Outside, the smell of wet concrete and the dull roar of Salorien pumping its populace through streets like arteries doubled Xander’s sense of estrangement. He felt like one leaving the campfire to begin a cold and lonely night watch. The intensity of his regret at alienating someone he’d known for only a day surprised him. Then again, she’d been the only one on this unnatural sphere to show him kindness.
Kindness he’d returned with bitterness.
My father was right. I deserve my exile.
Reunion with his friends was the sole guiding star that shone through Xander’s desolation. Perhaps finding Nahel and Damus would redeem him. The unbidden memory of his recent nightmare sent a shiver down his spine and lent speed to his steps.
Xander was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the drifter until it pulled up beside him. An instant aversion to the sleek black car prompted him to keep striding down the sidewalk, but the vehicle matched his pace. The opaque window on the driver’s side descended with an odd whirring sound.
“Excuse me,” the driver said in a Mithgar accent.
Xander supposed he should have been glad to hear a familiar-sounding voice, but its flat predatory tone made him want to run.
“A moment of your time,” the Mithgarder said again. “Have you seen this man?”
Curiosity compelled Xander to look, and he dearly wished he hadn’t. Not just because the car’s occupant was hideous—and he was, with a hard face that bore scars spiraling down from the crown of his head; leaving furrows in his bristly hair—but because he held a picture of Astlin’s father.
“Who are you?” asked Xander.
The scarred man flashed bad teeth in a smile that no more touched his cold grey eye than his milky dead one. “Guild Customs. You must be new here.”
Visceral dread quickened Xander’s steps. He cast about the strangely empty street for an escape route, and his heart leapt when he saw an alley entrance between two brick buildings halfway down the block.
“The chap in that picture is mixed up in all sorts of unsavory trade,” the guildsman said. “You just came out of his last known address.”
Xander kept his eyes forward. The alley seemed to recede from his anxious steps. “I had never been there till yesterday.”
The guildsman chuckled without mirth. “You are new in town. Word to the wise—learn who’s in charge.”
The window’s whirring hid the guildsman’s scarred face behind smoked glass. The drifter sped up, pulled away, and vanished around the corner.
A host of questions besieged Xander at once. Had the Guild really survived on Keth? How had Astlin’s father earned their ire? Did they now suspect Xander?
One thought cut through the mental chatter: Men like that are watching Astlin’s home.
A terrifying prospect dawned on Xander. What if Astlin’s unease was justified? What if her clan’s enemies had distracted him while plying their “unsavory trade” upon her?
Xander had no memory of running the half block to Astlin’s building or ascending the four flights of stairs to her door. His mind compressed the distance into a dark corner of memory from which he only emerged when Astlin answered his urgent knocking.
“What are you doing out there?” she asked, her blue eyes wide.
“Came back…to warn…you,” he said, doubled over and panting.
Astlin held the door for him. “I never knew you left.”
Xander limped inside and collapsed on the couch. A few deep breaths gave him enough wind to talk. “After I insulted you, I thought it best to leave.”
Astlin closed and locked the door. “I thought I insulted you. I was lying in bed working up the nerve to apologize when someone started pounding on the door. I thought I was dreaming when it turned out to be you.”
“A man in the street accosted me,” said Xander. “His face looked like it got wound up in a sharpened spring.”
Astlin’s voice fell to a whisper. “Inspector Culvert. They call him Spiral.”
“He really works for the Guild?”
Astlin nodded. “Not that they like him much. My dad said a Worked Enforcer made those scars.”
“Your father is who he’s after.”
Astlin’s face paled. She rushed to the window and cast frantic glances up and down the street.
Xander joined Astlin at the window. He spoke gently. “This Spiral is a man to fear?”
“They say he locked a bum in an old fridge and dumped it in the river,” Astlin said like a child reciting grim tribal lore. “One time he kicked a man to death at a crime scene. Nothing to do with the case; just some drunk wandering by.”
Xander gaped. “His crimes went unpunished?”
Astlin met his gaze. He had seen fear on a woman’s face before—the confusion of betrayal and the terror of death. She feared something worse. “Culvert has friends. The old cults are supposed to be gone, but…”
Xander’s sense of decorum warred against a deep and sudden urge to hold Astlin. Decorum lost. Joy burned away his shame when she accepted his embrace. Though born from fear, the moment when he sheltered her softness; her smallness, in his arms—when her floral scent enveloped him—fulfilled a need he’d hardly recognized before.
Astlin laid her head on his shoulder. “I miss my father.”
“As do I,” Xander said, “but the day comes when we must rely on each other.”
16
The burned-out building had held ten floors when the city lived. Now the fourth story lay broken atop the third. A wreath of rebar, cables, and pipes ringed the rubble in between. Directly above, the night wind sighed through girders bared by fallen walls.
“Of course the scent would lead here,” Damus groaned. His nose wrinkled at the stench of rot wafting down from above. He found himself caught in a tug of war between his loyalty to Xander and the terrors he imagined lurking in the ruins.
Damus’ inner struggle slowed his reaction to the sound of rubble shifting behind him. He turned to find the point of a short sword hovering mere inches from his throat.
“I’m disappointed.” The blade’s wielder spoke the Isnashi dialect, but his voice was far less brutish.
Damus froze, but gathered his wits enough to study his attacker. The man’s Gen heritage was certain, though his grey complexion gave him an unnatural look. Drying blood stood out from his tan uniform.
“If you want an all-night laundry, disappointment’s the only thing you’ll find,” said Damus.
The swordsman’s ashen face was unreadable. “The skin changers said there was a Light Gen here. You proved them right.”
Damus examined the sword poised under his chin. Its blade resembled one of Nahel’s in length but its design was much more utilitarian.
A Night Gen has me at sword point. Damus willed his face to betray no fear. Why hasn’t he killed me?
“Have you seen a lone Nesshin boy?” The Night Gen asked. “Shorn head. Rather stout.”
“That would be a sight,” said Damus. “And Nesshin don’t travel alone.”
“This one does.”
“On whose behalf are you asking?”
“My name is Szodrin. I ask for myself.”
“Forgive me,” said Damus. “I thought your uniform implied membership in some sort of military. Of course, associating with Isnashi does little to recommend you.”
Szodrin sneered. “I ended that association. You’ve crossed paths with them?”
“They killed my friend,” Damus said more sharply than he’d intended.
Szodrin’s yellow-green eyes betrayed real concern. “The boy?”
“Hopefully not. I’d hate to have trudged across this charnel yard for no reason.”
Szodrin pointed toward the building where death’s scent lingered. “Something hides within—a power beyond us both.”
“Fire and metal,” Damus thought aloud. “And death.”
Szodrin marched forward. “If we join forces, if the boy helps; one of us may escape alive.”
Damus fell in behind him. “Excuse my lapse in manners. I am Damus Greystone, envoy from Her Majesty, Nakvin of Avalon.”
Szodrin glanced back over his shoulder. “Knowing your name only compounds my burden if you die.”
Damus nodded. “More equitable that way. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your interest in Xander?”
Szodrin turned away again. “He is the sole heir to a promise I made to one long dead.”
What a morose fellow. Damus considered pressing the issue but thought better of it.
The two Gen approached the building. Wreckage spilled from the ground floor’s pitch black interior, but Szodrin picked a winding path through the rubble. The ruins were deathly still except for the trespassers’ breathing and the shifting of debris underfoot.
Suddenly, Szodrin came to a halt.
“What is it?” whispered Damus.
The rustle of fingers searching through pockets preceded a green glow shining from a crystal in Szodrin’s hand. Its verdant light fell upon a rusted gate. A narrow corridor lay beyond, ending in a flight of stairs.
“If I know my Guild-era architecture,” said Damus, “that’s a fire exit.”
Szodrin tried the rusted handle. The bars rattled but held fast. “Locked. Or jammed. I don’t suppose you’re skilled in nexic translation?”
“Stand back,” Damus sighed. He squeezed past Szodrin and bent to inspect the lock. It was no less weathered than the rest, but seemed intact.
Damus slid a hand into his boot and produced a small leather bundle that unfurled to reveal a set of miniature tools. He chose two bits of wire—one straight and one with a right angle bend—and set to work on the lock.
“I thought you were a diplomat,” said Szodrin, “not a housebreaker.”
“Her majesty knows that diplomacy sometimes requires unorthodox measures. She appoints her envoys with this in mind and thus proves her wisdom.”
Damus stood back and pushed on the gate, which swung open with a shrill creak. He stepped aside and gestured toward the stairway. “Night Gen first.”
Szodrin preceded Damus up the stairs. Each echoing step profaned the tomblike silence. Damus almost ran into him on the fourth floor landing.
“Why did you stop? Is it Xander?”
Szodrin pointed with his sword. “Look.”
Damus looked. Something had torn the stairwell door from its hinges. The empty frame gave on a vast cage of twisted beams. All around the faces of moonlit towers leered like skulls.
Grasping the door jamb, Damus craned his neck upward and saw the fifth floor’s bare undergirding. The smell that assaulted him suggested the kitchen of an inept cook who kept burning pork roasts. He looked down.
A dark jumbled mass lay strewn across the fourth story’s fallen roof. Damus couldn’t quite make out the pitiful shapes composing the pile, and he thanked whatever powers remained.
Szodrin’s light landed atop the fallen slab. Damus glimpsed the charnel pile, and a wave of vertigo sent him reeling toward the abyss. Only the Night Gen’s steady hand kept him from joining the dead.
Safe back on the landing, Damus paused to catch his breath before rounding on Szodrin. “What in the Nine Circles possessed you to do that!?”
Szodrin’s ashen face was grave. “I had to confirm he’s not there.”
Damus’ rage faded like a ghost. “He isn’t.”
Szodrin gave a curt nod.
“Burned by divine fire,” said Damus. “It’s not how I’d like to go.”
“They burned, but not in the Cataclysm.”
“What else could have done it?”
“They were skin and bones,” Szodrin said. “However they burned, they wasted first.”
Damus swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat. “Any idea what’s responsible?”
Szodrin lit another crystal and fixed his eyes upward as if he could see through the ceiling. “It’s above us.”
The two Gen continued upward till they reached a fire door on the next landing.
Damus drew his battered rapier. “No sense turning back now,” he said an instant before wishing he hadn’t.
Szodrin handed Damus the crystal and took hold of the latch. With a sharp exhale he opened the door.
The light salvaged a short span of hallway from the gloom. The stale air held an undercurrent of hot copper quenched in rose water.
Szodrin stalked into the darkness. The sound of his boots crunching on fallen plaster slowly receded. Damus almost begged the Night Gen not to leave him, but the stifling blackness silenced his voice.
The crack of rotting plaster ceased. So did the sound of Szodrin’s breathing. Against his better judgment, Damus crept into the dark. Green light fell upon the Night Gen’s lithe form.
There must be a window down the hall, Damus thought. There, twin stars shone with a fierce sapphire glow. They burned brighter than any known stellar bodies, and Damus recalled arriving at the Guild house.
Those aren’t stars.
The ring of metal striking metal sounded in the dark. Faint at first, it steadily grew louder. The baleful lights drew closer with every thudding chime till they stopped a few feet beyond the circle of light.
Damus saw the mystery of the blue lights resolved. At that distance there was no question that they were eyes, though unlike any he’d seen. Blue coronas wreathed each night-black pupil and gave the whites an iridescent sheen.
Those eyes belong to nothing human.
The burning orbs widened in horror. “Go away,” a feminine voice hissed.
Szodrin advanced a step.
Damus grabbed his shoulder. “Wait. Think of what’s downstairs.”
“I didn’t—” the thing pleaded, its voice breaking. “I never did anything like that before.”
Damus kept his voice even. “We believe you.”
“You’re lying,” the creature said. “You think I’m a monster.”
“Stop thinking,” Szodrin told Damus.
“You don’t mean…” Damus’ voice trailed off as his mind arranged seemingly isolated oddities into a partial image of something unspeakable.
Szodrin spoke anyway. “That nexic power I sensed is here, and it can read our thoughts.”
The blue stars blazed. Szodrin uttered a string of choking gasps. He fell to the floor and lay writhing in the dust.
The thing’s laughter betrayed half-checked hysteria.
“Damned nexism,” Damus cursed.
“They send them here,” the creature rasped. “Orphans. The sick and the old. They come starving. I held the last one while he died.”
“We’re not here to hurt you,” said Damus. “We’ve only come for the boy.”
“Leave!” the creature begged on the ragged edge of sobbing. “Run!”
Damus willed himself not to take the thing’s advice. “Not without my friend.” He closed his eyes and began to sing. His foe wouldn’t understand the Gennish words—unless she ripped their meaning from his mind—but the calming Mystery didn’t need understanding.
Damus felt the floor shake and heard ringing metal. He opened his eyes to see the cruel stars staring back. Their fires flared, and Damus heard alien thoughts, only to realize they were his. He wasn’t concerned with Xander anymore; nor did the Fire hold terror for him. Almost too late he recognized that the real threat was his own mouth.
It meant to betray me, he thought as he slid his sword past his lips.
17
The sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor woke Xander from troubled dreams. The details were already fading, but he recalled some deadly peril befalling Damus and Nahel which he’d been helpless to prevent. For one panicked moment he forgot where he was, until he saw the city lights gleaming through the window.
I am in Salorien on Keth, he realized, in the home of Astlin Tremore. The latter thought eased his fear but didn’t fully dispel it.
Is someone else here?
Xander’s gaze darted about. Threadbare stuffed animals languished on a shelf in the
square of light filtering through the window. The rest of the room was black as the Void.
The floorboards protested as something shifted its weight in the dark.
“Hello?” Xander whispered.
“You’ve been lied to,” someone said in an odd yet vaguely familiar accent.
“Who is there?”
The click of boot heels drew closer. A thin figure in tan clothes emerged to stand near the foot of the bed. “A friend. You’re caught in a lie, but the danger is real.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m called Szodrin. Come with me—now.”
At last Xander recognized the stranger’s alien speech. He’d first heard it one evening by the Water’s shore in Medvia, what seemed like ages ago. “An Isnashi!”
“No, a Night Gen who saved you from them.”
Xander sat up. “Did you chase me so far to save me from Kethan hospitality?”
“To free you from a trap,” Szodrin said, “but your captor won’t give you up easily.”
Rapid footsteps and muffled cries echoed down the hall. A moment later, the crack of splintering wood split the night. Someone screamed. Xander leapt out of bed, rushed to the door, and threw it open.
“Don’t be deceived,” Szodrin warned.
Xander burst into the hallway. Men in dark suits crowded the living room. He recognized none of them, except for the man with scars curving down his head.
Astlin struggled in Spiral’s grip. The sight woke a visceral rage that Xander had never known before. He charged the guildsmen, loosing a torrent of curses in a half dozen tongues.
Astlin pulled one arm free and elbowed Spiral in the side. He grunted, and struck her face with a closed fist that knocked her to the floor.
Xander was within arm’s reach of Astlin when Spiral shoved something cold and hard into his gut.
“I told you to mind who’s in charge.” Spiral’s tone betrayed his glee at Xander’s lapse. His breath was a fume of strong drink.
Xander recognized the weapon pressed against his stomach—and those the other guildsmen were pointing at him. Firearms survived on Mithgar, but their ammunition was rare enough to render most of them harmless curios.
Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) Page 13