A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  The commander fixed him with a glance.

  “The report says the clerk fled when the old scaffolding collapsed.” Grayston nodded at the pile of debris. “And, according to him, he doesn’t remember seeing either your boy or the little girl. So they either arrived later or he’s lying, which then begs the question, why? If he was involved in some kind of illegal trade,” the commander was too disciplined to let the disgust Justin sensed show on his face, “then I’ll find out,” the man promised darkly.

  The commander’s jaw muscles bunched briefly.

  “Now, let me tell you what bothers me, Keeper,” the man continued, glaring past him. “The last time I saw your boy, you and I were in the midst of some fairly dismembered human remains. Now, we find him at the center of another, similar scene. That makes him a suspect to my mind but then, I have a very suspicious mind.”

  He blinked. What the commander said was true but, besides the dismemberment part, the two crime scenes seemed nothing alike. He sensed the reluctance in the commander and thought he understood. The Temple had already taken one investigation from the watch’s hands today. If the commander made public his belief that there was a connection between the two crimes, this investigation would be in danger of being appropriated too.

  “I’ve got three bodies and no witnesses,” the steely eyed man went on. “Two of them, my expert tells me, have been mauled to death by some kind of animal. Now failing some kind of escaped creature from the Imperial Menagerie – and believe me, we are looking into that – that pretty much narrows the search to wild dogs. But there’s hardly any sign and the bodies don’t appear to have been worried. And if dogs, then why go for the two grown men when there was easier prey about?” Grayston carefully did not look at either Marco or the nameless girl. “A lone dog wouldn’t normally attack two big men and a pack would have left some evidence. A single creature capable of doing this…” the man shook his head. “We would have heard if something like that was loose on the streets.” The man scowled. “Unless it’s newly arrived. Helia knows we get all sorts down at the harbor. This might only be the first of many incidents, goddess grant it isn’t so.”

  The man pulled his darkly introspective gaze back to the keeper.

  “Whatever the case, it seems I’m looking for something with teeth and claws and your boy has neither.”

  He’s checked, Justin realized with a start.

  “So what are you telling me, commander?” he asked, sensing there was more to this conversation than a polite sharing of information for gratitude’s sake.

  The man locked eyes with him.

  “I’m telling you, Keeper, that I have a report to write and I’m at a loss for what to put in it. The people who read my reports like things neat and simple and they are easily upset. If I start speculating about huge dogs roaming the streets, chewing up criminals, I’d be booted out of office so fast my ass won’t even scuff the floor.”

  The man paused.

  “You’ve always been a friend to the watch, Keeper. What do you think happened?”

  He’s asking me to co-author a rational explanation that won’t arouse suspicions with the palace bean-counters.

  He would like nothing better than to excise Marco’s involvement from this unfortunate event. But he also knew the commander was a pragmatist. This courtesy wasn’t solely for his and Marco’s benefit. He could see it in the man’s eyes. Whatever the public story they fabricated here and whether or not the Temple took over the investigation, Grayston would keep investigating.

  He regarded the commander steadily.

  “It seems fairly obvious to me,” he began. “The girl and my ward inadvertently interrupted these gentlemen, allowing your clerk to escape. From his report, we know these were violent men, which explains the condition of both children.”

  He paused, looking around.

  “It was probably the scent of blood that attracted the dogs, since they must have been ravenous. Why else attack two full grown men? Probably, the men being violent of nature, they made some kind of aggressive display, provoking the dogs. This was the unfortunate result of that ill advised act,” he theorized, waving his hand at the bodies.

  “And the children?” the commander prompted, indicating the unscathed – at least by tooth or claw – condition of Marco and the girl.

  “My guess?” Justin nodded toward the demolished scaffold. “During the struggle, the old trellis came down. The racket must have been frightful. Enough to send any number of dogs running, however hungry or feral.”

  The commander’s jaws bunched as he chewed over Justin’s words.

  “What you say makes a lot of sense, Keeper,” he conceded finally.

  Yes. So why don’t I believe it? Why don’t you?

  “Very well,” the commander said, indicating their discussion was over. “You can take the boy back to your Temple now.”

  “Your Temple too, commander,” he reminded the man.

  The steely eyed man’s nostrils flared but after a moment he nodded.

  “As you say, Keeper.”

  The mender with the unfortunate name had supervised Marco’s transfer onto a stretcher and he walked beside it as two watchmen, one of them the woman lieutenant, carried the unconscious boy out through the bleak curtains and into the street.

  They placed him on the back of a flatbed cart. Justin clambered up after him. The cart smelled strongly of wax and there was a faint hint of honey. There would be an angry chandler somewhere in the city, come morning. The watchman who’d helped carry the stretcher climbed up into the driver’s seat. Of the original driver, there was no sign. The watchman gathered the reins.

  “Keeper.”

  He looked over to see the commander had followed him. The man stood beside the cart, one hand gripping the sideboard. The emotions he sensed from the commander gave him pause.

  “Commander?”

  The man spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.

  “I have enough on my plate, worrying about psychotic butchers and free roaming war dogs.” He glanced briefly at the unconscious Marco, who lay pale and blood smeared in the cartbed. “Keep him off my streets.”

  Justin nodded at the thinly veiled warning.

  “You have my word, commander.”

  The man inclined his head. The watchman up front whipped the reins. The two oxen strained briefly at the traces and then the cart was bumping along the city cobbles, heading for the Temple.

  His eyes settled on Marco’s abused features, bouncing in time with the rocking of the cart. Worried thoughts marched through his mind.

  Commander Grayston was the least of their worries. And if the boy’s streak of bad luck held, he thought, even Helia’s infinite mercy might not be enough.

  * * *

  Everything always looks better in the morning. At least, that was the theory. During the night, the bruise on the boy’s cheek had purpled and the swollen eye had puffed grotesquely.

  Cyrus had just left.

  Now the bruise was a fading discoloration, the split lip was all but mended and if the eye was a little bloodshot, at least there was no permanent damage.

  Physically.

  Washed and dressed, the boy would wake soon. Only then would the real damage get a chance to show. For the hundredth time, Justin steeled himself against the coming moment, shifting uncomfortably in his comfortable chair. The old healer priest’s words churned again through his mind.

  “It’s damaged,” had been his diagnosis after inspecting the memory block they’d worked on the boy, what seemed a lifetime ago now.

  “Can’t you fix it?” he’d demanded desperately.

  “I shouldn’t even touch it,” Cyrus had growled. “Right now, it’s holding together – don’t ask me how.” The old priest had shaken his head in angry bafflement. “It’s like a house of sticks. Some of the sticks have broken and, by some miracle, the house is still standing. But it’s settled into a different shape. If I try tweaking some of the sticks,” he flapp
ed a hand helplessly, “the whole thing could come down.” He’d looked at Justin. “There’s no telling what the shock of that would do to the boy.”

  “A different shape?” he’d asked in alarm. “Is it still doing what it’s meant to?”

  The old priest had shrugged.

  “There’s no way of knowing. We’ll see when he wakes up.” He’d regarded Justin, glancing around the apartments meaningfully. “You’re sure you don’t want me to stick around for that? The last time this boy went on a rampage he singlehandedly wrecked a whole infirmary. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but he isn’t five anymore.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Suit yourself,” the old man had shrugged sourly, showing himself out.

  He wondered now whether he should have been so quick to dismiss his friend’s offer of help. Perhaps he should at least get someone to wait in the hall, just in case. But he wanted to believe that Marco was going to be alright. And if a priest couldn’t believe, then what was the point?

  Still shifting uncomfortably he voiced his umpteenth prayer.

  He sensed it when the boy’s consciousness started floating toward the surface. He carefully placed his hands palms down on the armrests of his chair to keep them still. He woke his streaming and strained his empathy through it, saturating the room with calm.

  Long moments passed.

  One of Marco’s hands twitched fitfully. Justin’s fingers dug into the plush padding.

  Slowly his sense of Marco became more defined as the boy woke from his drugged slumber. Eyelashes fluttered. So did Justin’s heart. He had to remind himself to breathe.

  Marco’s eyes opened slowly, his consciousness gently blooming towards wakefulness, lazily expanding in the wake of the poppy extract. The boy blinked.

  He watched, shoulders tensed, as the eyes moved. Found him. The boy started to smile.

  He could pinpoint the exact moment the memories came crashing back. The smile blew away like autumn leaves. Marco’s eyes snapped wide as his whole body went rigid, seizing his lungs with a soft gasp. Even from his chair, Justin could see the boy’s heart break into a heedless gallop.

  Any normal person would see only a boy, obviously in some distress, curled motionlessly among the white sheets. Justin had to weather the entire emotional explosion, its silence belying its consuming violence, living it along with the boy without the benefit of the memories to give it shape. It was a whirlwind.

  Shock. Panic. Pain. Disbelief. Despair. Anger. Guilt. A swirling storm of razors to cut what was left of the boy to shreds. It spiraled down, down and down.

  He did his best to reinforce his aura of calm. Of peace.

  Even so, a tear leaked from the boy’s eye.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Marco asked, voice thick and chin dimpling.

  It took him a moment to comprehend.

  The nameless little girl.

  “Yes,” he confirmed sadly. “I’m afraid she is.”

  The boy’s brows pulled down. The storm of emotions within him contracted into a single, hard knot.

  Grief.

  Marco broke down, sobbing helplessly into the pillows, muffling wails of such pitiful, hopeless despair that Justin felt his own throat close. He had to look away.

  Merciful Goddess, he thought, perceiving the depth of that despair, how do I stitch such a wound?

  It took a very long time for the boy to cry himself out.

  Justin might have offered a comforting hand or word or embrace but he could sense the deep, scalding shame and self-recrimination simmering beneath the grief. If he offered consolation right now it would flame up, angry and hot, interrupting the grief, grateful for something besides itself to burn. Those unshed tears might be trapped in the boy’s soul forever, slowly festering until it made of him something other than he was meant to be. So Justin stayed in his chair, holding himself in place with an iron grip on the armrests.

  When the boy had cried himself hoarse and his eyes were red rimmed and raw, he lay lifelessly staring at nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was tremulous and thick.

  “Where is she?”

  “It is customary for… remains… to be kept in the cool stores beneath the Watch House. They’ll be looking for any family she may have had to come collect her.”

  The bleak silence stretched.

  “They won’t find anyone,” the boy said in his broken voice.

  “Unclaimed remains are cremated and then buried at sea.”

  Twice buried. A pauper’s funeral.

  A lick of the anger he’d sensed briefly animated the boy’s eyes.

  “No!”

  He nodded, thinking.

  “I could arrange for her to be interred here,” he offered.

  He would manage it, too. Somehow.

  But the boy shook his head. It looked like a monumental effort.

  “She didn’t want to come here,” he explained laboriously, his voice dipping back towards the inconsolable grief that filled him like a drop of ink filled a cup of water.

  “Then I’ll see to purchasing her a plot at one of the local cemeteries.” And anyone who had a problem with the expense could come and take it up with him personally. “Would that be alright?” he suggested gently.

  The boy nodded.

  “I’ll see to it now. Will you be alright here on your own for a while?”

  The boy nodded again.

  He stood up out of his chair.

  “You…”

  He looked back at the boy, sensing the quivering sheaf of emotions tied with strings of grief, threatening to break.

  “You…” the boy tried again, “…didn’t ask…?”

  No. And I’m not going to. Not yet.

  “Later. There are more important things right now. We have a friend to bury.”

  The boy turned his face to the sheets. The grief in him throbbed.

  Justin paused at the door.

  “I’ll have to arrange for a grave marker…” he left that hanging.

  Just when he’d about given up, the boy turned his head.

  “Sunny,” he said. His eyes pinched, no doubt reaching for tears they didn’t have anymore. “Her name was Sunny.”

  “Very well. I’ll have some food sent up. I know you don’t feel like it but try eating something.”

  He got no answer. He didn’t expect any. He closed the door behind him, hiding himself from view… and then collapsed against it, his legs shaking. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tilted his head back until it brushed the hard wood. He clutched trembling hands into the folds of his robes to still them, gritting his teeth with the effort.

  Normal.

  Damaged, yes. Griefstruck and hurting but…

  Sane.

  He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

  Holy Helia, he prayed silently. Guardian Mother. For your attentive regard on your servant, Marco… thank you.

  He made an effort to pull himself together.

  He had a funeral to plan.

  Torvan Mattanuy had an eye for detail. And not just for things but for people. He could, for instance, tell the two masha’na guarding the door to the dilapidated apartment building had both snuck a look at the crime scene despite orders to the contrary. Neither looked guilty – masha’na swore their own Oaths and upheld them as they saw fit – it was simply the set of their shoulders, the tightness around their mouths and the carefully blank look in their eyes that spoke of suppressed revulsion.

  He alighted from the carriage and adjusted his black Inquisitor’s sash. His two assistants busied themselves unstrapping the heavy cases containing his equipment from the carriage roof.

  He did not much care whether the masha’na had peeked or not. By all accounts enough people had traipsed through the scene already that two more would hardly matter. What he minded were the rumors that were already spreading. People were calling what Perner Meum had done to his family the Butcher Murders. And that he would stop. He would have a talk with
the masha’na’s commanding officer when he got back to the Temple. And with the commander of the watch as well.

  He exchanged nods with the two warriors. A thin, bespectacled man wearing watch grays stepped forward as Torvan neared, gushily introducing himself. Blort? Was that even a name? The watch liaison explained he was there in case Torvan needed any questions answered. Torvan’s two assistants wisely headed the watchman off before he tried something pedestrian like shaking Torvan’s hand. The watchman wilted and fell in behind them as Torvan entered the building and started up the stairs, his assistants soon puffing and out of breath beneath their heavy burdens. Another masha’na on guard marked the apartment Torvan sought. The man pushed the door open for them but Torvan didn’t enter. He stood on the threshold, surveying the room from without, getting a feel for it. The watchman tried to say something but one of his assistants shushed the noisy man. When Torvan finally did enter, he walked slowly to the center of the room and turned a full circle.

  The happy rustic scene that had presaged the murders came alive to his eyes and he could hear in his mind the laughter of children, the happy clank of cheap cooking utensils and the ditty someone used to whistle as they swept the now dusty floor.

  Then came the violence. He mapped out the dance of murder as it had spread from this room to the next. He followed it, the scene being re-enacted by the phantoms his mind conjured. He was no more affected by the evidence of the depravity stapled to the bedroom wall or hanging from the ceiling than he had been by the ghostly laughter and cooking sounds a moment before.

  The bodies had been well drained of fluids and seemed to be desiccating rather than rotting but they would have to be moved to the Temple ice houses quickly.

  “Board,” he said over his shoulder and one of his assistants instantly passed him a writing board with a blank parchment pegged to it. He held out his gloved hand and the assistant fitted a charcoal stylus between his fingers. He would sketch the bodies so he could have reference to their positioning and the sigils engraved on them later. His hand moved quickly and he noted in the margin in small, neat letters which sigils appeared to have been carved and which seared, the angles of the mutilating cuts and the order in which they appeared to have been made. That did not take up a lot of his concentration so he had some to spare for the whispered conversation going on behind him.