by A Van Wyck
He frowned. Why would the watch need an empath? As a lie detector perhaps? He supposed that could prove useful. Funny how he’d never considered the possibility before.
But being an empath wasn’t like being a mind reader – a possibility the keeper scoffed at. You couldn’t divine people’s thoughts. Though Justin’s insights sometimes made him wonder. It was simply like an extra sense you could… taste emotions with. You couldn’t use it to tell what someone was lying about any more or less than you could use your eyes or ears for the same purpose. It wasn’t magic.
These thoughts spun through his head as they trekked across the city.
Their destination turned out to be a drab, grey building, the big metal letters that spelled WATCH trailing long, rusty tears down the fronting stone. The large, brass studded double doors stood wide open, flanked by a pair of guards in the same grey cloaks, leaning on their spears.
They nodded the keeper and his escort through.
“Brace yourself, father,” one of them muttered under his breath as they passed.
Inside, the building was a flurry of activity. It looked like it might have been converted from an old library or Chapter House. A double row of columns, ornately worked at top and base, marched down either side of what seemed to be the main floor. Balconies with decorative iron grills ran all along the upper insides. People scurried among the jigsaw of tables and desks in a maelstrom of constant motion. How the people at those desks functioned with all the racket going on all around was anyone’s guess. The vast majority wore grey watch uniforms, though he saw only a handful who were armed and armored like their escort. A desk job here must not require mail and a sword. Doubtfully eyeing some of the characters being marched around, safely shackled, he thought he might insist on some armor if he had to work here. The multitude of voices meshed into a sustained note that, though not overly loud, seemed to fill the building up to its arched ceiling. It was almost like being back on that first street outside the Temple. He got the impression that the quiet mayhem all around was normal for this place. He tried not to stare.
Their guide led them safely among the desks and up the stairs whose central strip of red carpet had probably been plush and impressive once but was now scuffed and threadbare. The view from the gallery gave an even better idea of the ordered chaos reigning on the floor below. Marco shook his head. This was definitely nothing like the Temple.
Turning a corner, their guide led them down a bleak hallway, halting to knock on an unmarked door no different from any of the others.
“Come,” called a brusque voice.
Their escort stuck her head in.
“Keeper’s here, sir.”
“Good. Send him in.”
She leaned back out, motioning for Justin.
“In you go.”
“Thank you, lieutenant.”
Marco stayed on the priest’s heels as they entered the office. The man behind the desk stood to greet them.
“Keeper. Thank you for accepting my invitation. Please sit.”
“A pleasure, commander. As always, anything I can do to help.”
The commander was a thin, wan-faced man, not yet middle aged, with dark bruises under his steely eyes. After a fleeting glance, the man seemed to ignore Marco so he remained standing just inside the door, trying to remain inconspicuous and glancing around the spartan office.
It seemed very utilitarian. Paperwork was stacked in neat piles on a desk that had seen better days. His eyes were drawn to an ornamental letter opener, a gift from someone – its intricately knotted gift ribbon by now dilapidated and out of place among the stark furnishings – sharing an open box with a collection of hard used quills. The wastepaper bin contained only two envelopes that had obviously been opened by blunt fingers. The far corner held a washing stand and a mirror – true glass but with chips in its silver backing. A folding razor and shaving brush lay neatly beside a towel draped over a basin. Scattered drops of water had made darker spots on the wooden floor around the stand.
His gaze returning to the clean shaven commander, Marco noted again the bags under the eyes and saw for the first time the rumpled shirt. If the man had slept, it hadn’t been in his bed.
“I might be asking too much this time, father,” the man announced, his expression grim.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Very well, then I’ll get straight to the point.”
The man leaned back in his chair.
“Early last evening,” he began, “two of my constables patrolling the Furrow were called in to investigate a complaint about a bad smell coming from an adjoining apartment in one of the tenement blocks there.”
“Now, you get those sometimes,” the man continued. “Some of the people who end up there have nowhere left to go and no one to care either way. If you’re lucky, the smell means that some squatters have moved in. We clear those out, of course, but they’re usually back in a day or two.”
“Sometimes, though,” the man grimaced, “you walk in on a week old corpse. Some old veteran or widow of the war, died quietly, leaving no one to miss them.”
The man lapsed into silence.
“And last evening?” the keeper prompted.
Coming to himself, the man opened his mouth, glanced at Marco and swallowed what he’d been about to say.
“Not squatters,” he said instead, “and not natural causes either. My constables arrested a suspect on the scene. He didn’t even try to run. We’ve got him down in lock-up now but he’s not talking.”
“Commander,” Justin hesitantly began when the man seemed reluctant to continue, “the courts have made their views clear on Readings. You know that anything I discover would be inadmissible as evidence in any case you might bring against your suspect. An Imperial magistrate would never hear it. I’m not sure what it is you expect me to…”
But the commander was shaking his head.
“It’s not that, father. After receiving the report, I went and had a look at the crime scene myself. Some of the things I saw there…” the tired looking commander shook his head. “I’m considering handing the man over to the boys at the sanitarium.”
“I see…” the keeper mused, understanding. “So, you want me to tell whether he’s unbalanced?”
“Oh, I know he’s unbalanced,” the commander assured them, iron in his voice. “I want you to tell me whether he’s stark raving mad.”
“Very well,” the keeper agreed, looking grim. “When?”
The commander stood.
“This way, please.”
The commander led them out of his office and around the corner to a dank set of spiral stairs, leading down.
“You’re not holding him in the general lock-up?” the keeper asked in surprise, obviously more knowledgeable about the layout of the Watch House than Marco.
“As a safety precaution,” the commander stated.
“You think he might attempt to harm someone else if given the chance?”
“He,” the commander said over his shoulder, “hasn’t so much as batted an eye since we brought him here. Literally. But what he’s done, or is suspected of doing, I suppose I should say, is already general knowledge around the Watch House.” They exited the stairs, continuing along a badly lit corridor.
“Don’t get me wrong, father,” the commander went on sternly, “all my officers are good, solid men and women. But what happened in that apartment…” the man shook his head, “it’s enough to put a righteous itch up even a good man’s back.” The commander went on musingly. “I’ve had to very carefully pick the guards down here.”
“I completely understand, commander,” the keeper assured him.
“I knew you would. That’s partly the reason why I insisted it be you.”
“And the other part?”
They’d come to a heavy wooden door with a shuttered iron grill inset at eye level. A single watchman stood guard outside under the feeble light of a lone lamp.
“You’ll se
e,” the commander growled ominously. “Open it up, Mert.”
The watchman peeked through the grill warily before drawing the big iron key from his belt.
The keeper directed a worried glance at Marco, eyeing the door uncertainly.
“Is it safe?” he asked.
The commander nodded, obviously understanding.
“He’s fully restrained and, as I said, not inclined to talk. There shouldn’t be any danger.”
At last feeling some trepidation, Marco followed the two men into the cell, his eyes darting. The first thing to hit him was the stench. It was unlike anything he’d ever smelled before. It was invasive, crawling down the throat, bringing images of rotting meat and maggots with it. He caught his breath, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. A cough escaped him. The keeper and the commander seemed unaffected, though the commander’s nose crinkled. Taking shallow breaths, he looked around.
A burly watchman leaned in a corner, watching the figure in the center of the room with a blank expression. Marco jumped as the door behind him slammed shut.
The scrawny, bedraggled figure that sat hunched over the table, his long, greasy hair hanging over his face, was not what he’d expected. The man seemed completely unaware, unfocused eyes staring, unseeing, at the tabletop. He was thin, not lean, his narrow shoulders poking through his grime encrusted rags. His pale, clammy skin was wrinkled, looking brittle. The heavy shackles at thin ankles and wrists holding him to the bolted down table looked almost comically out of place on this wretched man with the weak chin and coin sized bald spot.
“Father, if you please,” the commander waved his hand at the only other chair, opposite the table from the prisoner.
The keeper nodded.
“Marco?”
He jumped. The priest motioned him over to the corner by the watchmen. He went quickly, keeping a wary eye on the chained man.
The priest moved to sit on the edge of the chair opposite the prisoner, lacing his fingers on the tabletop.
“Hello,” he began, addressing the prisoner in a neutral, soothing voice, “my name is Justin. Can you tell me your name?”
There was a tense, expectant silence, as if the man might spontaneously explode. But he didn’t respond or seem to hear. Not so much as the flick of an eye.
“Do you know your name, sir?” Justin tried again. But when the man gave no indication that he was not completely and absolutely alone in the universe, the keeper looked the question at the commander.
“Neighbors identified him as Perner Meum,” the man obliged. “The… victims, were his family.”
Nodding, the keeper looked back at the unresponsive prisoner.
“Perner? Do you remember what happened last night?”
Nothing.
“Perner, do you know where you are?”
Silence.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
More silence.
Justin sighed, glancing briefly around the room. He let his gaze touch on the other occupants, lingering briefly on Marco as if considering sending him away or, perhaps, regretting letting him come in the first place.
“From this point on,” he warned them all, “no noise, please.”
With that, the keeper clasped his hands together on the table, closed his eyes and bowed his head. Marco copied him, silently mouthing the words to the familiar prayer.
“Unity through faith,” the priest finished. Marco drew the sign of the circle over his heart, echoed by the watchman at his side.
The keeper drew a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. He seemed to sink in upon himself slightly where he sat, consciously relaxing his muscles. As he relaxed he leant forward. Elbows resting on his knees, he stared at Perner Meum, his face slack and devoid of expression.
For long moments there was only the sound of people breathing. Apparently they were too far removed here from the main Watch House for the buzz of activity to penetrate. Spots began to dance before Marco’s eyes and he realized he’d unconsciously been breathing in time with father Justin, who’s trance-like breathing was way too slow to fuel Marco’s galloping heart. He nearly jumped in surprise as, under his robes, a droplet of cold sweat rattled down his ribcage. The silence in the room had grown thick and oppressive.
The suggestion of movement was felt more than seen. His eyes narrowed on the prisoner, unaware of the cramping in his calves as they fought to keep him upright despite the precarious angle at which he leaned forward toward the table.
There!
One of the prisoner’s wispy strands of hair swayed almost imperceptibly. Focused on it, Marco saw this was because the prisoner was raising his head. At a glacial crawl, but with the same unstoppable sense of movement, the prisoner’s head tilted up. Cold, dead eyes stared fixedly at the keeper from behind a curtain of dirty locks, no longer unfocused.
Like a mouse sensing the shadow of the owl, Marco froze. The watchman beside him straightened in alarm and the commander cursed under his breath, reaching for a sword he wasn’t wearing.
Suddenly the sturdy tabletop didn’t seem like such a wide barrier between father Justin and this... thing. If he could have moved, Marco would have pelted over to the keeper and jerked on his arm, get him as far away from the prisoner as the walls would allow. But he stood frozen, motionless. His knees were unaccountably trembling. It was all he could manage to stay upright. He tried to open his mouth, not knowing yet what he would shout. But his dry throat constricted around the would-be sound, strangling it. For all that he was looking right into it, the keeper seemed unaware of that terrible stare. The moment dragged on while Marco’s heart tried to beat out of his chest.
Whatever had so briefly animated the prisoner seemed to abruptly leech out of him. Without seeming to move, the man’s expression slackened and his eyes unfocused. With infinite slowness, his head drooped, hiding again his terribly lifeless gaze.
And then it was over. The prisoner was a statue again.
The keeper let out an explosive breath, shooting to his feet. He whirled drunkenly, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat. He steadied himself with one hand on the tabletop, turning toward the commander.
“I need to see where this happened…” he rasped, a slew of emotions flashing in his eyes.
Commander Grayston elected to show them the scene of the crime. The commander and the keeper walked side by side in front of him, their pace brisk so he had to stretch his legs to keep up with the taller men’s gait. Two watchmen trailed along behind, their heads swiveling continually from side to side as they brought up the rear. One was the lieutenant from before.
The commander had refrained from peppering the keeper with questions about the Reading. He wished the man would. He himself would be too scared to ask but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to know. Instead, the commander walked along silently beside the keeper, hands clasped behind his back and a frown on his brow, looking preoccupied. Possibly the commander was too scared to ask as well.
He was concentrating on his feet, to keep from tripping, so he noticed when the cobbles turned to dirt road underfoot. The sun’s heat left the back of his head and he looked up in surprise. They had come far from Temple and harbor. The buildings around them were dilapidated and poor. Many of the simple stone structures had additional wooden stories built atop them. At best they looked haphazard, the ill-fitting wood cobbled together in a crazed pattern of supports and beams. Some constructions bridged the gap between adjacent buildings and a couple even spanned the width of the street, competing with heavily laden washing lines to block out the sun. Even the clothes hung grey and forlorn.
He happened to glance down a shadowed alley. Filth lay in knee deep, decomposing piles and droves of flies fanned the thick fugue of garbage and excrement into the street. He quickly averted his face, breathing deep the relatively clean air of the road. But he couldn’t banish the image from his mind. Even the flies had seemed disinterested and rundown, circling aimlessly.
It was quite
a change from the Temple, where everything had been set in orderly, comforting stone for centuries and there were always ready hands to sweep and polish. His wide eyes bounced from place to place, trying to find a clean surface to rest on. It was a shock. Suddenly, words he’d heard most every day in the Temple – words that he’d known but never understood – took on new meaning. Words like poverty. Poor. Deprived. Destitute. Dispossessed. They seemed somehow… insufficient… to describe what he was seeing. Even the cell he shared with the other novices was a palace compared to this.
“Here,” the commander said, halting their little party.
He looked up.
The building looked little different from the ones around it. The first two stories were stone. Crumbling brick peeked from rotten cavities in the mortar. Two more stories had been added on later and sat askew, perched like the nest of some scavenger bird.
“You stay here, Morrick,” the commander instructed the other watchman, who took up position outside.
He followed behind Keeper Justin and the commander, the lieutenant bringing up the rear.
The darker, inside air was stale and not pleasant to breathe. It smelled of urine and old sweat and lots of people, eating, breathing, living and – he didn’t want to think it – possibly dying, in a cramped space.
None of those people were in evidence now and their party climbed the swaybacked stairs, dusted in fresh mortar dust, in complete silence. It was slightly eerie. Like coming into a room someone else had just left. Vacant but not empty.
They reached the first of the wooden stories and the commander started down the short passage. It held only two doors. He lifted a hand toward the crude latch on the second.
This was it then. Whatever the keeper had come to see. He held his breath.
“Sirs.”
Both men looked toward the blank faced lieutenant. She rolled her eyes uncertainly towards him.
“Perhaps…” she began.
“Yes,” the keeper interrupted, distraction momentarily fading. “Of course.”
The keeper turned to him.
“Marco, kindly wait at the top of the stairs.”