The End