“King's got 'em on alert.” The vendor glanced at the nearest guards and lowered his voice. “Had an incident not too long ago. Some weird magic shit went down near the palace.”
“What kinda weird magic?”
“Wasn't there myself, but sounds to me like it was necromancy. Folks say a buncha spirits came and wrecked shit.”
“Spirits? Were the Vakaras acting up? I've heard they can kill with just a snap of their fingers.”
This caught Taesia's attention like thread on a nail. It was well known throughout Vaega — as well as beyond its borders — that those who made up House Vakara, descended from the god of death, were the only ones who possessed the power of necromancy. It was also well known that once in a while, a stray spirit managed to wander from Nexus's overcrowded necropolis to cause trouble.
But the incident the two men were gossiping about had been different: a sudden influx of violent spirits converging close to the palace square, destroying buildings and harming those unfortunate enough to be in their path. People had been rightfully terrified — and confused about who to blame.
“No idea,” the vendor mumbled. “But it was nasty stuff. Heard a man got his arm ripped clean off. Whole city's gonna be tighter than a clenched asshole from now on.”
A tremor rolled across her body as Taesia turned back to the Gravespire. When the vendor beside her wasn't looking, she grabbed a glass of sarab and downed it in one go, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist.
Citizens blaming the Houses for their troubles wasn't anything new. But the thought of Risha getting caught up in it made her want to punch something.
The shadows twitched again. Impatience crackled at the base of her lungs, made her roll onto the balls of her feet as if poised on the edge of something reckless.
“Follow me,” a low voice whispered behind her.
She breathed a sigh of relief and waited a couple seconds before turning and following her brother through the market. Dante was dressed down today in a long, sleeveless tunic with a hood, the lean muscle of his dusky brown arms on display. A few people pretended not to stare as he stalked by. Not in recognition, but in appreciation of his features despite the hood's shadow. Or maybe they were drawn to the smooth, confident way he moved, the way Taesia never seemed to get quite right.
“Did you get the information you needed?” she whispered.
“I did. We should be—”
She nearly ran into his back when he suddenly stopped. He lifted a hand for her to stay put.
She soon saw why. A couple Greyhounds had descended on a confused vendor. They were inspecting jars from her stall, dropping what didn't interest them to the ground. The vendor flinched at the sound of breaking pottery.
Taesia cursed under her breath. Although the vendor had no horns, the bluish dark of her skin and the white tattoos on her forehead marked her as a Noctan. Perhaps a mixed-race offspring from one of the refugees. Mixed blood would explain how she could stand to be in this heat in the middle of the day; most of the night-dwellers from Noctus couldn't bear it, often getting sunsick if forced to endure it for too long.
“Please, I have no contraband,” the vendor said softly. They were beginning to draw spectators eagerly searching for a distraction from the heat. “These were all fairly traded within Vaega.”
“We're not looking for foreign goods,” one of the guards said.
His partner waved a small pot in his direction. The guard took it, sniffed, and scowled.
“Sulfur.” The single word was leveled at the vendor like an arrow. “A Conjuration ingredient.”
Taesia sucked in a breath. While many were eager to call the incident last week necromancy, the Vakaras had never been shy to demonstrate their magic, and their methods didn't line up with the attack. For in the ravaged spot where the spirits had congregated, something had been left behind: a cleverly drawn circle containing a seven-pointed star and a ring of strange glyphs.
Conjuration. An occult practice that hadn't been seen in decades.
The vendor shook. “I–I didn't know! I swear, I—”
The Greyhounds didn't waste time listening to her stammer. They shackled her wrists as excited murmurs ran through the small crowd they'd gathered.
“Wouldn't have bought from her anyway,” someone muttered. “Anything the Noctans touch is tainted.”
“Did they say Conjuration? Isn't that demon—?”
“Shh! The Greyhounds won't hesitate to haul you off, too.”
“She should have stayed in the Noctus Quarter.”
Taesia curled her hand into a fist. Dante grabbed her as she took a step forward.
“Don't,” he said. Not a warning, but an order.
“We're responsible for the refugees.”
“They're cracking down on Conjuration materials,” Dante whispered. “If you interfere, think about how it'll reflect on the House.”
She didn't give two shits about that. “You're saying you're all right with this?”
“Of course I'm not. But we can't do anything about it right now.”
Taesia watched the guards haul away the vendor, who was trying and failing to stifle her terrified tears. Dante didn't let Taesia go until the tension left her body. When he did, she spun to face him. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You said it yourself: We can't have anything negatively impacting the House.” She dropped her voice to a murmur. “Especially considering what the Vakaras are going through. Even if you manage to find what you need, what are you going to do with it?”
“Not summon a horde of spirits, if that's what you're concerned about.”
It wasn't — not really — but there was so much about Conjuration they didn't understand, since all the old texts had been destroyed.
“You want to put a stop to these scenes, right?” Dante nodded in the direction of the vendor's abandoned stall. “To not have to worry about House politics when it comes to issues like defending the people?”
She swallowed, certain her hunger for that very thing was plain on her face. “What does that have to do with Conjuration?”
“Indulge me a little longer, and you'll see.” He paused, then leaned forward and sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”
“Don't worry about it.”
They walked past the beehive hum of the crowd and continued on to the edge of the market, where four children were playing with a couple of dogs. A gangly man was slumped over a counter. He watched the children with an air of someone who probably should be worried about their safety but couldn't muster up the energy.
“I don't want to be Thana,” one of the children was complaining in a nasal voice. “Thana's scary. I want to be Deia!”
“I'm Deia,” said another child, a tall girl with dirt smudged across her face. “I'm always Deia.”
“Just because you have weak earth magic doesn't mean you can be Deia every time,” mumbled a boy with Mariian black skin. Judging by the crown made of twigs and sticks resting on the tight coils of his hair, he was supposed to play the part of Nyx, god of night and shadow.
“It's not weak!” With a flick of her finger, she flung a pebble at his forehead, making him cry out.
“You can be Phos instead,” said the last child, likely the Mariian boy's brother. He handed the girl who didn't want to be Thana his toy wings made of fluttering leaves, which made her brighten. “And I'll be Thana. I'll put her in a cage of bones.”
Taesia smiled wryly. It was common for children to play at being gods; she herself had done it with her siblings when they were younger. That was before they'd understood only one god demanded their family's piety.
Dante rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter, making the gangly man start. “Heard you have good prices,” Dante said, his cautious inflection almost making it a question.