Chapter Fifteen
Staging Area 3
Kolakolvia
Natalya Baston
Bones never lie.
It was a simple truth. A basic truth. Those were the best kind. Natalya needed simplicity in her life, especially right now. Somehow everything had grown far too complicated. And it had all started in a bar, after a mission.
And here she sat, in a different bar, after a different mission.
History repeating itself.
This time, though, she was in a darkened corner in the back, at a small table by herself. And she wasn’t in the teeming anthill that was Cobetsnya, but rather one of the many wild settlements that grew like weeds along the front, just miles from the actual fighting, profiteering off the huge number of soldiers stationed nearby. Even then, this building was old and solidly built enough it could have been in the city. What did it say about a war when the staging grounds had been around for so long that the structures there had become this permanent?
Such was the case with this . . . establishment.
“Establishment” was a very Kristoph word. Natalya hated she had even had that sort of word in her head now. It was a watering hole for soldiers and whores, not a fancy restaurant with golden spoons and fancy ducks. But she pushed thoughts of the nefarious secret policeman she was waiting around for from her head and went back to her divinations.
Natalya shook the bag and dumped the bones on the table. Divining was a Rolmani tradition. The medium rarely mattered. Tea leaves, cards, blood spatter, and yes, bones. Sometimes she wondered if her rifle and the bullets she shot from it weren’t just another kind medium. The Tsarist Communion considered divination a sin, but the Rolmani had as little respect for the state church as they did the state that owned it.
The older the bones, the clearer the messages. To the outside eye, her divination bones would likely look like old twigs. Generations of dirty fingers had stained them. That same observer might also think these had come from a bird, but Natalya’s grandmother had told her they were taken from the body of a nymph, which made them even more powerful.
Bones never lie, but neither did they always make sense. She scooped them up, put them back in their leather pouch, shook the bag, then carefully dumped them out again.
For the fifth time in a row, the bones were arrayed in the same pattern. They told of death. That was common enough in a warzone. Yet they also told of being surrounded by monsters, and a journey through a strange land. It made no sense. Perhaps the bones were being metaphorical. Kolakolvia—and the front in particular—was filled with monsters of a sort. Sister’s hell, many people considered her and her people to be monsters.
But that didn’t feel right either. Before her parents had been imprisoned, Natalya’s mother had taught her the traditional techniques of divination. The first lesson was to never go into the process looking for validation. One couldn’t out-wish the will of the gods. Next, when interpreting the medium, don’t think too hard. Her mother used to say, let it interpret itself, through you.
In the beginning, she hadn’t really believed in being able to tell the future. Her people liked to dress up as fake magicians in colorful robes and sashes, to perform tricks and tell fortunes in order to take the money of the gullible on street corners and town squares across many nations. But the magic they saved for themselves was the real thing. Natalya had learned to trust the mediums, and the messages they had for her. After all, these very bones had divined the deaths of her brothers and sisters, her parents being taken away, and even the first time she’d have to kill a man. All while she was very young.
If the bones told of death and monsters, then those things were coming. And fairly soon.
She would be prepared. When she’d last been in Cobetsnya to report, she’d heard Davi had gone to the staging area. She’d seek him out, stock up on good ammunition, and give him that Almacian needle gun she’d taken from the boy—soldier—she’d killed.
As she reached for the bones again, her knee hit the table, knocking over her empty cup and jostling the small pile of bones. She swore, and rubbed her knee, but then paused as she realized the bones were now in a new pattern.
It was the sign of the Sister of Nature. She wasn’t one of the Rolmani gods. The Rolmani had brought their gods with them. The Sisters had already been here long ago when Natalya’s people had wandered through the mists from the old lands. The Rolmani didn’t worship the sisters, but they didn’t disrespect them either—disrespecting other gods was a Kolakolvian trait. The Sisters had been here first. Mankind were the newcomers. A Rolmani would never anger one of the Sisters on purpose.
Below the sign of the Sister, the bones made the sign of the raven. And . . . and it was as if the bones were talking to her directly now. Telling her the raven would need her and she would need the raven. It had been a long time since she’d felt a divination this strongly, like claws scratching and gouging the inside of her head. Natalya reached out and covered the bones with her hand. The pressure they had seemingly been exerting on her faded.
It was time for another drink. Or ten.
She put the bones back in their pouch and put the pouch away. Then made her way over to the bar. “Another of . . . whatever it was you gave me last time. Only more of it.” She put a coin on the bar, took the cup, and turned to go back to her table . . . only to bump into a huge man, whose arm, shoulder, and chest were completely covered in bandages. Her drink spilled all over him—a complete waste of her coin.
“Damn it.”
“Oh.” The man looked down at himself, then back at her. He was probably about her age, and remarkably handsome, in that square-jawed, strong-featured, Kolak way. “I’m sorry. My apologies. I’ll replace the drink. Well, he will.” He pointed at another table, at another giant of a man who had a tattoo of a ghoul crawling up his neck. They both had burn scars and shaved heads.
Members of the Wall, then. No use in getting too bothered. The lunatics who drove the Chancellor’s abominable machines were generally a respectful lot. Unlike most Kolakolvian soldiers they rarely caused trouble in places like this. She figured it was because they had absolutely nothing to prove.
Natalya nodded and pointed to her table in the back corner. “I’ll be over there.”
She returned to her seat, putting the spilled drink behind her. The bandaged man was talking quietly to the one with the ghoul tattoo, pointing in Natalya’s direction. The younger injured one looked very tired, and it was obvious he didn’t want to be here.
The door to the bar opened again, and yet another soldier of the Wall entered. They were one of the few units who could get away with a complete disdain for uniform regulations without getting whipped by the commissars, so his shirt hung open, revealing that his chest was covered by a tattoo of a snarling wolf. Natalya thought he looked familiar. The man started making his way across the bar toward the other two, but on his way he spotted Natalya, cocked his head to the side in consideration, then nodded at her. He’d recognized her too. He held up a hand to his comrades and diverted to her table.
“It is good to see you again, Rolmani,” he said, arms clasped behind his back. “You appear to be in good health.”
“Thank you . . . ” He wasn’t wearing any rank, but he was also probably the oldest man in the room, so she added, “Sir.”
“Apologies. I am Kapitan Maxim Spartok, of the Wall. Would you care to join the three of us? I feel poorly for how you were treated in our last encounter.”
Last encounter? Then it hit her. “You were in the bar in Cobetsnya. With that soldier I had to club.”
“To be clear, I wasn’t with him. We tend not to associate much with the infantry. When we do, it usually ends in violence. I hope that boy learned his lesson.”
“Later that night he ambushed me. His neck got snapped.”
Spartok’s eyes moved over her form—not in a leering manner, but in appraisal. Then he smiled. Oddly enough, it reminded Natalya of her father. “My apologies. It sounds like I should have stuck around longer to see if you needed help.”
“It worked out.”
“Allow me to pay for the privilege of that story with drinks.”
Natalya smiled back at the Kapitan. “As long as you are paying.”
Spartok bowed slightly and gestured to the table his men were occupying. He walked ahead of her and pulled out a chair, waving for her to sit. Spartok then held up two fingers to the bartender, who promptly brought over two bottles of vodka—it looked to be of better quality than what she had been drinking before—and three glasses for the others.
“The good stuff, Kapitan?” Ghoul Tattoo lifted up one of the bottles as he read the label.
“For celebration,” Spartok said.
“So that is why you invited the pretty lady over!”
“See that special rifle? The pretty lady has probably amassed a higher body count than you have, Chankov.”
“In that case . . . ” Ghoul Tattoo quickly filled the glasses—Natalya passed hers over to join in—then returned them. He held up his drink in the direction of the bandaged man. “To Glazkov! One day on the Wall, and he earns a trip to The Needle! And to the Rolmani sharpshooter, whose name I don’t know, but whose rifle has likely saved my sorry ass on more than one occasion!”
As they clinked their glasses together, Natalya said, “Scout Specialist Natalya Baston. Formerly of the 17th Sniper Division.”
Spartok pointed to each of the men in turn. “The bandaged one who seems afraid of his drink is Junior Strelet Illarion Glazkov. The ghoul is First Sotnik Arnost Chankov. Though I suppose that isn’t quite right. It is now First Strelet Glazkov and Second Sotnik Chankov. Congratulations on your promotions.”
Chankov slapped Glazkov on his wrapped shoulder, producing a wince from the latter. “Told you.”
“That’s why I asked you to meet me here, but don’t let it go to your heads. Compared to the rest of the army, rank isn’t as meaningful inside the Wall. Even I still use a shovel just like everyone else.” Spartok then turned to Natalya. “Now, Specialist Baston, what do you mean by formerly of the 17th? I hope this has nothing to do with that unpleasantness in Cobetsnya.”
“In a way, yes. But mostly, no.”
“Well I could tell you were still a sniper. They wouldn’t have let you keep that fancy rifle otherwise.” Spartok gestured at the long leather case that never left her side.
“Specialist?” Glaskov asked. “What...what rank is that?”
“Soldiers like me don’t exist in the regular military structure,” Natalya said. “Us outsiders don’t get the same treatment.”
“You do from us,” Spartok said. Natalya nodded slightly in acknowledgement.
“So . . . what happened in Cobetsnya?” Glazkov asked. Natalya almost laughed at how hesitant he was to speak. This Glazkov seemed so incredibly green. He must be really new. What had Ghoul Tattoo—Chankov—said? One day on the Wall, and he earns a trip to The Needle! Surely this wasn’t Glazkov’s first day in the war.
“There isn’t really that much to say,” Natalya said. She downed her cup, then refilled it immediately. The Wall was buying. Mission accomplished. “I was drinking. Some soldier wouldn’t leave me in peace. That’s really all there was to it.”
“Aside from her knocking the fool unconscious with her rifle,” Spartok said. Chankov laughed, and Glazkov cracked a small smile. “And apparently his neck being snapped at a later point in time.” At that comment, both the other men’s expressions changed from humor to appreciation.
“I didn’t do the neck snapping. He followed me from the bar and assaulted me. Tried to take out his frustration on me.”
Spartok looked sickened by that. “I thought he’d learned his lesson. I should have guessed he wouldn’t have taken the insult lightly. I should have offered to walk you back to your quarters. Please accept my apology, Ms. Baston.”
Spartok was certainly more the gentleman than he appeared. “I would have told you to mind your own business anyway.” She took another drink, then refilled the cup again. Glazkov hadn’t taken but a sip from his. It was like he was suspicious of it. “It was my own fault. Cities make me dumb and slow. Anywhere else I would’ve seen him coming from a mile away. He sucker-punched me, but it turned out somebody else from the bar had followed me too.”
Spartok went completely still. His eyes darted around the room, then he leaned in and said in a quiet voice, “You mean . . . him.”
“Him.” Natalya agreed. “Or at least, the thing that bodyguards him. It did the neck breaking.”
“I’m confused,” Chankov said, and Glazkov nodded his agreement.
“Section 7,” Natalya explained. “A man by the name of Kristoph Vals.”
“Oh. I know him,” Glazkov said.
“He was the Chancellor’s witness for the final test of our last batch of recruits. He quite liked you, Glazkov.”
“He did?” Glazkov seemed pleased.
“That’s not a good thing,” both Natalya and Spartok said at the same time.
Natalya chuckled. It sounded odd to her own ears. These men were refreshing. It was good to speak to someone as equals. Not like Vals, who spoke to her like she was a curiosity. And there were very few of her people at the front to talk to. “Vals decided I work for him now, so I got transferred.”
“A secret mission?” Chankov asked.
Natalya snorted and drained her glass. Chankov looked disappointed she wouldn’t elaborate.
“Trust me, boys. The last thing you want to do is get picked by that bunch for anything special.”
“Best watch your tongue, Kapitan. I do work for Vals. Though hopefully not permanently.”
“Oh come now,” Spartok said as he refilled her glass. “Everyone knows Rolmani don’t snitch.”
Not everything the Kolakolvians said about her people was false after all. “True. But Vals and I have a deal in place.”
“We all serve the Tsar. Why would you need a deal?” Glazkov asked.
She stared at him, trying to decide if Glazkov was stupid, or just uninformed. He was rather handsome, so probably stupid. That was an unfortunate but common combination. “He’s your Tsar. Not mine. My parents, like many Rolmani, are political prisoners. I work, they eat. I don’t, they starve. I make Kristoph happy, maybe they get released.”
“I didn’t realize.” Glazkov didn’t seem to know what to say to that. So he took a drink. The embarrassed look in his eyes told her that he wasn’t stupid after all, he’d simply not known how things really were. It was a big empire after all.
“I hope, for your sake, the deal is fulfilled,” Spartok said. “Section 7 are not known for keeping their promises.”
Now that really was disloyal talk. The table was quiet for a long moment as they each drank. The rest of them were making quick work of the bottles, but Glazkov was only on his second glass, which was still completely full.
“Why is the wounded one afraid of the alcohol?”
Both Spartok and Chankov laughed, banishing the dour mood that had overcome the table. Her comment really seemed to amuse Chankov. “There’s a ritual recruits of the Wall go through. You’ve seen the giant hill in the burned-out section of Treluvia?”
Natalya nodded. It was near the shooting range.
“Well, the night before we make new recruits climb the hill and repel an enemy force—led by me—the Kapitan likes to get them so drunk they can barely see. It’s a rite of passage. Then we beat them like a rug.”
“I like this rite of passage. The sniper regiment is aggressive. They’d love that. But no punching, because we couldn’t risk breaking a precious trigger finger.”
They all laughed together, except Glazkov, who just sat there, shaking his head. He still wouldn’t drink any more than he already had. Natalya reached over and plucked the glass from his hands and downed it in one swallow.
“How are you still awake?” Glazkov asked her in disbelief.
“Now to be fair,” Spartok said, “Glazkov wasn’t just beaten senseless. He gave better than he got. Chankov’s nose had to be pulled off his cheek. Even the Kommandant was impressed.”
“He gave me a book,” Glazkov said.
“The Kommandant? Tyrankov himself? Well. That’s . . . actually impressive.” Natalya had no love for the empire, but even outsiders and enemies had to give grudging respect to that man. One of the reasons big but poor Kolakolvia hadn’t been defeated by just as big, but far wealthier, Almacia was his strategic genius. “A personal gift from the Kommandant, and a promotion? It seems you are going places, Glazkov.”
“Which is why we are taking him to The Needle,” Chankov said. “In all seriousness, Glazkov, you may want to drink more. Your first trip to The Needle won’t be very pleasant.”
“What is The Needle?” Natalya asked.
Spartok seemed surprised she didn’t know. “We don’t get useless medals like the infantry. The Wall have our deeds written on their skin. There is an old Rolmani who interprets our burns and then makes the record permanent.”
“Ah, your tattoos.”
“You’re taking me to be tattooed?”
They ignored Glazkov.
“And it’s an old Rolmani?”
Spartok nodded. “I thought maybe you’d have heard of her.”
She hadn’t, but now she was curious. Bones, cards, and blood were divinations she understood, but burns were a new method to her. “Interesting.”
“I’m unclear how her magic works. She looks at our scars, interprets our deeds and our fates in them, then inks them into some manner of symbol. It is a tradition on the Wall now. Wherever most of us are stationed, The Needle is never that far away.”
“My burns are still fresh,” Glazkov said. “They aren’t scars yet.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Chankov said.
“If it is not private, I’d like to see this ritual.” If this was in fact some manner of divination, she’d like to learn more.
“Well, you’re Rolmani too, so I don’t think she’ll mind. Come on then.”
“You ready for your first encounter with The Needle, Glazkov?” Chankov stood, downed his drink and pointed at the last partial bottle. “Seriously. You’re going to wish you’d drunk more.”
Glazkov sighed and grabbed the bottle. He didn’t bother pouring it into a cup, just lifted the whole thing to his mouth and didn’t stop swallowing until it was gone.
The staging area along the front always seemed a strange place to Natalya. She had been many times, because the various sniper regiments were usually based here when they weren’t on other assignments. So it wasn’t lack of familiarity. The strangeness was more because of how it contrasted to Cobetsnya.
While the important neighborhoods with all the government buildings were maintained, most of the Kolakolvian capital was falling apart. The walls were never fixed unless they had propaganda painted on them. Images of the Tsar were never allowed to appear in disrepair. There was a bureaucracy for everything, all of them more interested in their own continued existence than taking care of whatever thing it was they were supposed to be in charge of. Cobetsnya was decaying.
Here, in a place that didn’t even officially exist, most of the buildings were well maintained. The main roads had been upgraded with cobblestone that was meticulously fixed whenever there was even the slightest problem. There were the usual bars and brothels, but they tended to be a higher quality and busier than those in the capital. Shops were plentiful and prosperous, even if somewhat overpriced and lacking in general goods. Ration lines still existed, but not to the extent of elsewhere in the country.
This place had sprung into existence because when the soldiers got paid, they needed someplace to spend it. From dentists to prostitutes, everyone here made their living off the war in some way or another. It took a great deal of industry to feed a conflict this big that had lasted this long. Yet even the air here was cleaner than Cobetsnya, with all its many factories belching coal smoke. People here walked around with smiles on their faces, their heads held high, which was very unlike the so-called greatest city in the empire. Refugees from the far reaches of the Tsar’s conquests rarely went to Cobetsnya anymore. They came here. To the ever-expanding city that didn’t even have a name.
No one vocalized these details, of course. To speak them was to invoke their undoing. No one wanted that. The bureaucracies didn’t live here, but they still had eyes, and nothing drew their attention quite as much as someone daring to celebrate their absence.
Their path took Natalya and the three men from the Wall deeper and deeper into the staging grounds. They turned a corner and nearly ran over a small man, who was forced to throw himself to the side.
“Davi?” Natalya said.
Chankov reached down and lifted the diminutive gunsmith to his feet, brushing him off.
“I heard you were around.” He slapped Chankov’s hands away. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Not the first time. Won’t be the last. I was looking for you, Natalya.”
“I am Kapitan Maxim Spartok. Who might you be?”
“This is Davi,” Natalya said. “Master gunsmith and provisioner to the majority of the snipers. I have a needle gun for you, Davi. I’ll bring it by later. Where do they have you stationed?”
“Some pit closer to the front. But I have to attend engineering meetings on the opposite side of the camp with a bunch of politicians who wouldn’t know how to fix a gun if their life depended on it. Made friends with the Wall, eh? Good on you. Much better company than Section 7.”
“Indeed,” Spartok said. “You say your name is Davi? Would you be Davi Pechkin?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I have seen your work. It is of the highest standard in Kolakolvia. You’re the man who refined the repeating feed mechanism on our Objects’ cannon.”
“That’s me. Now just imagine what I could do with actual support and a real budget, Kapitan.”
“I often have,” Spartok smiled. He seemed genuinely pleased to have met Davi. “That gun has served me well. I owe you a drink. But first, duty calls. If you will excuse us, Master Gunsmith, we have an appointment with The Needle.”
Davi apparently knew who that was, because he gestured at Glazkov. “First time getting the fortune-teller’s ink? Well, I hope he’s got a high tolerance for pain. I was bunked next to her shack on a previous rotation. Too noisy. The constant shrieking was an inconvenience. Have fun, boy.” He pointed at Natalya. “Bring me that Almacian rifle when you get a moment. I want to see what I can learn from it. I’ll be at Armory 10.”
Davi walked off without saying goodbye, but he had always been a curmudgeon that way. Glazkov looked pale. Chankov pulled him along, chuckling to himself.
The Needle’s establishment was as nondescript as possible, nothing more than a wooden shack on a muddy street. If Davi hadn’t been exaggerating, then the occasional screaming would be the only thing to give the place away. The home itself made sense if the woman was actually Rolmani as she claimed. Kolakolvians always assumed Rolmani were colorful, boisterous, or extravagant. Perhaps once, but now the opposite was true. Her people wanted nothing more than to be left alone. To remain private and follow their own, superior laws.
That desire to make their own way was why both the Kolakolvian and Almacian governments had all but exterminated the Rolmani. It wasn’t until the Tsar realized how valuable some of them could be that they started imprisoning the troublesome rather than killing them all. So now they kept a low profile when they could.
The Kapitan knocked on the door, then politely waited for a response from within. Was Spartok always as well behaved as he had been this entire night? Did he reserve his fury for the battlefield? Her own father had been much the same. Slow to anger. Kind, until pushed. He’d taught her to shoot.
He had been in jail so long she had a hard time remembering his face.
“Coming,” came the voice from within. An old woman.
The door opened. Inside, a few candles provided illumination. The shack was ordinary. Clean. Ordered. There was a handful of totems to various Rolmani gods on the walls, but nothing the Kolakolvians would recognize. Among them was a wooden carving of a predatory cat which represented her patron, the Goddess of the Hunt. To Natalya it felt right. It felt like home. She quickly turned away and pretended to study the ground so they couldn’t see the sudden, unexpected tears filling her eyes.
“So the Wall returns to my home.”
When Natalya had composed herself, she turned back around and found that the woman who had spoken was old, but not ancient. Her hair completely white, her face wrinkled, yet she still contained a quality of wild beauty. Natalya could see the wild Rolmani in the other woman’s eyes.
“Ah. And you brought another wanderer with you.”
“Ma’am,” Spartok said. “This is Natalya Baston. She expressed a desire to meet you. Forgive us if it was not appropriate.”
“No, Kapitan, it’s a treat. I rarely see any of my people in this place. If she has a good heart, she can come in.” The Needle switched to the Rolmani tongue and asked her, “Do you have a good heart, huntress?”
The Needle either truly had the gift of divination, or the sniper rifle had given away the nature of her blessing. Natalya answered in Rolmani. “I hide my heart where their pig dog Tsar can’t see it. Do you con these men out of their coin, or do you really have the sight?”
“The men in the iron suits are true servants of war. For them, I give nothing but the gods’ honest truth.”
“I like the Wall. They have honor. But spit on the rest.”
“May the Tsar be devoured by corpse eaters.” Both women laughed, then the old woman went back to Kolakolvian. “Welcome, all of you. Come in.”
“What’d she say?” Chankov whispered to Natalya as they entered.
“Everlasting glory to Kolakolvia, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
The old woman studied the men from the Wall, her eyes settling on Glazkov. “It doesn’t take magic to see you’re my next victim. Have a seat there.” She pointed at a big chair in the center of the room.
Glazkov sat down, a look of resignation on his face. Chankov and the Kapitan began stripping the bandages from his left side, revealing a terrible-looking burn. Natalya had seen bad burns before, and worse, but this was still grotesque. It covered the majority of Glazkov’s left arm, shoulder, and chest. She could almost see a pattern in the burn. Almost.
The old Rolmani stared at the wound for a long time, then nodded. “Yes. This is worth my time. I’ll get the salve.” She rummaged through a nearby chest, and returned with an old, glass jar in her hands. In the dim light it was hard to tell the contents, but when the candlelight hit it right, it briefly glowed with milky iridescence.
The Needle unscrewed the lid, dipped her hand in, and pulled out a handful of the paste. It was thick, almost solid, and gave off a smell like sulfur mixed with roses. The cloying odor permeated the small room.
“Did they tell you the inking was going to be painful?” When Glazkov nodded, she continued, “Good. That’s mostly true. Gentlemen, please hold him still. You see, Illarion, it isn’t the needle that hurts. Most men will have passed out before then. The pain comes from the process of speeding up the scarification.”
“How do you know my name?” Glazkov asked. Natalya wondered the same thing. Spartok hadn’t introduced him when they walked in. What was truly odd, however, was that Glazkov didn’t seemed that surprised.
“The gods speak to us in different ways. Your Rolmani friend . . . ” The Needle paused and seemed to breathe in and taste the air. “ . . . Natalya. Yes. They told me her name as well. She knows what I mean. But you don’t need to fret. This will hurt like nothing you’ve ever imagined, but you won’t die. Hold him steady, Kapitan. Now Illarion, please don’t make it difficult on your friends. Many try and prove their virility here. They try and endure without making a sound.”
“Does that ever work?” Glazkov asked.
She pressed the hand filled with paste against his shoulder. Glazkov bit off a scream and clenched his jaw. She continued moving the paste around until a wide swath of burned skin was covered. The other two exceedingly strong men strained, ready to hold him down, even though Glazkov was obviously making an effort to stay as still as possible. The smell of burnt flesh weaved its way through the scent of sulfur and roses. Natalya tried not to gag.
The Needle pulled her hand away, scooped another handful of the paste, and pressed it to his left arm on the bicep. This time Glazkov did roar in agony. “That’s good. No one remains silent forever. Was worried I was losing my touch.” She began cackling to herself through the process.
Except the longer the torture continued, the calmer Glazkov seemed to become. He was covered in sweat but seemed far more relaxed. He would bellow a curse whenever the paste was rubbed for the first time on an untouched burn, but he refused to thrash against the restraining hands of his comrades.
Finally, the old woman stood back and nodded in satisfaction.
“We’ll let you rest a moment, until the shock sets in.”
Spartok and Chankov let go of him. Glazkov slumped in the chair. He tried to raise his injured arm to look at it, but seemingly couldn’t.
“Don’t fight it. It’s going to be nearly immobile for the rest of the night. Makes my work easier. You did well. Others have done better—the Kapitan here for instance—but you did very well. As I recall, your other companion here cried like a little baby.”
Chankov laughed. “Indeed I did. It was worth it, though.” He reached up and touched the image of the ghoul crawling up his neck. “You’ve got to admit that looks really tough. No one else has anything similar. Glazkov’s is going to be impressive, just from how much of him got burned. Do you have an image in mind already?”
The old woman cocked her head to the side, then to the other. Her gaze looked through the paste covering Glazkov’s chest rather than at it. A sly smile played on her lips, and she glanced at Natalya. “Oh I think I do. Can you see it too, child?” She beckoned her closer.
Natalya walked to the old Rolmani’s side and tried to see past the muck and let the gods’ wisdom wash over her. She could almost see—not with her eyes, but in her mind—swirling images beneath the smear of toxic paste and blood. It was as if Glazkov’s possible futures were fighting to see who would take the spot. She tried to concentrate harder, force it all into focus.
The swirling images suddenly vanished. She’d pushed too hard.
“You’re still learning,” The Needle said. “You can’t make the gods tell you anything. Your mother had the same problems.”
Natalya turned to the woman, suspicious. “You knew her?”
“I taught her for a time, though she dealt mainly in bones and stars. I can tell you have a spark for this as well. In calmer times I would help you refine your skills. You should find the rest of this process . . . interesting.” The Needle began cackling again.
Natalya barely heard that last bit, because she was busy wracking her memories for the name of her mother’s mentor. “Katia. You’re Katia Goya.”
“No one uses that name anymore.” She pointed a stern finger at the soldiers from the Wall. “And if it spreads, I’ll know the source.”
“We heard nothing,” Spartok said. “Right, Chankov?”
“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t paying attention,” said the man who clearly paid attention to everything.
“Good, now let me return to my canvas. How does the shoulder feel, Illarion?”
“It’s completely numb now. A relief from the burns. Why don’t we use this stuff for any of the regular soldiers who get burned? Or for farmers? For anyone else?”
“I would say that it was a Rolmani family secret, but in reality the substance is useless when not applied during a divination. The gods temporarily take your pain away because they don’t want our pathetic contortions to distort their message. Gods seldom lie, but we do not listen well.” The Needle opened a small cupboard and removed from it a stack of old rags. “Let’s see what I have to work with.”
She began scrubbing the hardening paste off Glazkov’s shoulder, arm, and chest. Natalya half expected the man to begin shouting in pain, but nothing happened.
“Natalya, make yourself useful and fetch me that wash bucket of water. Bring it here, please.”
Natalya walked past the old Rolmani to the section of her shack that served as the kitchen. Like the rest of the home, it was sparsely decorated. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling. A wood-burning stove occupied most of that area. A pot of simmering stew sat on top. The smell reminded her of something her mother used to make, and Natalya found herself standing over the pot, giving it a quick stir and a quicker taste. Again, a painful sense nostalgia swept over her.
She shook away the feeling and retrieved the basin, walking it quickly back to where the legendary diviner Katia Goya was performing her art on Glazkov. She waved for Natalya to place the basin on the floor next to her.
Katia began dipping rags into the water, then rubbing all remaining traces of the milky paste from Glazkov. After several minutes of wiping and re-wiping, what was left was a tapestry of angry red. But Natalya could see why the other woman had called it a canvas. Scar overlapping scar. Like . . .
Like feathers.
A sense of dread settled heavily on her heart as The Needle’s power filled the room. This time Natalya could see exactly what Katia was seeing, the image she would coax from Glazkov’s scars and commit to his flesh.
A massive raven.