On the Matter of the Red Hand

by JM Guillen

  “Mercy! Blackbird!” The man was screaming, flailing wildly. Scoundrel took absolutely no notice of his distress.

  “Scoundrel.” She recognized my soft tone, without even having to look. She ceased ripping wet ribbons of flesh off the man and almost casually flapped her way to my shoulder.

  “Thom. Thom. Thom.” She crowed.

  It was macabre how relaxed she was. She looked positively grim on my shoulder with the blood of two men dripping off her blades.

  I stood by the man on the floor. For a moment, I got a hint that he might reach for me, and I gave his ribs my boot. Hard.

  “You can wait a nonce.” I stepped toward the door, through which the other two men had already fled. I had this one, and I knew it. But if I could catch the other two…

  No. I held the door open, looking down the street. Fresh air wafted into the taproom.

  They were gone.

  Behind me, the light from the burning klêm was flickering and dying out. Even with all that alcohol, it hadn’t been good for much more than a flash, which was all I had actually needed. I turned back to the small ale room and shut the door behind me. I threw the bolt.

  “We need to have a discussion.” I crouched next to the man, who was holding his knee in agony. Fury sparkled darkly in his eyes, and blood ran down his face in rivulets.

  “You’ll get nothing from me, blackbird.” The man spat at me but missed. “You don’t even know what you’re asking.”

  “I might, if I shatter your other knee.” My tone was light, conversational. “You’d beg to tell. You’ve attacked a judicar. You’re mine.”

  That odd leer spread across his face again. I did not like it. It was far too certain for a man whose face hung in tatters and might never walk straight again.

  “You’re wrong there, blackbird.” He spat again. I noticed the spit was bloody. “I ’ent yers. I belong to another.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “That’s what I was hoping to discuss with you.” I crouched. “Who’s your gentleman, cully? Are you here on Sebaste’s word?”

  “We know exactly what you’re about, Judicar. There ’ent a thing you can do about it neither. You need cry off.”

  “I can’t. You know that. A man has oaths.”

  “You’ll be dead with yer oaths.” The man’s leer grew wider, almost mad.

  I chuckled. “A judicar’s reach is long, sir. Even if you were right, another would follow. Either way, we have you. Sooner or later, you’ll tell me more.”

  “No.” His chuckle was meandering and strange. “That’s where you’re wrong, Judicar. You don’t understand. I’ve already given myself to him. You watch. You see.”

  I had nothing to say to that. Usually, our detained men were at least a touch afraid. This one was almost arrogant in a way I did not have a taste for.

  It was the smell that hit me first.

  It was like burning hair, only much more visceral. I noticed the man was trembling, at first only slightly, but soon ever more violently. His leer went from confident to horrified.

  “Oh. What?” He looked around, as if he could see a world that was hidden from me. “Lost gods. No.”

  His eyes were smoking. I stumbled backward, not certain what I was seeing. As I stared in horror, smoke drifted from his ears as well. He crawled backward, as if he could drag himself away from some horror only he could see.

  That was when the man began to scream in earnest.

  Yes, he had cried out when I popped his knee, but nothing like this. This was a scream of pure terror and agony. His arms collapsed, and he fell in a fit on the floor. The room filled with the stench of burning flesh.

  “Judicar!” His horrified cry was pain given voice.

  He was burning. The man was burning alive from the inside.

  My mind reached, stunned, trying to find anything, anything that I could do. The only liquid at hand was liquor, and that wouldn’t help any. The man twitched violently, and I watched as his eyes melted from his head, as his skin began to glow from the heat.

  There was nothing to be done.

  “Thom?” Booker’s voice was stricken. He had come downstairs, and stood transfixed. Horrified.

  I had nothing to say. The flame ate the man from within, burning him and liquefying his organs, providing more fuel for itself.

  It was fast and incredibly hot. I stumbled backward, shielding my face from it. The remnants of the man twisted and thrashed, and soon he could no longer scream. The room filled with the stench of him, and I retched, doubling over as the smell washed over me.

  “Thom?” Scoundrel was terrified, but I had no time. I threw open the door, desperately drinking in the open air.

  Sweet Elsador. The man had simply caught fire, burning from within. Right in front of me, he had been consumed.

  My eyes still watering, I pushed my way back inside. The corpse was all but exhausted, yet the fire still burned. It whispered as it ate at the remnants of his clothing, and there was a pile of blackened sand where the body had been.

  Whispering? I listened. It was as if I could hear something, some odd words dancing just outside the reach of my mind.

  “What—?” Booker was still stunned. “What happened to him, Thom? What did you do?”

  “Not me.” My voice was harsh from the smoke. “I had detained the man and was starting to question him,” I looked helplessly down at the body, “then—”

  Booker followed my gaze and then looked back to me. “Men don’t just catch on fire, Thom.”

  I pointed at the flaming mess on the floor. “This one did. You saw most of it yourself.” I looked up at him. “He burned up from the inside, Booker.”

  Booker covered his nose with a white cloth. I couldn’t blame him. The room still reeked. I hoped it would die down soon, as the flames consumed the last of the body. Booker came forward, stepping cautiously as the room was full of shadows, lit only by the dying embers of the man’s remains. Booker crouched next to them and peered at the mess left behind.

  “It’s not ashes. It’s more like black sand.” His voice was calm, analytical.

  “He was screaming.” I was still trying to come to grips with what I had seen. “He was horrified and surprised. It was as if he didn’t expect or know what was happening to him.” I crouched next to Booker. “What can do this? What can burn a man from within?”

  Booker stood but said nothing. He nudged at the sand with one foot and then looked at me. It was a long, heavy look. The look of a man who expected I might already know the answer.

  “No.” My voice was flat and brooked no argument. “Absolutely not. I will go down every road before I decide that this—”

  “Is sorcery?” Booker pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Thom, you know I’m not a superstitious man. But you also must know that almost anyone else who just saw what we saw—”

  “I know. It doesn’t matter.” I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my hair, out of long habit.

  “There are other solutions. There must be.” I gave him a sideward glance. “Come on, Booker, between the two of us we have had a vast range of information. Are you telling me that you cannot conceive of anything else this could possibly be besides sorcery?”

  Booker let out a long sigh. “I suppose that among the sciences, chemistry or alchemy could both account for a man burning from within.”

  I scoffed. “I think that if chemistry or alchemy could do this…” I trailed off, looking at the blackened sand. It was absolutely boggling to consider that this had been a man.

  For just a nonce, my mind thought of the blackened marks inside the stocks the day before. Was it possible…?

  “Are any of the bounds near here?” My question was as much musing to myself as directed to Booker.

  Booker shook his head. “It’s a thought, but it wouldn’t matter one way or the other, Thom. There is no bound anywhere near this neighborhood.”

  I had known that, of course. It was simply that the boun
ds used eldritch forces that we didn’t really understand anymore. I knew they could often have bizarre effects. But I had never heard of anything like this.

  This was horror given form.

  For a long, silent moment, we stared at the remnants, Booker was right; it looked like little more than fine, blackened sand. Frantically, I tried to think of anything I had ever heard that could account for this, but no matter where my mind stepped, it only found irrational answers.

  Booker shook his head. “You are reaching, and you know it. We could sit all day and discuss all manner of lost arts. In the end, you don’t have any of them.” He stood. “You only have a mess in my establishment.”

  I stood. “I’m sorry, Booker. Of course, the Offices of the Just offer recompense.” I reached for one of the many pouches on my belt. “Will a claim writ suffice?”

  “I don’t know how much damage you’ve done in here.” Booker looked around. “I noticed one of my lamps is smashed. And of course, my floor is partially charred. And then, just the stink…”

  “How is this?” I gave him a confident grin as I pulled the claim writ from my belt. “I’ll take this now and sign it. I’ll leave the amount blank. I trust you. I’ll see what you claimed when it gets turned in anyway.” I shrugged. “If you swindle me, I’ll know it. I’ll be back.”

  “Oh, Judicar,” Booker chuckled shaking his head. “You know I would never swindle you to your face.”

  I grinned. Booker was right. He might be a cheat, but he was an honest cheat.

  It was always good to know exactly how you were getting robbed.

  The Ironwood Tree

  Riddling, Fourth Bell Morningtide

  I’ll admit that the event at Booker’s left me at odd ends. As I left the Wyndhaus, I took a turn down the rough cobbles of Stone Glen, my mind tumbling.

  It was apparent that the Twilight Blades were somehow behind the scenes here, but I didn’t know how much I could lay at their step. Traditionally the guild was little more than con men and smugglers. Traditionally they targeted high-end art or valuable rarities.

  These men seemed far more than the Blades’ window-charmers and grifters. That man in the Wyndhaus had been loyal to his gentlemen in a way that went far beyond what one typically saw in a street rook.

  The man had been a fanatic.

  “Thom?” Scoundrel hopped along next to me, her talons and gaffs still dripping scarlet. I stopped for a moment, dug through my satchel for a scrap of cloth, and cleaned her up as she clucked and prattled on.

  I needed to get sharp as to what the Blades were up to.

  It was foolishness to amble into the Gallery Auric—the primary guild hall for the Twilight Blades—and demand tea with Sebaste. I needed far more evidence. Once I had it, a contingent of judicars would support me, but until then…

  Well, until then, I had to go where the streets whispered. Of course, the serum was handy as well.

  “Fat lot of help it’s been so far, though, hasn’t it?” I scowled at the thought.

  This was always a difficult part of working with the serum. A judicar only has a limited amount of time that it can help. Unfortunately so far, the only real help it had been was giving me a glancing notice before someone broke my face and tried to drop a block on my head.

  This meant that I didn’t have nearly the clues that I should. If I had uncovered anything of note, it certainly would have chimed in, whispering behind my mind. Instead, I had one missing girl, four Red Hands, men who caught fire, a mythical assassin, and a thread winding to the Coilwerks, one of the Twilight Blade’s holdings.

  “That should be completely safe, right smart bird?” I gave her a quick hand signal.

  “Bad.” She croaked the word, responding to my command. “Bad, bad, bad.”

  “I don’t suppose I needed you to tell me that,” I sighed.

  Even with the Coilwerks as my next location of interest, I knew what I would find if I stepped there just now. The Twilight Blades used the ‘Werks, but officially, it was abandoned. Their usage was one of those things that were glossed over with a wink and a nod, since the Guild of the Crystalline Vitrifiers had abandoned the location. Someone had to upkeep the place, after all, and if the Vitrifiers weren’t going to file a writ over the situation, then neither Wil nor I had cause to poke in.

  But the Coilwerks usually was deserted, until well into the evening. I had long bells without anything to do. Near a full day sprawled before me where the serum would wear all that much thinner.

  There was nothing for it.

  “We could sit at a tavern and play tiles for a bit.” I grinned at my girl. “Or maybe see if any more ragmen are in dire need.”

  She looked up at me, cocking her head before going back to playing with street detritus.

  “You’re right, of course.” I sighed. “That’s a waste.”

  Even without my concerns regarding the matter of the Red Hand, the story that Booker had told me held something of interest. Jakob the Fox had apparently stumbled onto something, whether it had to do with Rebeka or not, his story about the missing girls definitely needed some looking into.

  I just didn’t know if I had the time for it.

  So as I walked, smiling at the occasional citizen and doing my part as the good and upright judicar, my mind scrambled.

  I could, perhaps, stroll over to the Havens. I had grown up an orphan myself, and according to Booker, Jakob had claimed that some of the girls had been taken from the Havens directly. I still had wonderful relationships with the cantorès there and knew that they would be happy to answer any questions I asked.

  That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I already had an assignment, and I couldn’t tell if Jakob’s story actually had anything to do with it or not. If it did, then I would be on the right track. If not, I would be doing work, good work perhaps, but something that had nothing to do with my assignment. It was all too easy to get caught chasing rabbits down a hole while the serum leaked out my ears.

  I rounded the corner of Belgrave and Fuente Pathway, muttering to my bird and being generally dour.

  That’s when I saw the second raven.

  Of course I knew who it was, even from afar. The bird was bigger than my own, heavier, with a wider wingspan. He was flying in lazy circles, occasionally stopping for a moment to roost on a gaslight or swooping toward something on the ground that was probably shiny. I grinned to myself, waiting for the inevitable.

  “Thom!” Scoundrel was all but hopping when she saw her friend. “Svester!”

  I rolled my eyes a little, as I almost always did when I heard the name.

  “Fine, pretty girl. Go.” As I said the word, I reached into my pouch and pulled out the small rattle that Harys had given her. “Do you want to take your toy?”

  “Good! Good, good bird.”

  I tossed the rattle to the ground, and Scoundrel picked it up. Without hesitation, she flapped away with it to show off to her friend.

  I understood exactly how she felt.

  When I found Wil, he was talking with a young girl who was sitting on the curb looking forlorn.

  “The odds don’t play out.” He had the calm and friendly smile that I had seen him wear so often. “’Course you can snag something from a cart or maybe even a shop when the owner isn’t looking. Long term, however, you guarantee you’re going to get caught. It’s not because you’re dumb or slow. It’s just that you play the odds every time you snatch something. This time, you gone and did it while there was a judicar in the street.” He leaned lower. “Does that seem sharp to you?”

  The girl murmured something underneath her breath.

  “You’ll have to speak up.” Wil put two fingers under her chin and made her look up at him.

  She wore a flocked skirt and had two natty ribbons in her tangled blonde hair. Her large, hazel eyes held a flinching, suspicious light that was somehow emphasized by the smudge of dirt on her bronzed left cheek. She looked to be all of six summers old. That would put her squ
are in her Lettering year, if she had access to a governess.

  “If you are brave enough to be stealing toffes off of carts, then you need to be brave enough to look in the eyes of the man who catches you.”

  “Won’t do it again.” She seemed almost sullen, as if her mistake was somehow Wil’s fault.

  “You don’t understand. You think I’m mad at you because you stole less than a copper penny’s worth of candy. I’m not. I’m sore because you don’t realize that some of the guildmen would be demanding that I chop off a finger because you did it. Do you think I want to chop off one of those pretty little fingers of yours?”

  “No.” Still sullen.

  “‘No’ is only too right. Do you think it’s worth losing a pinky so you can have something sweet in your mouth for an hour?”

  She shook her head again.

  “So here’s the deal. I’m going to quit nagging at you and let you scamper off to whatever hole you came from. You’re not going to let me catch you doing this again. That’s not because you’re going to sharp up and get better at it, that’s because you’re going to quit.” He paused, giving her a significant look. “If you don’t quit, the next time it won’t be a talking to. I’ll have to fine your Mum or your Da. Do you think anybody wants to pay a silver slip so that you can have a toffe?”

  She shook her head again, but this time her look wasn’t sullen. I could see tears in her eyes at the mention of her Da.

  “Fine then.” Wil gave her a hand up. “Get on those chicken legs and get out of here.”

  As the girl scampered off, Wil stood and turned to me.

  “Well, what are my marks, teacher?” He grinned.

  I realized I’d been hovering over him and straightened. Smiling, I folded my arms and tapped at my chin. “I’d say you do an amazing job for one so handicapped.”

  “By my wit and good looks?”

  “I’d agree your wit and your looks are your handicap. Good job.”

  He laughed and started walking down the street. “You passin’ through or are we destined for a longer stint?”