Chapter 6
Javed had to wait until sundown to sneak out of the Cove. As the population had grown—along with his status among the faithful—it had become increasingly difficult for him to escape notice long enough to report back to his real master.
It was a long hike up the mountain to where he had hidden his tools. To keep the cache anywhere closer to his quarters would have risked discovery. Casteless had little to no concept of privacy and a tendency toward petty thievery. If his stash of poisons and magic had been discovered, it would raise questions that he could not afford to answer.
Besides, he didn’t mind the walk. It gave him time to think.
Keeper Javed was known among the faithful as a merchant who had worshipped the Forgotten in secret, until he had been inspired to search out the rebellion and ended up saving a group of faithful from an evil wizard. Through his diligence and never-ending efforts he had become the right hand of Keta, the Keeper of Names, and been the second man appointed to the newly established priesthood of the Forgotten. In areas Keta lacked, Javed excelled. His gift for organization had enabled the Cove to thrive. His knowledge of farming and trade had helped bring about a bounteous harvest and secured vital supplies. Keeper Javed had become a beloved leader of the faithful, and an important member of the prophet’s war council.
It was truly his finest performance yet.
Inquisition Witch Hunter, sixteen-year senior, Javed Zarger was known among his peers as one of the finest spies and assassins in all of Lok, but since he had very few peers, his reputation was barely known at all. He belonged to the most secretive branch of the Capitol’s most dangerous order. Grand Inquisitor Omand had handpicked him for this assignment, and Javed knew that he had performed beyond expectations. Once the rebellion was no longer useful for Omand’s schemes, then Javed would return to the Capitol for his reward…Not that he was in it for the status or riches, though such luxuries were nice.
Life required great challenge, or what was the point?
Ah, and what a challenge this assignment had been! The Grand Inquisitor had wanted him to ingratiate himself with the leadership of the rebellion, in order to keep an eye on Ashok Vadal, to gently guide him in whatever direction best suited Omand’s goals, and to assassinate him should Ashok stray too far from Omand’s script. Omand needed Ashok to be a menace sufficient to make the judges nervous enough to become pliable. Only the Black Heart had gone off and gotten himself killed in a duel, which was quite the setback.
Rather than give up, as many lesser witch hunters would have, Javed had continued to work within the rebellion. The Grand Inquisitor had tasked him with providing a menace, so Javed would provide him one. So he had continued to help refine the rebels into a weapon that threatened to distress the Capitol and, more importantly, promoted the religious fanatics’ idea that Ashok would return to them. After all, the man did not need to actually exist for his legend to strike fear into the hearts of the great houses or rile their casteless toward even greater acts of violent defiance. When the bloody work was through, the judges would be replaced by a government of Omand’s construction…a government that would owe Javed a great many favors.
Once the rebellion was no longer of use, it would be destroyed, and every fanatic put to the sword. Javed had no personal animosity toward these people. On the contrary, you couldn’t work this hard to help someone make something of themselves and not take some measure of pride in their achievements. It was a simple fact their survival was predicated on their usefulness to the Grand Inquisitor’s plots, and after the coup, order would need to be restored. They would have to die.
Strangely enough that thought made him…sad? Javed shook his head and cursed himself for the momentary weakness. A spy played a part, and he needed to live it so convincingly that the lie and the truth became indistinguishable. At sunrise he had pronounced blessings on newborn children in the name of the rebels’ false god, and at sundown he was corresponding with the architect of their doom. He had worked so hard to help these people thrive that it was hard not to feel pity for what would inevitably happen to them.
For example, Keta the Butcher was a fanatic, through and through, and after swallowing the mad ramblings of Ratul, he had spread that illegal nonsense to other desperate fools ever since. Despite all that, Javed had developed a fondness for Keta. Though as fraught with pettiness, jealousy, and doubt as anyone who came from such low birth, Keta’s sense of purpose enabled him to overcome his personal weaknesses. He was far too intelligent to be a mere casteless, as non-people were rarely bright, so Javed suspected Keta had been secretly fathered by a lustful man of a higher caste who’d had his way with a casteless woman, despite what Keta’s precious genealogy declared. It wasn’t often that Inquisitors were able to associate with someone so earnest and straightforward in their beliefs, and Keta truly was a decent sort, with grand dreams of creating a future for his people.
They were stupid, impossible dreams, but honest dreams nonetheless. There was a certain dignity to that.
Witch hunters had few friendships, Javed fewer than most. So when the order arrived for him to murder Keta, he would be sure to do it as quickly and painlessly as possible. The Keeper of Names deserved that much.
His cache was undisturbed. The forest was quiet. Certain that he hadn’t been followed, Javed dug up the demon bones. These were the last of what had been issued to him by the Inquisition at the beginning of his mission, but he would have no problem replacing them, since the rebellion had in its possession a fantastic amount of magic looted from the House of Assassins. However, these bits were from the same demon prisoner beneath the dome, which made the communication spell far easier to create. None of them were humming with magic so no messages had been sent to him since the last time he had checked. He clenched one bone in his fist, concentrated on the required magical pattern, and gave his report.
“My cover remains secure. I have become the indispensable priest. The rebels are dispatching small groups to every great house to arm and train casteless. The main army is being held back for an undecided mission, though the Sons grow restless for a fight. Morale is high despite Ashok missing. They actually believe he’s coming back. I’ve yet to hear the so-called Voice manifest, though many here truly believe they have. I’m still convinced it’s some manner of trick and Thera is a charlatan. She would’ve made a fine witch hunter, as she’s got her inner circle utterly convinced. She’s asked me how best to sow dissension between the worker caste and the Law. Advise how to proceed.”
Javed made sure the message was embedded into the bone, then sent it on its way. Now he had to wait for a response, which was unfortunate, because there was a great deal of work that needed to be done back at the Cove. There were work crews to organize, new refugees to house, and—
“Hello, Keeper Javed.”
Surprised, he turned to see two youths standing on the ridge just above him. Dirty and barefoot, both had bows, and one of them was holding a dead rabbit by the ears. They’d not made a sound as they had approached, but then he recognized them as some of the swamp folk. They had grown up in an unforgiving wilderness hiding from demons and wizards—of course they were good at moving quietly in the woods.
Saltwater. What had they overheard? Javed smiled as he palmed the demon bone and tried not to look guilty.
“Hello, freemen. What are you doing on this slope? There’s not supposed to be any hunting parties on this side today.” He knew because he was the one who made the assignments, and he never posted anyone this direction on a day when he needed to access his secret cache.
“We were sent to the south but had no luck. Father always says hunters have got to follow the animals, not a schedule.” The younger one—it took Javed a moment to remember his name was Rawal, and that he was one of Chief Toramana’s many sons—held up his meager catch. “See?”
“Well done, hunters.”
Unfortunately, the older of the two—his name was Parth—was too curious for his own good. “Who were you talking to?”
“I was saying a prayer to the Forgotten.” Javed hoped to solve this dilemma the easy way. Rawal could not have been more than thirteen, Parth was maybe fourteen or fifteen, both of them still too small to join the Sons of the Black Sword. Killing them would complicate things, so Javed spread his hands apologetically. “Sometimes the Cove is too loud, and I go into the woods for some peace.”
“Father says you are a very busy man, but we’re lucky to have you,” Rawal said. “Come on, Parth. We should leave him to his prayers.”
Listen to your little friend, Javed thought. For your own good, walk away.
Except Parth pointed at the dug-up cache and sealed their fate. “Why do you bury demon bones?”
A lie would do him no good. The swamp people knew dead demon when they saw it. No matter how he explained it away, all it would take was for them to mention it to one of the more suspicious Sons, and it would bring scrutiny he could not bear.
“Where’s the rest of your hunting party?”
Enough of his true nature must have shown through in that moment, because Parth took a nervous step back, fingers tightening around his bow. “Why?”
Except poor oblivious Rawal answered, “It’s just us. The rest of them are wasting their time on the other slope.”
Javed still held the bone in his hand, and it had enough magic left in it to fuel a transformation. He formed the pattern in his mind, drew upon the demonic energy, and willed his body into a new form.
The tiger leapt.