Ivorak looked back, once, and oh, he was afraid now.
Konrad leapt, Tasha an instant after. Together they crashed into the fleeing figure of Ivorak Nasak, bringing him sharply to the hard, icy ground. Konrad felt a thrill of victory, and of malicious glee, the latter of which he tried to suppress.
‘Hold him a moment,’ he said. He did not know if he spoke to Tasha or to his serpents, but they all obeyed, binding Nasak to immobility with their array of supernatural arts.
Konrad retrieved the bones he had harvested from Ivorak’s victims, and carried about with him all the night since. They fell into his hands as he opened their bundle of cloth, stained with blood and delightfully blunt.
Also, he took up Nanda’s silver knife.
‘Turn him,’ he whispered.
The motionless body of Ivorak Nasak flipped in the air, turning face-up. His eyes met Konrad’s, full of desperate fear. His teeth were gritted, and he fought. They would not hold him long.
Konrad lunged — but too late. The human, solid figure of Ivorak Nasak shimmered and transformed, and a ghostwolf leapt away into the night. What a vision he made! Thrice the size of the living creature, all rippling ghost-light, nothing of him wan or sickly like Konrad’s serpents. He shone bright and true, like the moon, and waves of fury rolled off him like mist.
But Tasha had been ready for that, too. Her body — the slim figure of the fourteen-year-old girl she appeared to be — fell lifeless into the snow with a sickening thud, and her lamaeni spirit-form shimmered into being beneath the trees. She was as bright and glorious to the eye as Ivorak, and she burned with an awe-inspiring strength. She shot after the fleeing nightwolf, Eetapi and Ootapi in her wake.
It did not take long. Tasha caught him in seconds, and after that… Konrad could not tell what followed. Battle raged, swift and fierce, the four spirits merging into a flurry of ghost-light so bright-burning that Konrad could barely stand to look. Rage and terror poured off them. In the two or three seconds it took Konrad to catch them, it was over. The light ebbed and faded, and Ivorak Nasak lay once more on the frozen ground, human and inert and furious.
Konrad wasted no time. He took the bones of Illya Vasily, Albina Olga, and the two labourers, and punched them through the shrinking chest of Ivorak Nasak, one-two-three-four, ignoring the creature’s howls of fury and pain.
Then the knife, the silver knife, its blade biting deep. Only then did the light in the man’s eyes die, and he lay with the stillness of death, blood seeping from the five wounds in his chest.
Konrad knelt in the snow, watching in fascinated horror as Ivorak Nasak died. He would never, ever get used to it, no matter how many he killed, nor how much they deserved to die. So profound was the alteration from living to dead, so permanent, so appalling. He did not know, would never understand, how those such as Ivorak could deal out death so freely and with such insouciance — indeed, some actively took pleasure in it. The thought made Konrad shudder with a crawling revulsion.
‘He deserved it,’ said Tasha.
Konrad sighed deeply, and wearily uttered: ‘I know.’ It didn’t help all that much, and it never would.
But his duty was performed. Ivorak Nasak would kill no one else. He was dispatched into The Malykt’s merciless care, there to atone for the lives he had taken, his soul irrevocably bound to the souls of those he had killed until he had done so. And they would not treat him kindly.
Nanda wanted her knife back. Konrad eyed the hilt sticking out of Ivorak’s chest with misgiving. He did not want to remove it, did not want to touch the corpse again at all, if he could help it. As far out in the Bones as they were, he could and would simply leave it here, let it rot, let the crows devour its revolting flesh.
But Nanda wanted her knife back. Konrad steeled himself and wrenched the blade out of the ruined chest, averting his eyes to the sticky mess of blood. He wrapped the knife in his handkerchief, resolving to clean it later, and return it to Nanda.
Nan. Who waited at home, her terrible secret revealed against her will, waiting perhaps with dread for Konrad’s return. He got to his feet slowly, wearily. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Tasha. ‘But for you, he might have escaped.’ He did not really think it was so; no one could outrun the Malykant, not for long. But it might be true, and Tasha swelled with pride to hear it.
And thank you, Konrad said to his serpents. You have served me well.
They were too surprised to respond, though eventually a shiver of Eetapi’s approval crept down his spine. As it felt like a sliver of ice inching its way down his shrinking skin, he did not altogether appreciate it.
‘Time to go home,’ he said, and turned his steps back towards Ekamet. Slowly, trembling with fatigue, he made his way home, Tasha and his serpents by his side.
Epilogue
Upon arrival at Bakar House, Konrad wanted nothing more than to collapse instantly into bed. But he could not — not without first seeing Nanda. He would change his clothes, settle Tasha somewhere comfortable, and return to Nanda’s shop.
But when he stepped into his hall he was met, rather to his surprise, by his butler.
Gorev bowed. ‘Miss Falenia is waiting in the drawing-room, sir.’
‘Ah,’ he said, dripping melted snow onto the pristine tiled floor. ‘Thank you.’ He wanted to go in to see her at once, but a glance at his sodden, blood-stained clothes convinced him to reconsider. Nanda was wonderfully tolerant and virtually unshockable, but still, it would not be civilised to appear before her in such a state, especially if she was primly ensconced in the drawing-room. Besides which, he could not stop shivering. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘Will you find dry clothes for Tasha, Gorev? Anything warm will do. Raid my wardrobe, if you have to.’
‘I am sure something can be found, sir.’ Gorev had kindness enough to smile at Tasha, in spite of her bedraggled street-rat appearance. Tasha looked too bemused to know how to respond.
Gorev, of course, looked impeccably neat and exquisitely groomed, as always. It occurred to Konrad that this might be considered odd. ‘Gorev. Why are you out of your bed at this hour?’
The butler gave a slight cough. ‘It is rather past the seventh hour of the morning, sir.’
Ah. What a fine sight his master made, returning to his house at so late an hour, having spent all night away, his clothes torn, soaked through with melted snow and stained with blood besides. But Gorev remarked upon none of it, nor did he seem at all nonplussed. ‘Shall I draw you a bath, sir?’ was all the comment he had to offer.
Konrad took a moment to appreciate his blessings, Gorev’s merits chief among them. ‘A little later, please. I ought not to keep Miss Falenia waiting.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Serve refreshments, will you? I may be a few minutes.’
‘I have already taken the liberty of serving tea to Miss Falenia, sir, together with an assortment of delectables.’
‘Good man. Tash, come to the drawing-room when you’re dry.’
With that, he wearily climbed the stairs and wandered into his dressing-room, grateful beyond words that he did not have to go back out into the snow tonight. His limbs were so numb with cold, his hands would barely function, and it took him much longer than usual to change his attire. But at length he was able to return downstairs, clad in fresh, deliciously dry clothing, cleaned of blood and snow, his hair brushed and warmth gradually seeping back into his frozen body.
Nanda sat before a blissfully roaring fire, and Konrad saw at once that when Gorev had described an assortment of delectables he had rather understated the case. The table was piled high with pies, cold meats, wedges of cheese, cakes, pastries, tartlets, fruits both fresh and dried, nuts, bonbons, and several jugs and pots containing, apparently, several varieties of beverage. There was also a gigantic teapot whose spout steamed most promisingly, and decanters containing wine, whiskey and brandy.
‘Your obliging butler appears to have received the impression that I am wasting away,’ Nanda informed Konra
d with a suspicious narrowing of her eyes. The plate before her contained the wreckage of some few of the delicacies, and Konrad felt oddly relieved to see the evidence of her having made a respectable repast.
‘I haven’t said anything,’ he protested. ‘I only just returned home. He is merely being bountiful.’
‘Then it must be that he likes me,’ Nanda replied with vast satisfaction, and took another biscuit with a complacent smile.
‘You are easy to like,’ Konrad offered, collapsing into a chair.
‘I am, quite,’ Nanda agreed, and proved it by ministering to Konrad’s exhaustion with cheerful solicitude. She collected a heap of what Gorev called delectables upon a plate and set it before him, following it with a cup of tea, a glass of wine and a glass of whiskey. Konrad watched all this with a mixture of pleasure and concern, unwilling to admit that his eyes traced every feature of Nanda’s face, alert for signs of ill health. Was it weakness that made her hands slightly tremble, or was she merely as tired as he? Did she return to her chair a little too soon? Were her legs weak, did she lose her breath and need to rest?
‘I am not dying, Konrad,’ Nanda said at last, waspish, when he continued to stare at her and ignore the feast she had painstakingly prepared.
‘Sorry.’ Konrad pulled himself together and attacked the food. He was famished, he found, once the more immediate discomfort of cold had receded, his exhaustion somewhat mitigated by the comfort of his seat. But he paused halfway through a shredded beef pie, unable to maintain the silence. ‘Is that true?’
Nanda rolled her eyes. ‘Would I lie?’
‘If failing to tell me important things is lying, then yes.’
‘I didn’t want to tell you.’
‘Why not?’
She eyed him. ‘Because I knew you would fuss over me like a mother hen.’
Konrad opened his mouth to deny it, then remembered the anxious solicitude with which he had been fancying signs of weakness only moments before. It had cost him something to remain seated and let her serve him, instead of jumping up and taking the task off her.
‘I am not frail,’ she said firmly. ‘And I don’t want you clucking and flapping about me.’
Konrad sighed, and took another large bite of beef pie. He chewed slowly and swallowed, carefully gathering his thoughts. ‘Will you tell me what’s amiss?’
‘I would rather not talk about it, today.’
That suggested she might talk of it another day, so Konrad tried to be contented with that. But it was hard. ‘You aren’t—’
‘I am pretty certain you will die before I do,’ Nanda interrupted. Her lips twitched, and she amended, ‘Not that that means much. When was the last time you died, again?’
‘Stop deflecting!’
‘It is a fair reflection!’
‘Tell me you’re not fatally sick.’ She was trying to defuse Konrad’s concern with levity, but he would not permit it. He pinned her with a long stare, and he made no attempt to conceal his feelings: let her see the depth of his fear.
‘I… hope not,’ she said, softly. ‘More than that, I cannot yet say.’
Konrad took a deep breath, the shivery kind that held suppressed tears somewhere behind it. He nodded, took a sip of tea and another breath. ‘You’ll tell me, whatever I can do.’
Nanda looked briefly forlorn, and he cursed himself for forcing the subject. But then she smiled, collected another biscuit, and bit into it with relish. ‘Course I will,’ she said with her mouth full. ‘Can’t waste the opportunity to make use of you. I’ll have you waiting on me hand and foot, attendant to my every whim—’
‘But no clucking,’ Konrad agreed. ‘Got it.’ He flapped his arms, and was rewarded with a grin.
Tasha entered the room upon a cold draught, sighing with satisfaction.
‘Shut the door!’ Konrad said, shivering mightily.
‘Oops.’ Tasha sent the door sailing shut with a well-placed kick and then sagged into a chair. She was wearing a mismatched assortment of clothing, most of it wool, and she was pink in the cheeks.
‘Enjoyed your bath?’ Konrad said.
Tasha grinned. ‘How can you tell?’
Konrad touched his fingers to his cheeks, and Tasha instinctively mimicked the gesture, testing the heat of her own face.
‘Well, Gorev seemed eager to draw you a bath. I couldn’t let it go to waste.’
‘A crying shame,’ Konrad agreed.
‘I take it you succeeded?’ Nanda said, and Konrad nodded furiously, his mouth too full of cranberry jelly tart to reply right away.
‘Killed him dead,’ Tasha offered. ‘He sprouted like a hedgehog, bones and knives everywhere.’
Nanda winced, her eyes rolling ceilingward. ‘Good. My knife?’
‘I have to clean it,’ Konrad said. ‘And polish it and cuddle it and then I will give it back.’
‘Cuddle it?’
‘It’s had a difficult day. It performed its terrible duty with panache, however.’
‘Doubtless. It is mine.’
The door opened again, to Konrad’s bemusement, for he had not rung for service. But in the doorway stood Inspector Nuritov, hatless and diffident and looking at Nanda.
Konrad cast a questioning look Nanda’s way.
‘I invited him,’ she said, beaming. ‘He’s had a hard night, too.’
‘Perfect idea,’ he said, and meant it. He ought to have thought of it himself. He realised that Nuritov was awaiting his invitation, as host, and was quick to give it. He also realised that the sheer sumptuousness of the surroundings at Bakar House was unnerving the inspector. Konrad came from poverty; the house and all its luxuries were merely one of the trappings of his job, and its one real perk. But Nuritov couldn’t possibly know that. Once suitably plied with good things, however, he began to relax.
Konrad could not, for an appalling thought occurred to him far too late and he all but leapt out of his chair. ‘I forgot. The bodies — Albina and Illya — what if they aren’t dead? They could turn. I have to go back.’ His heart beat quick with panic, for he had left them lying unguarded in the morgue beneath The Malykt’s temple. If they woke down there, alone and confused and ravenous, what harm might they do before they could be found, and stopped?
‘Konrad!’ Nanda said, and he realised she had already said his name a few times. ‘Sit. Be calm. I have already taken care of it.’
Konrad blinked stupidly at her. ‘What? How?’
‘The possibility occurred to me, too, so I went there before I came here. The two labourers are dead, I am certain of it. The other two… I am less certain. I have had them moved to The Shandrigal’s temple where they are under supervision. If they should wake, they will be tended to, and contained, and no damage will be done. Sit down again.’
Konrad sat, so overcome with admiration for her quick mind even in a state of exhaustion — and relief, that his absent-mindedness had not caused a catastrophe — that he folded limply into his chair like a bolt of cloth and lay in a fog of mixed feelings, most of them warm ones. Nanda was fortunate that she was not presently close enough to be hugged upon.
‘I am eager to hear the details,’ Nuritov offered.
Konrad was eager to sleep like the dead, but he owed the inspector an explanation. Before he could begin, Tasha leaned towards him.
‘I am famished,’ she confided.
Konrad cursed himself again, for forgetting that none of the delicacies Gorev provided could offer sustenance for a lamaeni guest. Looking at her, he saw that all the flush of colour had drained out of her cheeks; she looked wan and thin and… ravenous.
‘You may take a little from me,’ he whispered back. ‘Just try not to send me to sleep.’
Tasha beamed at him with real gratitude, a reaction which thrilled Konrad, for it suggested that she found him perfectly edible. Or in other words, perfectly alive enough to feed upon.
‘Not Nan, though,’ he added, glancing at Nanda sidelong. ‘She needs to conserve her strength.’
He had thought himself safe to make such a comment, for Nanda was deep in conversation with Alexander Nuritov, filling him in on all the details of the case which he had missed. But he received a swift, sharp kick to his shin, efficiently informing him as to the extent of his error.
‘Ow,’ he muttered.
Nanda cast him a look of withering contempt, and returned her attention to the inspector.
‘When she said no clucking and flapping,’ Konrad said to Tasha, ‘she really meant it.’
A vague feeling of discomfort finally filtered through to his awareness: a protruding shape underneath his legs. He discreetly felt around beneath himself until he encountered the culprit: a small, rectangular object, very solid indeed, which he discovered to be wrapped in paper. It had a bow neatly tied around it in ribbon.
He raised an eyebrow at Nanda.
‘What?’ she said, all innocence.
A dangling label read: Konrad. He checked the reverse, but the name of the giver did not appear.
‘Yours?’ he asked Nanda.
‘I deny all knowledge.’
‘Hm.’ Konrad tore off the paper, and a neat little leather-bound book fell into his hands. It was a beautiful thing, tinted dark rose-red, with glossy gilded lettering.
The title read, The Scarlet Petticoat.
He opened the book, and scanned the first few lines. ‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is a romance.’
Nanda’s smile turned seraphic. ‘Why, yes. Yes it is.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘Are you not pleased?’ said Nanda, her face falling in mock dismay. ‘But I consulted Eetapi and Ootapi about your literary tastes. I was sure we’d got it right.’
Konrad noted the author’s name, discreetly printed in small type on the inside front page: Lady Balov, who was a favourite of his. But he would rather have died than admit it, especially in such company, for Nuritov looked faintly amused and Tasha was openly grinning.
Nanda leaned towards him. ‘It’s new,’ she whispered. ‘Published last week.’
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