Way of the Argosi (Spellslinger) - Hardcover

Be a good girl now. 

People are always saying that to me. Every time the shabby remnants of our tribe come to a new village or town begging for shelter, some stranger pats me on the head and says, ‘Be a good girl now.’ Different voices. Different languages. But always that same phrase, like a ghost that follows me wherever I go. 

A master contraptioneer in one of Gitabria’s gleaming cities said it with a smile in her lilting, musical accent: ‘Suvé onta bella jaïda.’ 

Be a good girl now. 

What she’d really meant was: smile, look pretty, and be quiet. 

In the Zhuban territories far to the north, a warrior poet (everybody in Zhuban claims to be a warrior poet) took it much more seriously. His brow furrowed with deep lines as he frowned at me. ‘Nanging isang bubutay bamba.’ 

Being now a good girl. 

But he was really telling me to be wise, to be vigilant and, most of all, to be quiet. 

Quiet is the part they all agree on. Even now, as this kind old woman, thin strands of sooty-grey hair burned to the skin of her forehead where the edge of an ember spell caught her a few minutes ago, arm hanging from her shattered left shoulder where that same mage’s iron binding slammed her into the corpses of her neighbours, whispers to me through broken teeth, ‘Shh . . . be a good girl now.’ 

It’s hard to be anything else in this dank, dark cave she shoved me into. Outside, in what’s left of this dusty, dried-out husk of a town on the edge of the Seven Sands . . . Outside the cave, a septet – that’s seven, in case you don’t know – of Jan’Tep war mages are busy slaughtering the screaming, pleading vestiges of my own clan one by one. They could probably incinerate all of us with one big spell, but from what I saw, the mages were mostly teenagers. I guess they’re showing off for each other. Soon they’re going to figure out that I’m in here and come up with an especially nasty spell just for me, but I guess I shouldn’t worry because the kindly old woman trying to nudge me further and further into the cave has a plan. 

Shh… be a good girl now. 

Great plan, lady. 

I feel like telling her that no Mahdek would ever tell an eleven-year-old to be quiet. They wouldn’t call me a girl either, because it’s not until we turn thirteen that we stand before our tribe and tell everyone who and what we are inside. At my age, I’m supposed to be searching for my spirit animal – the beast or bird who will be my companion as I make my way in the world, whispering its counsel to me, guiding me through life. 

How is a spirit animal supposed to hear you calling if you’re quiet all the time? 

Mahdek children are encouraged to make noise, to speak with our minds and our hearts (even if adults don’t exactly listen to us, I’ve noticed), so that spirit herds passing by will be drawn to our words and songs and one of them will sense a kindred soul whose life they want to share. 

But I’m never going to have a spirit animal. I’m never getting out of this cave. No matter how many times the nice old woman mutters, ‘Be a good girl,’ it’s not going to make a difference. Being good never saved a Mahdek exile from being murdered by a Jan’Tep mage. 

Although . . . 

It occurs to me now, as I’m lying here curled up in a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible among the smoul- dering corpses of the townsfolk who crawled in here as iron and ember spells were still tearing them apart, while this dying old woman . . . No, I’m pretty sure she’s dead now. The index finger of her good hand is still pressed to her lips as if, even in death, she’s reminding me to stay quiet. Anyway, I can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s a connection between the fact that my people are the only ones on the continent who don’t expect their young to be quiet and the fact that there are so few of us left. Maybe our problem is that we just never learned to shut up. 

I hear the battle cry of one of our warriors outside. She’s attacking the mages, shouting at them in the old way, in our own tongue. We don’t even speak it among ourselves any more because it makes the people who give us shelter uncom- fortable. The Jan’Tep mages who hunt us tell people that our language is a ‘demon-tongue’. They say we use it to awaken infernal beings to slaughter our enemies. 

How I wish that were true. 

I know our warrior has died when I hear the thunder crack of an ember spell lighting up the air outside the cave. I can picture the shower of gold and blue sparks, followed by the scene of early morning after a storm. Part of me wants to run outside just to behold the wonders of Jan’Tep magic. I know I should hate it, but the colours, the lights, the way they move . . . it’s beautiful. And if you’re going to die anyway, shouldn’t it be while looking at something beautiful? 

Too late now. The screams have stopped and everything’s gone quiet. I wonder if the warrior who just died was the last of my clan. And was my clan the last of all that remained of the once-great Mahdek tribes? 

Am I alone now? 

‘Burn the bodies, bury the ashes,’ I hear one of the mages saying. He’s the older one, the one in charge. But he’s not the one I hate the most. 

The one I hate the most is younger, maybe sixteen. He’s as tall as any of them though. His shoulders are broad and unlike the others he looks strong beneath his robes. He doesn’t smile when he raises his hands, forms those strange shapes with his fingers and sends lightning and fire to kill us. He doesn’t laugh or make jokes when we die. 

The others I can hate the way you hate a cold winter or a sharp stone that cuts your foot. They’re cruel and ugly on the inside. They’re monsters. But this one, he knows – some- where inside he knows– that this is wrong. He’s a human being. Like me. 

But he does it anyway. 

I don’t know his name because when the Jan’Tep mages are on a mission they call each other things like ‘Iron Asp’ or ‘Ember Fox’. This young one is ‘Shadow Falcon’. 

I’m going to kill Shadow Falcon one day.
Well, probably not since I’m about to die.
More spells are starting to ignite the air outside the cave. 

Different ones this time. Not the crack of thunder that passes in an instant but the steady crackle of flames that pour out from the mages’ palms as if their hands were volcanoes filled with lava. 

Why is it so important to them that no trace of us be left behind? 

I can hear some of the mages complaining about the stink of flesh burning from the bones of the dead. A couple of them are vomiting, their spells collapsing from the break in their concentration. Then the older one, their leader, shouts at them and they begin the process all over again. Soon he’ll send someone into the caves to search for any stragglers. To find me. 

‘Please spare us!’ a voice cries out. Not one of my people, of course. I’m pretty sure they’re all dead now. Also, we know better than to ask a Jan’Tep war coven for mercy. One of the villagers who took us in must be pleading for his life. 

‘We didn’t know what they were!’ 

Not true. We never lied about who we were. Maybe we...