09. We're Counting on You (Gadarien)¶
Cantereians who had grown up in Thelenza claimed that the sobração smelled like home. The underground city predated the Sarmalan Empire, having been created by early Cantereian settlers as a way to stay connected to the sacred caverns so important to their culture. They’d chosen the site of Thelenza largely because of the network of natural caverns and underground waterways threading through the ancient limestone. To Gadarien, though, the tunnels smelled like the swampy borderlands south of Rilão where he’d undergone training. It had felt like being digested by a reptile, except with more mosquitos. By comparison, the sobração was quite pleasant, although the odor differed more in intensity than in character.
He was careful to hide his distaste among the locals. After the Sarmalans had conquered their city, they’d done the best they could with what was left to them, turning spaces intended mostly for storage and maintenance into something more livable. They’d created works of auditory beauty that almost made up for their cramped physicality: rooms that turned dripping water into a chorus of birdsong and underground fountains that made adult voices sound like children. Gadarien was impressed, even though he didn’t want to be there.
His path to the safehouse was a dark reflection of the city above. Long ramps led down from the Street of Grapes into storehouses full of wine barrels. Stifling networks of kitchens ran below the Hill of Delights where rich Sarmalans dined. He avoided crowded places, taking the opportunity to remind himself of the hidden, twisting capillaries of the city.
The safehouse entrance was disguised as a woodworker’s storeroom. Gadarien barely knew the Feiçeira on duty, a wiry, wide-eyed man named Eiadane. The senior operative was carefully chiseling an eagle’s talon into an ornate table base, flecks of wood clinging to his smock. Eiadane was either an actual woodworker or an outstanding mimic.
“Excuse me, do you know the way to the Street of Sighs?” Gadarien said. Woven through his words like a vine through the underbrush was another message, a secret meant only for Feiçeira ears. Most Cantereians had an intuitive understanding of melody, a sort of linguistic sixth sense, but only Feiçeira were trained in Sussura, the clandestine language of pitch and timbre and rhythm, encoded in the pauses as much as the notes.
May the song of Cantereia ring free, he sang in the secret tongue.
Eiadane blew a bit of dust off the block and looked up, eyes narrowed. Gadarien hadn’t been in Thelenza long enough to get to know everyone, and some operatives didn’t trust him yet. It was understandable, especially given how young he looked, but he hoped to earn their respect soon.
“Sorry, I’ve never passed that way,” Eiadane said, conveying the countersign in Sussura: May the Deucanta hear your prayer. The slender operative’s voice was incongruously deep. He arched an eyebrow and nodded to the door.
The lock featured a complex witchglass tumbler that would only open when resonated by exact harmonies in the correct sequence. Eiadane smiled as they both knelt by the door and held their faces together to hum the phrase, a strangely intimate act. Despite his best efforts, Gadarien blushed.
The lock clicked open and they rose, face to face. “All yours, pretty boy,” said the older Feiçeira, examining Gadarien like a ripe fruit he was about to peel. There was no need for Sussura; his subtext was clear.
Gadarien cleared his throat and pushed the door open, almost colliding with a large Dzharian woman on her way out. “My pardon,” said the Dzharian, nodding to Eiadane as though Gadarien weren’t there before sweeping past.
“Who was that?” Gadarien said once the woman was out of earshot.
“No one you know,” Eiadane replied breezily, leading the way inside.
Gadarien sighed. Operational security depended on agents knowing only what they needed to know, a fact that had been drilled into him during training. Understanding the rationale did absolutely nothing to quell his curiosity or soothe his frustrations.
He focused instead on the wave of sound that greeted him. The voices of his compatriots wove around and through each other like a swarm of bats, fluttering with subtext. The language was syncretic, a blend of Sarmalan, Cantereian, and Sussura, the words and their hidden melodies reinforcing each other or colliding in ironic dissonance. The soundscape felt like home in a way that the sobração itself never had.
At the back of the chamber, a group of senior Feiçeira sat in a circle with their eyes closed, holding hands and humming a complex harmony. Even at such a low volume, the war chord rocked Gadarien with a wave of vertigo. He tried to play it off, but noted Eiadane’s smirk as the man nonchalantly crossed the room and placed a gentle hand on Teira’s broad shoulder.
The Guiasa opened her eyes, the whites of which were glowing faintly, although her dilated pupils returned to normal as the war chord faded. She grunted as Eiadane helped her up from her low cushion. Teira was old enough to be Gadarien’s mother, but her gray hair and bad hip belied the strength that had made her the commander of the Thelenza cell. She smiled at Gadarien and beckoned him over.
Teira and Gadarien placed their fingertips on each other’s larynxes in the sacred greeting. “You’re ready to enter the School,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She made it a statement rather than a question, conveying a faith in him that he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He placed one hand behind his back and bowed ironically in the Sarmalan style. “I am, Guiasa,” he said, eliciting a chuckle. Thus far, Teira had merely lent him her trust, but he meant to keep it. Everyone under her command was desperate to live up to her expectations. “I’ve already started recruiting,” he added.
“I’ll bet you have,” Eiadane said, looking Gadarien up and down.
Teira shushed the younger Feiçeira. “Tell me while I eat,” she said, gesturing to the dining table. “Harmonics always take it out of me.”
Gadarien sat down at the table with the senior Feiçeira, conscious of the stares. He’d come to Thelenza after Teira had specifically sent to Rilão for someone who looked young enough to pass for a novitiate. Although he was older than he looked, he was still the least experienced Feiçeira in the room, and everyone knew it.
“So, Gadarien,” Teira said after slurping down several mouthfuls of honey noodles, “tell me what you’ve caught in your net.”
Gadarien shifted in his seat. Ruelso, one of Teira’s field commanders, stared at him from across the table, his mustache failing to conceal his sneer. For some reason, the fierce, ropy operative had immediately decided he didn’t like Gadarien, and had made his animosity quite clear.
“My strongest lead is a Sarmalan girl, an aristocrat’s daughter with a rebellious streak,” Gadarien said, breaking off eye contact with Ruelso. “The kind who’s gotten everything she ever wanted, but wishes she hadn’t.”
“An aspiring novitiate?” Eiadane asked.
He nodded. “A legacy. She won’t even have to enter the Challenge. I scouted her at a solidarity vigil for some Cantereians who had been wrongly imprisoned. That’s when I knew she might be a candidate.”
“You didn’t approach her at the vigil, did you?” Ruelso said. His melody only conveyed a hint of scorn, but that was plenty.
“I approached her later, in private,” Gadarien said evenly, not rising to the bait. Getting angry would only fuel Ruelso’s disdain. “She works at her family’s witchglass shop. Probably wants to feel like she’s independent.”
“It almost sounds like you don’t like her,” Eiadane said. He leaned forward, smiling languidly. “Almost.”
Gadarien had been willing to swear that his harmonics hadn’t betrayed his attraction for Adranaya, but it was difficult to truly hide anything from a good Feiçeira, and Eiadane was one of the best. In truth, Adranaya had charmed him with her sincerity, even if she was a bit naïve. “She’s not entirely unlikeable,” he allowed.
Ruelso scoffed. “This is what I told you would happen,” he said to Teira. “The pretty boy is too young.”
Gadarien clenched his jaw, considering a number of replies, but Teira saved him the effort. “Sexual attraction has always been a part of recruiting,” she said. It wasn’t quite a reprimand, but Ruelso crossed his arms and sat back as though it had been. Teira turned to Gadarien with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Gadarien knows the difference between drawing someone in and getting too attached.”
“Yes, Guiasa,” he said, pointedly ignoring Ruelso. “There’s one other candidate I’m looking at. An Anashi who’s involved in the underground witchglass trade. I haven’t figured her out yet, but there’s something interesting about her.”
“Hmm,” Teira said, eyes hooded. “Might draw unwanted attention, associating with an Anashi.”
Gadarien shrugged. “It’s possible. But our strategy has always been for me to hide in plain sight. I’m not exactly avoiding notice.”
Teira nodded. “I trust your instincts. Just don’t let them rule you.” She closed her eyes for a moment, looking suddenly weary.
“You should rest, Guiasa,” Eiadane said, laying his hand on the older woman’s arm.
Teira snapped one eye open. “I’ll decide when to rest,” she said in mock irritation, but her melody carried a note of tenderness. “And I have decided that it will be now.” She smiled at Gadarien and allowed Eiadane to lead her to a sleeping alcove, shooing him away as she drew the curtain closed. The rest of the Feiçeira went back to what they’d been doing, leaving Gadarien alone with Ruelso.
“A lot of lives are riding on you,” he said. The muscles in his neck stood out like half-buried roots.
“Yeah. And apparently no one here was up to the task, so Teira sent for me,” Gadarien replied. He could tell from the way the other man stiffened that he’d hit a nerve.
“I’ve met a lot of pretty boys like you,” the man growled, glancing at Gadarien’s scars as he said it. “Charmers. You charm the other operatives just like you charm the recruits. But pretty boys think with their snakes, and snakes can be trapped. And then the rest of us get caught in the trap.”
“Give the kid a break, Ruelso,” said Eiadane, who had returned to the table to head off trouble.
Ruelso looked at Eiadane with almost as much contempt as he had shown Gadarien, although Eiadane outranked him. “You’re one to talk. You’re compromising this whole team, you and Teira. We can’t afford to get attached. Not even to each other.”
Gadarien thought Eiadane would react in anger, but instead he glanced at Teira’s alcove with sadness. “We all take our comfort where we can. Doesn’t mean we aren’t ready to make sacrifices.”
Ruelso snorted derisively. “We’ll see,” he said. He walked away without giving Gadarien another glance.
“Who pissed in his noodles?” Gadarien said.
“He’s a good operative,” Eiadane said. “He just doesn’t trust anyone who rises too quickly.” He glanced down at Gadarien’s groin and then back up.
Something clicked, and Gadarien finally realized that Eiadane’s aggressive flirtation wasn’t disrespect—it was a test, simply his version of hazing. Gadarien had to show that he wasn’t rattled. “It’s not how quickly you rise,” he said, drawing his own gaze up and down the other Feiçeira’s body. “It’s how long you stay up.”
Eiadane grinned broadly and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear!” he said, confirming Gadarien’s theory. But the man’s levity dried up as he looked back at Teira’s alcove. “We’re counting on you, kid. Get us what we need, and do it soon.”
“I won’t fail you,” Gadarien said. Eiadane peered into his eyes and, apparently seeing what he was looking for, gave a sober nod.
Gadarien managed to feign confidence as he walked out of the safehouse. It wasn’t until he was back in the tunnels that he allowed the weight of responsibility to pull his shoulders into a hunch.
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