Chapter Eight
Konrad left his house in the early hours of the morning, when the moon was high in a sky only partially covered with cloud. The glow it emitted was feeble, but it served to illuminate the streets somewhat. All the better; that would make it harder for his assailant to hide from him.
Eetapi and Ootapi were alert for danger, one sailing the winds a few feet in front of him and the other some way behind. They had camouflaged themselves to the utmost, so much so that even he couldn’t see them with his mortal eyes.
He made no particular attempt to hide. He had grown tired of the nameless, shapeless threat hanging over him since his visit to his master’s temple a day or two ago. If his pursuer intended harm, he would prefer to resolve the matter now.
In the end, though, his precautions availed him little. Ootapi’s voice had barely begun to whisper a warning in his mind when a dark shape leaped out of the shadows before him. In moments he was down. A dark-clad figure loomed over him, a knife glinting in one hand. His other hand was fastened around Konrad’s throat, squeezing hard.
So it was to be murder, then. Very well.
Konrad was by no means defenceless; his profession was a dangerous one and he knew how to fight. He did so now, avoiding the downward stroke of the knife and throwing the assassin off him. He made it on to his feet, and for a few moments he held his own, strike for strike, against his assailant.
But this was no ordinary threat. The man was a professional, and horribly strong; Konrad knew he was in trouble. The knife blade flashed again, too close, and a line of pain raced across his torso. The next one would probably kill him.
Sensing his danger, Eetapi and Ootapi rose to his assistance. He felt a flicker of hope: another instant and they would have the assassin’s soul bound, and the onslaught would stop. Maybe he would avoid impalement after all.
The assassin was faster even that he’d feared. Perhaps sensing the new threat, the man redoubled his efforts, moving so fast Konrad couldn’t even follow his movements. Konrad had only a moment to wonder where in the world his enemy had found this man before the knife blade found its mark. He fell once more, stabbed to the heart, pain crushing his chest.
He lay for an instant, panting with shock and agony, trying not to look at the hilt protruding from his chest. He watched with distant interest as the assassin’s body stiffened and backed away; the serpents had him, then, but too late.
Gripping the knife’s handle and gritting his teeth, Konrad pulled out the blade. He tried to do it fast, but it took an inordinately long time for the length of sharp metal to slide out of the ruins of his muscles, his skin, his heart. He kept his eyes fixed on his would-be killer as he did so, knowing the man would not expect this.
He waited, tense, for the renewed pain of enforced healing. He was not permitted to die, not as long as he served The Malykt. The wound would force itself closed, his flesh would knit together once more and he would be whole. It would hurt - badly - but he would survive.
Nothing happened.
He felt a flicker of panic. The Malykt’s favour would last only as long as Konrad pleased Him. Was He pleased now? Had his primary servant performed as expected, these past few years? Konrad knew that if his master’s favour had been withdrawn, he may not know about it at first; not until a stray knife-blade stabbed him through and, this time, he did not heal. Then Konrad’s life would be over and a new Malykant would be chosen.
Was that happening now?
He tried to suppress his growing panic, refusing to let it show in his face. The assassin, still held in the grip of the serpent-shades, would see nothing of his doubt.
A new thought occurred to him in the midst of his confusion. Were he to die, would it be such a bad thing? His life had its advantages, but no part of it was his own. His tasks were brutal and unpleasant, his master relentless. He was isolated and, he admitted it, lonely. Perhaps it was time to rest.
But then came the pain, waves of it gripping him tight as his tortured flesh mended itself. He lay, shaking, as the wound closed and his body restored itself to full health.
A cold voice pierced his dazed thoughts. You have not earned a rest yet, My Malykant. Get on with it.
Yes, Master, he thought weakly in reply. He got to his feet, his attention once more on the dark figure who had sought to take his life. He enjoyed the expression of complete horror on the man’s face as his injured-to-the-death victim stood up and advanced on him.
‘Good effort,’ Konrad said to him. He had, after all, done a good job. It wasn’t his fault that The Malykt hated training new servants.
The assassin’s own knife was in Konrad’s hand. He didn’t waste any time. One quick movement drew the blade across the killer’s throat and he dropped, eyes wide in shock. The serpents vacated his dying body in two puffs of cold wind, and the three of them watched dispassionately as the killer died.
Konrad stood a moment longer, flexing his arms and torso and neck. He was a little stiff, but otherwise in great health. His clothes were ruined, of course, slashed through and soaked in blood, but he didn’t need to be well-dressed for his next task.
Well, onward, he said silently to his serpents. He walked on, leaving the body lying in the street.
Konrad’s next night-time visit to the Rostikov House was easier, as he was familiar with the plan of the building and the habits of the servants. But it was also harder, for the inhabitants were alert to the possibility of intruders. He was forced to wait until the moon was hidden behind a significant bank of cloud, and then to take a less direct route into the house. The rear wall was composed of large blocks of old stone; he climbed it with ease, aiming for the servants’ garret at the top.
He could feel the sickness that loomed in the room above him; its scent wove through the aether, acrid and sharp but not, to his relief, redolent of death. Etraya was very ill, but she would not die.
Not yet, at least.
Reaching her window, he paused to survey the room. As he had both feared and hoped, no attendant waited upon her. Either by order of their mistress or through fear of infection, the inhabitants of this house had left the nurse to suffer alone.
He eased open the window and slid inside, closing it behind him, for her room was without a fire and already cold, without the winter winds whirling through the casement. Eetapi and Ootapi were with him, wrapped around his arms like bracelets. They separated themselves from him and streamed over to the bed where Etraya lay.
She was far gone in sickness, that was clear. Her skin was wet with sweat and her breath came in shallow, feverish gasps. A livid red rash covered her face and neck and disappeared inside her nightclothes.
Poor woman.
Eetapi. Ootapi. Bind her.
Though she was living, the serpents could still merge themselves with her soul and help her to animate her own body. He had attempted this once before, on another witness whose consciousness was largely gone in illness. It was cumbersome, but it worked. Judging by the way Etraya twisted in her bed and moved her lips in ceaseless, soundless talk, she was delirious and beyond her own control. She would need the help.
He waited as the serpent-spirits’ wavering forms vanished inside Etraya’s tortured body. After a moment, her restless movements ceased and her lips closed. The serpents had control of her.
He sat down in the chair next to her bedside. ‘Miss Marodeva,’ he said, speaking softly. ‘Etraya. Do you hear me?’
Her eyes opened and her head turned towards him, though she didn’t seem to be seeing anything.
‘Yes,’ she croaked, her throat sore from gasping in her fever.
‘I need you to tell me what’s going on in this house. The Rostikovs. You know them better than anybody.’
Etraya coughed, a harsh, rasping sound that chilled him. He hadn’t sensed her death approaching, but could he be mistaken?
‘Calm yourself,’ he murmured as she coughed harder. Not only was this bad for her already tortured throat and lungs, but soon she would wa
ke the house.
To his relief her coughing subsided and she sank back into her pillows.
‘The Rostikovs,’ she said painfully. ‘I… mustn’t speak of them.’
‘You must,’ he insisted. ‘I must know. For Navdina.’
‘Navvy,’ she repeated, and her face softened. ‘Such a pretty child. Prettier than her mother. Lena hated her, but she didn’t deserve it.’
Konrad frowned. Lena? He gripped her hand and leaned forward, trying to keep her attention. ‘Etraya, who is Lena?’
‘Lena was so jealous, so much anger in her. It was as if she knew… but she couldn’t know. She didn’t know.’
This, of course, was the flaw in his plan. The serpents could stabilise her, allowing her to talk, but they couldn’t influence the flow of ideas in her fevered brain. She was rambling, and he couldn’t tell if any of it was useful.
But at least it was something.
‘Tell me more about Lena,’ he said. ‘Lena and Navvy.’
‘Navvy was good to her but Lena wouldn’t have it. She was cruel, so heartless. When the Lady sent her away, she said it was for her own good. And it was a good school. But Lena knew; we all knew. She sent her away from Navvy.’
The “Lady” in question was probably Navdina’s mother, Konrad guessed. But who was Lena and why would the Rostikovs take a direct interest in her fate?’
Lena. A thought flashed into his mind, a dark thought. ‘Do you mean Analena?’
‘Her father called her Ana, but to all others she was Lena.’
Analena. The current Lady Rostikova, wife of the murdered Amrav, was named Analena. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
‘Where did Lena go?’
‘She didn’t like the school. She didn’t like anything. She never understood why Navvy had a nurse and was taught at home but she had to go away and be taught with a hundred other girls. Poor girl. But what could I do? I had no money to give her.’
‘Why should you have given her money?’
‘Because she was my child. Her own mother’s life was given over to another’s growth and education, and she hated me for it. I loved Navvy more, she said. And it was true. Spirits help me, I did love her more.’
Etraya was growing agitated, but Konrad couldn’t stop her, not yet. He was learning a great deal, despite the random nature of her reflections. He had to be sure he was drawing the right conclusions.
‘Are you saying that Analena Rostikova was once Analena Marodeva?’
‘That was her name,’ she muttered. ‘Hated, hated name. Not her name at all, Spirits forgive me.’ Tears wet Etraya’s face and she began to struggle against the binding of the serpents, her fists clenched.
‘Calm yourself,’ he said again, trying to soothe her, but she was unreachable.
‘I should never have done it,’ she wailed. ‘I tried to undo it but it was too late. But how could she know? I told her at last and oh, she was not surprised. But she was a baby at the time…’
Konrad began to get a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘You did something,’ he prompted. ‘When Lena was a baby…’
‘They were born the same week,’ she sobbed. ‘The very same week, and they were so alike. It seemed like fate. I knew that the Rostikov child would have everything - everything - and my poor child would have nothing. It was a mere impulse, I should have resisted but then it was done…’
‘You swapped them.’ He saw it all in an instant, and his body sickened at the knowledge that a single, weak action by one woman twenty-five years ago had transformed the fate of two girls forever - and destroyed them both.
‘I did,’ Etraya wept. ‘I had the care of them both on some days. One day I changed their clothes and swapped their cradles. When the Lord and Lady returned I gave my Lena into her ladyship’s arms, and just like that she became Navdina. And Navvy that was, poor child, she became Analena Marodeva. I thought only of my poor girl’s fate; not once did I think about the Rostikov girl. Not until later. But I couldn’t undo it then.’
No; such a ruse would only work in the first blush of life, if the child had uninvolved, aristocratic parents who could afford to pay a nurse to do most of the child-rearing. Once they had grown enough to develop distinctive individual features, exchanging the infants would no longer be an option. Etraya would have had to simply live with her sin.
He knew enough of her character to guess that it would have plagued her sorely ever since then.
‘Etraya,’ he said firmly. ‘Did you tell them what you had done?’
‘I told Lena,’ she said, and repeated the words twice more, her voice shaking.
‘Not Navvy?’
‘No! I couldn’t… couldn’t face it.’
‘When did you tell Lena?’
‘A year ago. I couldn’t keep it from her, she was so angry. I thought she had to know. I thought if I confessed, I might be forgiven - be at ease…’
It hadn’t worked out that way, he guessed. Analena, already angry at the injustices she saw in society, had become angrier still. And what then? Amrav Rostikov had been married only six months ago. Had she created this plan, hard on her false mother’s revelations? She had pursued Amrav, married him, and killed her rival - or had her killed. It was yet unclear whose hand had actually taken Navdina’s life.
But why then kill Amrav? Even if she wished to rid herself of him in time, it was unwise in the extreme to do so immediately after the death of her cousin-by-marriage. Some pieces of the puzzle yet remained unsolved.
‘It’s my fault,’ whispered Etraya. ‘My fault. Poor Navvy. Poor Lena.’
Poor Etraya, he silently added. She had committed a grave crime, but an impulsive one, and she’d paid for it with lifelong regrets and guilt. And at last she had had to watch her daughter, her real daughter, die for her mistake.
Such a high price on human weakness.
A high chittering noise interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see a small dark shape hurl itself against the glass of the window he had closed behind himself. It threw itself at the glass again and again and a dull thumping noise echoed around the room.
A monkey. And that was a flicker of gold fur illuminated by the low moonlight…
He crossed the room in two quick strides and flung the window open. Weveroth tumbled into the room, still chattering.
‘Hush, hush,’ he murmured, cradling the panicked creature. ‘Don’t wake the house.’
It subsided and stared up at him in silence, its black eyes huge in the darkness.
‘Where is Nanda?’ he murmured. He saw no sign of any message from Nanda secreted about the monkey’s small body, and the creature’s obvious alarm worried him.
Something had gone wrong, and it was he who had sent her after the poison-man.
‘Calm yourself, Weveroth,’ he murmured, thankful that Etraya was too lost in the darkness of her own dreams to attend to him.
Eetapi. Ootapi.
The serpents released Etraya and came to him, awaiting command.
Does anyone guard the door?
They were gone, and back in moments. No, Malykant.
Konrad shook his head, disappointed. Had Nuritov failed to receive his note? Or had he been unable - or unwilling - to act on it?
He gave brief thought to leaving Eetapi in attendance on Etraya, but dismissed the idea. He might need both his serpents before the night was over. He would find Irinanda, then return for the nurse.
And Analena Rostikova.
Is the Lady of the house within?
The serpents’ answer came instantly. No, Malykant.
That made him pause. No? He had not really expected a negative. Where was Lena at this hour of the night? What mischief was she working, somewhere out in the city - or beyond? He suffered a moment’s frustration at the thought; he would have liked to take up the chase immediately, find her wherever she was hiding and complete his obligation to The Malykt.
But no. Not yet. First, he must find Nanda.
Out of the
window again he went, and down the side of the building. Weveroth scampered ahead of him and waited at the bottom.
‘Weveroth,’ he whispered to the monkey when he had regained his feet. ‘Take me to your mistress.’
The monkey turned and ran, and Konrad and the serpents followed.
If Konrad had had time to think clearly about the matter, he might have expected to be taken to Irinanda’s shop, or her house, or possibly to the poison-man. He did not expect to see the world dissolve around him before he had gone more than three steps, or to experience the stark contrasts of the Spirit-World searing his eyes and paralysing his brain with light and shadow and fear. Dread seized him and for a moment, his breath stopped. How had Nanda come to be here? And what would be left of her when he found her?
This last question was soon answered, for faithful Weveroth located his mistress with unerring accuracy. A dark figure rushed at him, dark yet lit with the living, vivid colour that was anathema to the spirit plane. A mortal, her bright, pale hair loose and streaming in the spirit-winds, her body in a frenzy of motion. She rushed past him, eyes wide and staring but not recognising him.
He turned and caught her. He needed all of his strength to hold her in her wild panic.
‘Nanda.’ He repeated her name a few times, speaking close to her ear, but she did not quiet. Her mind was far gone in fear, and perhaps more than that. Spirit-wisps dived and danced around her shivering form, pinching her, raking their claws through her soul, and as each howling sprite launched itself at her she trembled anew.
The serpents needed no orders from him. They flew at the spirit-wisps, and Konrad felt their inaudible snarls as faint shivers in his bones. Eetapi opened her mouth wide, too wide, and snapped her incorporeal jaws shut around the wriggling form of a wisp. She swallowed, and down it went. Ootapi followed her lead, and one by one the vicious spirits were consumed and dissolved by The Malykt’s servants. Irinanda stood, alone except for the two snake-spirits that hovered near her face. She swayed.
Bind her, he said to the serpents then, and they obeyed. Nanda’s body stiffened as they took control of her bones and muscles and skin, and she stood rigid in his arms. Her eyes, though; they jerked still, this way and that, still seeking escape. Her mind was unaware that help had come, that rescue was at hand.
His heart twisted in his chest, and for the first time in so long he was truly grateful for the harsh blessing that had dampened the strength of his emotions. He could steady her, aware of his dismay and his guilt and his fear for her but not touched by it. He gripped her hand with calm strength, turned and began walking back the way they had come. Nanda walked stiffly beside him.
It was not to his city house that he took her, nor even to her own home. He stepped out of the spirit lands and into the Bone Forest south of Ekamet. His own house rose out of the mist only a few steps ahead, strong winds setting it swaying on its long legs. He watched as the serpents made Irinanda climb the rope ladder, wondering if the rigidity in her limbs would allow her to navigate the ladder successfully. Her ascent was not graceful, but she disappeared safely through the trapdoor and he hastened after her.
Lie her down, he instructed, and the serpents carried their prisoner to the bed and caused her to lay herself out upon it. Even recumbent, there was no hint of relaxation in her poor frightened body, and her eyes continued to jerk and shiver in her head.
‘Weveroth,’ he said. ‘I need you to help me.’ He was unsure how much Nanda’s pet understood; more than it ought to, certainly, and he judged it best to speak freely to it.
Weveroth stopped at his feet and sat back on his haunches, waiting.
‘What happened to her?’
The monkey lifted one paw, drew it back and then forward, opening its fingers as if releasing something. It waited expectantly for a moment, then repeated the motion.
‘Something was thrown at her,’ Konrad interpreted. ‘Powder. I can think of three things that it might have been.’ He went to his shelves and collected three jars. These he placed before Weveroth, removing the lid on each.
The monkey stuffed its nose into each jar in turn, then sat back again. It made no sign of recognition towards any of the three.
‘None of those?’ Konrad frowned, puzzled. Obviously whatever she’d inhaled had given her hallucinations, uncontrollable fear, paranoia and anxiety. It had also restricted her breathing: each breath came hard and short, though her chest heaved. He would have thought it would be one of these…
But there was another possibility, a forbidden one. Why had Nanda been so hounded by the cruellest shades of the spirit lands? They did not usually attach themselves idly, and never in such great numbers. Someone - presumably the poison-man - had set them on her.
And if he was willing to bargain with such creatures, nothing would prevent him from further such bargains, the sort for which a mortal must trade pieces of their living soul. What had the poison-man gained in return? Spirit dust. A concoction of mist and earth and shreds of lost aether from the Deathlands; the forsaken goblins and corrupted sprites of that dark spirit land took it and warped it, mixed it with their sweat and their spit and ground it to powder.
Its possession and use were banned across all mortal lands, that he knew. And why? Because its effects were permanent. Irinanda had taken this filth into herself and it had made itself part of her, corrupting her body and infecting her mind. No known way existed to reverse its effects.
He stared at Nanda, her thin body shivering still as she lay on his bed, held there only by the invasive influence of his serpents. Her mind was already gone, probably, and her body would soon follow, melting away into the mists of the Deathlands. His fault.
There was one thing only that he could try. The mere thought sent fear whispering through his thoughts, seeking to make a coward of him. He gathered his Master’s coldness about himself, watching as his breath began to steam in the air. He closed his eyes, and prayed.
The cold deepened around him until he, too, began to shiver, clad though he was in his thickest clothes. Ice blossomed across the floor, creeping into the corners of his forest house, spreading over the furniture and reaching long-fingered hands up the walls to the ceiling.
The Malykt, The Overlord comes, whispered the serpents, and Konrad’s heart began to pound hard in his chest.
My servant calls, but he has no vengeance to offer Me.
The voice was deep and dark and full of thunder. It ripped through Konrad’s mind, threatening to split him in two. He gritted his teeth and stood his ground, his chin raised high. It did not do to cower before The Malykt.
‘My Lord,’ he managed to say. ‘I have not yet completed the task You recently set for me, but with the help of this woman I am close.’
He felt the Spirit Lord’s chilling disapproval at his words. It is not permitted to you to seek help. No other may interfere in My doings.
‘Yes, Lord,’ Konrad panted. ‘I have erred, but the punishment for that must rest with me. I beg You to lift the affliction this woman has incurred on my behalf. It is not deserved. She sought only to serve You.’
Nothing happened. The silence stretched out so long that Konrad’s hopes fled into the cold and he merely stood, empty of the depth of guilt and sadness that should have been his to suffer.
I do so, came the terrible voice again at last. But not on your account, Malykant.
Then on whose? Konrad wondered, but he did not dare to ask. He was only grateful. He bowed his head in relief.
‘My gratitude is beyond expression, Lord Malykt.’
I know.
Then the cold was gone. The ice melted all at once into frigid water, and trickled away through the floor. The Malykt was gone.
‘Konrad?’ Irinanda’s voice, sounding small and lost even in this humble space.
‘I’m here.’ He went to her, looking her over. Her shaking had stopped, and to his immense relief, her eyes were her own again. She looked on him with confusion, but also with recognition. <
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He knelt by the bed, and smoothed back the pale, sweat-dampened hair that lay in tangles around her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should never have asked it of you.’
She just shook her head, and he guessed she was too tired to speak.
‘But you must speak,’ he said out loud. ‘I need to hear what you’ve seen.’
So she told him, in short sentences forced from her exhausted body. It was enough.
‘Thank you,’ he said when she had finished. He layered blankets over her, tucked them in around her bone-white face and gave Weveroth to her.
‘You’ll be safe here,’ he said. ‘Rest.’
She didn’t answer. She was already asleep.
Moving with quiet care, Konrad equipped himself for his next task. He collected a packet of powder from a locked chest and tucked it into his coat. He checked that the rib bones were in their accustomed place in his top inside pocket. He took up his hat, and the scarf that kept the winter chills off his neck.
Then, with a final glance at Irinanda sleeping peacefully in his bed, he slipped down the rope ladder and out into the Bones.
The Rostikov Legacy Page 9