Page 7 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)
Chapter seven
Ears
We go out through the empty bar, which Lech informs me will open after the toll. I learn the city of Slawa isn’t governed by the natural rhythm of night and day but by the whims of Perun’s magical tax.
“The toll used to happen every day exactly at noon. But rebels used that to schedule their attacks, and so Perun decided in his wisdom to keep everyone guessing.”
We slowly climb a steep cobbled street with handsome house fronts on either side. They are one-story buildings, their windows covered by beautifully painted shutters that open outside. Some houses adjoin the street, and others have small front yards where vegetables grow. They are bordered by wooden fences topped with colorful pots hanging upside down.
“What are those for?” I ask Lech.
He shrugs. “For protection. They are said to keep away curse-bearing birds. And spies.”
Lowering his voice on the last word, he leans close. I catch his covert inhale and sidestep quickly, putting distance between us.
“I told you to stop smelling me, bloodsucker,” I bite out through clenched teeth.
He gives me an exaggerated bow, clearly mocking. “I apologize. After centuries of living, it’s not often that a scent of someone’s blood takes me by surprise. If it weren’t boorish and tactless, I would ask you what type of bies you are.”
“The kind that will curse you with boils if you don’t keep your nose to yourself.”
He gives me an easy grin, and we set off again. When we reach an intersection, the land flattens, the streets growing wider and less steep. I look curiously, noticing that the one on the right is a long row of storefronts. Wooden signs hang above almost every door.
“The street of artisans,” Lech explains. “Most shops are closed at this hour. As you can see, the city is practically deserted, and most places are closed for business.”
He’s right. We walked a good distance from the milk bar and hardly saw anyone. Two short, hunching women with crooked noses and sharp teeth worked in a garden in front of a house, and then we passed a group of furry creatures that communicated in a series of grunts, but apart from them, the streets are empty.
“Let me guess. No one goes out before the toll.”
He grins, his white teeth flashing sharply. “How fast she learns. Yes, most people prefer to stay home when it hits, simply because the toll makes everyone vulnerable for a few minutes. Those who have stronger magic and recover faster often take advantage of the weaker ones.”
He winks at me, as if to say I am strong enough to take advantage of somebody. Since he’s out with me, looking debonair and unconcerned, I suspect that applies to him, too.
“Come on. I’ll show you the temple.”
He leads me through a labyrinth of streets and narrow pathways between houses, up and up the slope. We’re in the heart of the city now, the buildings made of old stone, most of them two or three stories high. These have round windows, fitted with opaque crystal glass that Lech informs me was “all the rage three, no, four hundred years ago”.
Stairs begin. A few times, we reach a rocky wall at the end of a street and have to climb two dozen steps carved into the rock until we emerge on a higher level. At one point, Lech grabs me with shocking force and slams my back into the wall of the nearest building.
“Look out!”
A curse dies on my tongue when a large crate shoots past me, mere inches from my stomach. I flatten myself against the wall, watching with huge eyes as more crates fly by. Ten, fifteen, twenty-five…
Behind the crates, a man walks at a stately pace, twice as tall as me and just as slender. His head is bald, the skin bulging over purplish veins, his eyes big and completely orange, with no pupil or white.
He carries a gnarled stick that he holds steadily with one hand, while with the other, he reaches into a large sack tied to his belt. As he passes us in one long step that probably covers as much ground as three of mine, he takes out an egg and pops it in his mouth, shell and all. I still hear the crunching when he disappears from view.
“That was a ware shepherd,” Lech explains with a smirk. “Dozens more like him work in the city, transporting all kinds of goods. Floating so many crates at once requires a lot of magic, so a shepherd will usually carry a supply of eggs and eat one when he runs low.”
I nod as we set out again, my thighs burning from the steady climb. “What else are the eggs used for?”
“You can get anything you want with magic, but most races produce little in a day. If someone needs more magic than they are able to make, they will eat eggs. Most services run on magic in one way or another, so every worker in this city needs them. Also, if someone is too weak to pay the toll, an egg might save their life.”
We climb another set of steep stairs, coming up almost on top of the mountain. Swathes of soft, green grass roll over the ground, beautiful flowers swaying on two sides of a comfortable walkway leading up to the fortress that presides over the city of Slawa.
The wind whips tendrils of hair that escaped my braid around my face. I stop, huffing from exertion. Lech watches me with amusement, not winded at all from the climb. His red hair glimmers in the sunlight.
“Does that happen often?” I ask when I can finally speak. “People die when the toll takes their magic?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, yes. Every day. But not to worry, you’ll get used it. Also, it’s mostly children, so no big loss. They have little magic to begin with, and if they fail to sleep through the night or get sick, the toll usually finishes them. The magical contraceptive trade is booming because nobody wants to have kids these days. Shall we?”
He sets off up the walkway, and it takes him a few steps to notice I don’t follow. I’m rooted to the spot, outrage, fury, and deep, soul-crushing guilt filling my gut like jagged stones.
“What is it? Do you need to rest?” Lech asks gallantly, returning to my side. “There are benches inside. We can sit there.”
“I’m not tired,” I grit out through my tight throat. “You just said children die here every day, and you made it sound like… Like nothing. Not even an inconvenience.”
He shakes his head with a small laugh that infuriates me further. “Well, if our lord and emperor Perun doesn’t mind, why should anyone else?”
His voice is light, and his eyes glitter with amusement, but there is a strange, mocking tilt to his mouth. I don’t know whom he mocks—me, himself, or the god of thunder.
“Because it’s wrong!” I explode, clenching my fists with fury.
Every day in this city, a child dies, and nobody cares. My whisperer training prepared me for the grim reality of children perishing in their first years, but I also learned how precious and important those tiny lives are. And now that I carry the weight of a newborn’s death on my shoulders, I can’t allow this matter to be treated with such callous indifference.
I shouldn’t have forgotten who Lech truly is—an upir and a bies. His soul is so corrupted, he probably can’t tell good from evil. His good manners and worldly polish fooled me, but the charming man with a sharp tongue is only a mask hiding a rotten beast.
“Wrong? Not according to Perun,” he says with a shrug as if he couldn’t be any less interested in the topic.
His eyes are watchful, though, as they regard me without blinking. That makes me pause, because that careful stare is so incongruent with the rest of his manner. Something’s wrong, so I take a deep breath to collect myself and think.
Not according to Perun. Our lord and emperor.
Heresy , I remember the word the utopek used when telling me about dragon guards in the city.
Woland told me about it, too. Heresy is a deadly crime in Slawa, and that means I can’t say what I really think.
I narrow my eyes at the upir. Is he goading me? Does he hope I’ll do something that will allow him to report me as a heretic? Damn, I really shouldn’t have trusted the leech.
As I press my lips shut to keep all my wrathful words behind clenched teeth, the upir raises a mocking brow, his fangs peeking out in a smile of approval.
“Look at that tree,” he says mildly, pointing out a young oak on the right. “Isn’t it splendid? Look closely.”
I’m about to tell him our tour is over and I will kill him if he approaches me again, but the odd question makes me hesitate. Intrigued, I squint at the oak.
There’s nothing unusual about it. The leaves are just beginning to turn yellow, sunlight bathing them in gold. Small, brown birds hop between the branches. One sits on a leafless, dry branch, as still as a corpse. Its black eyes are turned on us.
I look at it a moment longer, unease making me shiver. It reminds me of another bird I saw—the ancestral soul Rod came to take away when I sat on a dead villager’s wake. Just like this bird, it looked soulless, as if devoid of a will of its own.
Woland told me ancestral souls are devices put into most mortals at birth to thwart their magic and make them hate Weles, among other things. Unlike most, I was born without one.
“Remember what I said about those quaint pots you asked about?” Lech ambles closer, his hands clasped elegantly behind his back. “It seems we could do with a pot just about now. Let’s go inside, and I’ll show you Perun’s magnificent grove.”
My head spins as I follow him, trying to remember what it was about the pots. They were protection against birds, and one other thing…
And then, I have it. Spies. As I glance back at the eerie bird, which still follows us with its lifeless eyes, I think that maybe those two are one and the same.
Maybe even the trees have ears in Slawa.