by Kim Fielding
The wraiths floated closer, bringing a bone-deep chill and an odor of rot and decay that made me gag despite my familiarity with the reek of the Low.
They’d caught me in an awkward position, one hardly suited to fighting, but I suspected my blades would be of little use here anyway. I resettled my tunic and, holding my chausses closed with one hand, struggled to my feet.
Jory started to rise, but I hissed, “Stay down!” Miraculously, he obeyed.
I looked around. Five wraiths on Jory’s side and three on mine, none of them distinguishable from the others. All of them moving slowly toward us.
Although I knew it was stupid, I bent quickly to pull a knife from my belt with my free hand. I clutched the hilt tightly. “Leave us be!”
They didn’t listen as well as Jory had. They came nearer and nearer, until I could have touched the closest ones, and still I couldn’t make out any facial features. Perhaps they had nothing but eyes. They hadn’t made any sounds.
When one of them… folded its body—it’s the only way to describe it—and reached a spectral arm toward us, I shouted and threw myself on top of Jory.
The wraiths were upon me at once. They had fingers, cold as ice and hard as bone, that wrapped around my hand until it went numb and I dropped the knife. More fingers traced my face, my scalp. They pulled my hand away from the chausses’ laces and pushed up my tunic, then lightly touched my chest, my belly, my hips, and my cock and balls.
Jory squirmed beneath me, pinned by my weight and, I thought, also held in place by the wraiths.
I tried to shout again, but the wraiths were in me, spreading down my throat like water. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do more than flail weakly against them.
It was a piss-poor way to die, although I wasn’t in pain. I wondered what the wraiths got out of this and wished I could ask them. Not that they’d answer.
They withdrew from my mouth, allowing me to gasp some air, but they continued to roam their fingers over me. They pulled my chausses off completely, leaving me naked save for the tunic bunched around my armpits, and they seemed especially fascinated with my knees and toes and with the juncture of my legs and torso. Then they concentrated on my belly again before moving up to my chest. And gods and goddesses, in.
A frigid hand wrapped around my heart, not tightly enough to still it but clearly there. The cold made my heart stutter, but it didn’t hurt. I had a strange thought: at least I wasn’t dying alone.
As if he realized I was thinking of him, Jory spasmed beneath me. “Daveth? Daveth?”
“Stay still!” I rasped. As if the wraiths wouldn’t notice him underneath me.
“Don’t hurt him!” he yelled. “Leave us alone!”
Too stubborn to give in to river wraiths. Good.
My body warmth leached away, pouring out of me and into the wraiths. I felt too cold even to shiver. And I was tired. It was so tempting to just give in, to let the wraiths do what they wanted with me. Steal my heat, my body. What did I care as long as I could rest?
But no. Jory.
I gathered the last of my strength and screamed.
The wraiths withdrew quickly. As I tried to get my limbs to cooperate, the wraiths floated several feet away, watchful but not touching either of us.
Jory scrambled out from beneath me. Ignoring the wraiths, he blanketed me with his body and pulled my cloak over us both, then cradled my face in his hands. Dear gods and goddesses, his warm hands.
“Daveth? Daveth, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
His answer sounded suspiciously like a sob. I tried to put my arms around him but couldn’t quite manage it. Still, heat crept back into me, bit by bit, and it felt delicious. He felt delicious.
The wraiths hovered. One of them came closer, and I braced myself, knowing I could do nothing to protect Jory or myself. But it didn’t touch us. It watched from the pits of its eyes. For one brief moment only, it glowed nearly bright enough to blind me.
And then they were gone.
The warehouse grew balmier at once. Jory sagged on top of me. “You’re all right?” he asked into my neck.
“I think so.”
“They didn’t kill us.”
“No.”
He was briefly silent before his next question. “Will they be back?”
“Not tonight.” I had no basis to conclude that other than instinct, yet I was quite sure of it.
He rolled to my side, taking care to keep me covered by the cloak. He rested one of his legs over both of mine and softly rubbed my chest. “That was…. I never imagined anything like that,” he said.
“Nor had I.” I’d caught glimpses of wraiths a few times before, on nights when I crossed the river, but they’d been far away. The scavengers stayed out of the water after dark because of the wraiths. I’d never spoken to a scavenger who’d been close to one.
“What did they want?” Jory said.
“I think… they were curious about us. We must seem very strange to them.”
“You almost died.”
I had to laugh at that. “That’s my fate. A thousand almost dies until the day the almost goes away. I feel as if Death has been very unfortunate with me. She must be angry.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want you. Maybe you get to live instead.”
“Death wants all of us. She’s greedy that way.”
Too exhausted for more talk—or passion—and lacking even the energy to pull on my chausses, I sank into a deep sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
I AWAKENED hungry, dirty, and somewhat disoriented, but with Jory plastered cozily against me.
“Are we late?” I asked groggily.
He yawned. “No. Sun just rose. It’ll be hours before Uren goes to the Finch.” He wiggled against me. “We have time to finish what the wraiths interrupted.”
Tempting, yes, but I was sore from sleeping on the hard floor and could still detect a chill inside me from last night’s adventure. I disentangled from him and sat up.
“It’s going to be a challenge getting to the Finch without being caught by the guard.”
He looked disappointed but shrugged, stood, and gave me a hand up, leering as I replaced my clothing. He’d never fully undressed, so it took him only a moment to get ready. We shook the dust off our cloaks before putting them on, and he attempted to tame his curls with his fingers. There was nothing I could do about my growing beard.
Jory seemed strangely cheerful. He hummed quietly as he laced up his boots. “Can we stop for something to eat?” he asked. “I’m ravenous.”
“Really?”
“I’m not used to adventures.”
“This isn’t playacting or a game. We’re going to—”
“Be killed. I know. But I don’t see any point in dying on an empty stomach.” He flashed me a boyish grin.
“What in all hells are you so happy about?”
His sigh was overly dramatic. “Well, for one thing, we made it through the night. Between Uren, the guards, and the wraiths, I didn’t expect that. And I got to sleep with you again, which was really quite pleasant even if the wraiths spoiled some of our fun.” His expression grew serious. “And last night you put yourself between me and life-threatening danger. Again.”
“It’s—” I stopped myself. I’d been ready to claim that protecting him was my job, but that wasn’t remotely true. The only thing I’d been paid to do was drag him to Uren, most likely to be executed.
Jory briefly stroked my cheek. “I’m not sure whether you did that because you’re a hero or because you specifically care about me. Either way, it’s wonderful. I’ve never met a hero before and nobody has— Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down.
Blessed Bolitho, why had I done it? Both times had been instinctive, with no time for conscious decisions. Perhaps my life held so little value to me that I’d throw myself in front of any oncoming danger. Perhaps that would make it attempted suicide rather than heroism. But no, I was glad to have survived, even if only f
or a few more hours.
I couldn’t solve every mystery. My own behavior would remain a puzzle. “I guess we can grab some food as we go.”
We each pulled up the hood of our cape as we left the warehouse, obscuring our faces slightly and Jory’s distinctive hair completely. But there was nothing I could do to disguise my height, and surely the guards were on the lookout for a tall thin man. The best practice would be to get to the Finch and off the streets as quickly as possible—and hope she was in a cooperative frame of mind.
We crossed Basilisk Bridge quickly, weaving through the early-morning throngs. On the opposite side of the river, we bought tea, dried fish, and greenfruit from a street vendor and consumed them while we walked.
We twice encountered guards, but I saw them before they spied us, and I hastily yanked Jory into a shadowed alley until they passed. The second time, he stole a quick kiss before I let him go. I couldn’t understand the perverse enjoyment he was getting out of our situation, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it.
The hour was still early when we reached the Finch. This one had her shop on a busy street in the upper reaches of the Silver, between stores selling clothing, jewelry, and linens. I’d never visited this particular Finch, but she looked exactly like her sisters, and the interior of her shop was identical to the others. She recognized me at once.
“Daveth Blyd!” she exclaimed when we entered. “And Jory Pearce. So they haven’t caught you yet.”
“Not yet.” I looked nervously at her shop’s front windows.
She puffed on her calmstick. “Why aren’t you hiding? Or fleeing?”
“Unfinished business.”
She clucked her tongue. I was going to explain our plan to her, but before I could speak, Jory gave her his most winning smile and held her free hand in both of his. “We need your help, darling,” he said.
Although his attempt at ingratiation was as transparent as glass, it was hard to resist Jory when he turned on his full charm. As I well knew. She looked at him fondly. “What can I do?”
“Uren’s due here this morning?”
“In about an hour.”
“He’s unjustly accused me of theft. And worse—he’s set Daveth up for murdering Arthyen. Daveth wouldn’t murder anyone.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Your man there has killed plenty of people. You know that, right?”
I stood impassively, silently, because she was right. But Jory lifted his chin. “Killing isn’t always murder.”
“And people can always find a way to justify their violence.”
Jory glanced my way as if he expected me to defend myself, but I simply shrugged. “It’s true. I’ve never yet met a killer who didn’t think he had a good excuse for it.”
The Finch looked at me. “And you? Did you have a good reason to kill Arthyen?”
“No reason at all. And I’m not the one who did it. Not this time.”
“His secretary said it was you. He was quite sure of it.” She clucked and shook her head. “Poor lad. He’s falling apart over this. Arthyen was a good employer and a good man.”
“I never met him. He was dead when I found him. Someone with a mimic spell got him.”
“A mimic spell! Those are expensive. And why would anyone go to such trouble?”
“Why would Daveth kill him?” Jory demanded.
She waved the calmstick vaguely. “Maybe you put him up to it for some reason.”
“Arthyen was my friend!”
“Then maybe Daveth stole something from him. I’m sure a wizard keeps many valuables in his home, and that secretary would be too distraught to notice the loss.”
Jory opened his mouth, likely to defend me again, but I stopped him with a raised hand. “I know my reputation is spotty, Finch, but am I known for being that stupid?”
She puffed on her calmstick thoughtfully. “No. You’ve certainly done some foolish things, but not often. Still, you’re asking me to accept an unlikely scenario.”
“You don’t have to accept anything. Help us out and we hope you’ll hear the truth straight from Lord Uren’s mouth.”
“Interesting. All right, I’ll give it a try.”
We explained what we wanted her to do, and she listened closely. Though she was obviously skeptical about the entire affair, I thought she looked a bit excited as well. Finches may know all the news, but they’re rarely a part of it.
She took us to the room upstairs where she’d tend to Lord Uren. It was a small, warm space with whitewashed walls and a pleasant scent of fruit and spices. It had no windows, but a spiritlight hung in each corner and two large lanterns flickered on shelves. I’m sure customers found the location pleasant, but it poorly served our purposes, in part due to the lack of hiding spaces. The only furniture was an odd bed—a narrow padded platform perched waist-high on four sturdy legs—plus a tiny table and, in the corner, an altar to Leucost, the patron god of the Finches.
“I think he’s going to notice me if I stand against the wall,” I said drily.
“Notice us,” Jory said, glaring briefly at me.
“I know,” said the Finch. “Come with me.”
The much larger room next door was her bedroom. Under other circumstances, I would have dearly loved to look around the wonderfully chaotic space, packed with furniture, clothing, books, shelves of gewgaws, and a wide variety of items I couldn’t identify at first glance. A big ornate cage contained five or six jewelsprites, all of them flickering bright colors and chattering loudly.
Our objective, however, turned out to be two wooden trunks carved and painted with scenes from Tangye’s history. As we watched, the Finch unloaded blankets and towels from one of them and assorted musical instruments from the other, dumping the contents onto the floor. Jory gazed longingly at a lute.
Under the Finch’s direction, Jory and I carried the trunks into the other room and set them against the wall. I lifted one of the lids and looked doubtfully inside. “I don’t know if I’m going to fit.”
“Of course you will,” she said. “A skinny thing like you can fold himself in half. And I understand Jory’s quite flexible.”
He shrugged, apparently unbothered by the allusion to his sexual past.
“And Lord Uren’s not going to be suspicious that the room now contains trunks?” I asked her.
“I’ll spread blankets over the top. I doubt he’ll notice.”
I didn’t think Lord Uren was an idiot, but I had learned long ago that people can be remarkably unobservant. I hoped he didn’t ask the Finch about the trunks, because she wouldn’t lie. Whether she could creatively present the truth, I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t eager to risk my life and Jory’s to find out.
“He’ll be here soon,” she said.
Jory gave me a hard kiss before lifting the lid of one of the trunks and cramming himself inside. It was a tight fit, but he grinned at me as I closed him in. The Finch put a pretty red blanket on top.
Then it was my turn. I’m not overly fond of small, enclosed spaces; I like to feel as if I have an easy escape route. I would have preferred to face the wraiths in the dark warehouse again. But I muttered under my breath, calling myself a variety of names, and packed myself in. With the top shut and a blanket over the whole thing, no light made its way in. The wood smelled of mothbane and lavender, and little splinters pricked the skin on the backs of my hands. I regretted the tea I’d drunk that morning—or wished I’d at least thought to take a piss before getting myself into this position.
The Finch’s footsteps receded, the floorboards creaking softly under her tread.
I waited.
My muscles had begun to cramp by the time I heard voices. I recognized Lord Uren at once; he was complaining about what a difficult week he’d had. “I might have to see you again on Flowerday or Fruitday if things don’t improve.”
“I’m happy I can help you relax,” said the Finch. “Now, go ahead and undress. But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your guards wait downstairs?”
Guards? Fuck. Neither Jory nor the Finch had mentioned that Lord Uren brought his private guards on these visits. Either my allies had been remiss or Lord Uren was feeling especially on edge of late. Either way, my task had just become more difficult.
“They’ll stay,” Lord Uren said firmly.
“Very well. I’ll go fetch some wine while you get ready.”
More footsteps, probably while Lord Uren removed his clothes. I guessed that a small thunk over me was him throwing his belongings onto my trunk. Although I strained my ears, I couldn’t get a sense of how many guards he’d brought or where they stood. He didn’t talk to them and they didn’t say anything either.
I wondered what they thought of their job, standing there while their employer received services that were at least marginally sexual in nature. Did they watch when he visited whores as well? Had they been in the room when he fucked Jory? I pushed away that thought.
The Finch returned and spent several minutes fussing over Lord Uren—giving him wine and getting him situated on the table, making sure he was comfortable, asking whether he wanted the door open or closed. His answers were clipped and impatient.
Finally she got to business. Judging by her occasional comments and his moans, she was massaging his muscles. Then she began to chant. First a blessing to Leucost, then something in a language I didn’t understand. A spell, I assumed. I’d rarely been present for the casting of magic, but most of the spells I’d heard had been in other tongues. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just a good way to make sure any old guy from the street doesn’t dabble in enchantments.
The Finch didn’t sing as well as Jory. But as she continued, growing louder as she went, a sense of power filled the room, making the hair on my arms and nape stand on end. My muscles contracted. And dammit, my dick twitched as if it were interested in the goings-on. I clutched one of my knives hard.
Lord Uren’s groans became louder and more frequent, and I couldn’t tell whether they were from pain or pleasure. Then he shouted hoarsely. I’d been under the impression that the Finches’ customers didn’t actually climax, but perhaps I’d been wrong. Or perhaps he merely found the magic ecstatic.