On the Matter of the Red Hand

by JM Guillen

  More giggles. Then, I heard a long, deep scratching at the door.

  “Here.”

  It was a young woman, or perhaps a youth. Could it be—

  “Rebeka?”

  More giggling. “No. No, no, no.” It was a young woman. It was coming from around a corner ahead. When I crept forward, I heard the long scratching sound again, against one of the doors.

  I reached for the handle and slowly turned it. I didn’t want to make a sound if I could help it.

  Unlocked.

  “I need to come in, sweetling. I need to make certain you aren’t hurt.”

  The door pushed inward. I could rush in if I needed to. But if it was a hurt girl, just on the other side of the door…

  Her voice was a strange whisper. “No. No, no. They’re not in here. None of them. You need to go into the downs.”

  I paused for a moment. “Who, sweetling? Who isn’t in there?”

  “They’ve all gone. It was the drops. They were so good. So, so good. But ‘ventually you were just dreaming. Dreaming and rotting.”

  I began to push on the door, gently. “I’m coming in—”

  I never got to finish the sentence.

  The door wrenched from my hand as she pulled it open. She stood there, ragged and almost naked. Her hair was like a shroud over her face.

  She screamed, “No! Stay out!” Her voice was like a ban-sidhe, a wailing screech that stopped me where I stood.

  Tainted night. I thought my heart would burst from the shock. She looked horrifying.

  The only clothing the girl wore was a white, torn shirt that exposed as much as it covered. She had on no skirts and no shoes. Her skin was dirty and covered in long, deep scratches. Strange black markings covered her face.

  Her fingers. She had clawed and scratched until her nails and fingertips were gone. As I watched, she brought her hand to her face, scratching in an almost unconscious gesture. I could see dried blood and yellowed scabs where her fingertips had been. My stomach roiled.

  “The downs. They are in the downs. It’s cooking in them.” Her eyes rolled wildly in her head. When I saw them, fear rent at me with talons of ice.

  One of her eyes was so blue it was almost white, white like the eyes of the orphans who had burned when I was just a boy. Memory washed over me, as strongly as the serum.

  Looking up at Shaen, I could see the strange white light flickering on his face. The boy’s eyes were empty, holding only echoes of anything like laughter or being a boy.

  No. They weren’t empty. Now that I thought about it, I could remember the white fire in his eyes, dancing there. It was like it was already inside him, already devouring his secret dreams.

  No. That was gone. I took a deep breath.

  “Sweetling.” I stepped forward with just the slightest quaver in my voice. “You need to let me—”

  “No!” Her voice was a screech again. “No! You can’t come in! It’s safe in here. No one comes in but him!”

  Jakob?

  She pushed against the door fiercely.

  I could push against her—she was little more than a waif—but I had seen into the room. It was a dead end, full of detritus and her waste. The smell was unbelievable.

  I let her close the door.

  “Here. Here.” She giggled. “I’m safe here. Here.”

  I rest my hand against the old wood. “Yes. You’re safe. No one is coming in.” I heard her scratching at the floor. I had a sudden image of her in my mind, scratching with the tips of her finger bones. It was hard not to retch.

  I had to come back. Even if I found Rebeka, whatever was happening here was monstrous. I had to raise a small contingent and return here. We would bring everyone out, until we understood what was happening.

  “Thom?” My girl looked up at me. I was gasping for breath, and my heart was pounding.

  “Yes, pretty girl, I’m fine.” I was anything but fine. I took a deep breath. I nearly leapt through the ceiling as the girl muttered behind the door.

  “Unreal. Anything for him.” Her voice was haunting.

  Cautiously, I crept along the hallway to a door at the far end. I nudged it with my stave. When I found it swung easily, I pushed it open with the thick ironwood.

  Crooked, dilapidated steps descended into the darkness.

  I looked at Scoundrel. “We should go back, pretty girl.”

  She looked at me, eyes shining, and said nothing.

  “Four or five judicars would make this safer. The stairs could fall in, and no one would find our corpses.”

  You need to go into the downs.

  Whoever was responsible for this could be here. They could be below, right now, preparing a trap. I had been loud enough. There was no way they could be unaware of me at this point.

  But if I left, they would be gone. They would gather up any evidence and vanish into the Warrens. I might never know who had done this or why. I might never get another lead on Rebeka or any of the others who had come looking for her. At the thought, my head swam.

  The stranger keeps fading into and out of the shadows. If I can’t catch him, he will become the shadows, and be forever beyond my reach.

  I reached into my pocket for my lucia. It didn’t matter what was smart—only what was right. The serum would fade soon, and I was at a dead end. If I didn’t go ‘into the downs’ right now, then I might lose the thread on Rebeka forever.

  “I certainly wish there were a legendary assassin here with me,” I breathed the words, as if they could change anything. It seemed odd to me that the Spider had been gone so long—Jakob had looked to be on his last legs

  There was nothing for it.

  I stood at the top of the stairs, the weak yellow light making them look all the more intimidating. The Spider had been right—this lucia seemed weak. I probably couldn’t count on it for long.

  My gaze settled on my girl. She looked up at me, eyes shining.

  I could send her for help. Scoundrel was well-trained. She could go to the Offices, or the Rookery, or even hunt for Wil. I could tuck a scrolled up note into one of her gaffs and then know that I had help coming.

  But it could be a bell or more before she found Wil and got him here—much less someone all the way from the Rookery or the Offices of the Just. That was time that I might need her. Scoundrel was my good right hand and indispensable in a tight place. In the time it took her to go for help, I could be dead.

  No, she made more of a difference if she came with me. I took a breath, trying to let go of my fear.

  It was difficult. The white eye of the waif haunted me.

  “Are you ready, smart bird?”

  “Ready. Ready.” She jumped onto my shoulder. “Ready, birdbrain.” She cocked her head at me, as if not even understanding the insult.

  “You—” A wild grin cracked my face.

  There were no words. For a moment, the world was more than darkness and gloom.

  “Birdbrain.” I chuckled, scratching Scoundrel’s head.

  I could do nothing but laugh.

  Madness Dire

  Sundering, Second Bell, Eventide

  The stairs were particularly rickety, and more than one was missing altogether. I had to sheath my stave on the way down, as it was hard enough to keep a hold of the railings and hold the bottle of lucia. More than once I almost shattered the whole stairwell as I eased myself downward. When I finally got to the basement I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

  Yes, it was a nerve-wracking place, but at least the stairs weren’t going to cave in and trap me here.

  As quickly as possible I waved the lucia around, trying to see as much of the “downs” as I could.

  The stairs dropped down into a small earthen basement, completely unfinished. The packed earth held a deep, musty odor, which seemed cloying and far too strong. On the wall next to the stairs were various tools of the Argyrian Guild—pick-axes, iron shovels, and a disassembled steam drill. One wall had an iron-plated door set securely in it.


  “This looks new.” I held the light close, running my fingers along its surface. Was it an entrance into the Deepcity?

  Maybe.

  The hall stretched into the darkness.

  Now I had the lucia in one hand and my stout stave in the other. Carefully, I crept forward, the yellow light only revealing the basement’s secrets an inch at a time. Every step I had to fight not to cough; the dust and mold were so thick. Every stride seemed to kick up more.

  It wasn’t long before I saw the first door. It hung partially askew, the opening just a finger or two wide. I moved carefully toward it, holding the lucia in front and the stave in a striking position behind me. I was only a few steps away when I realized that the detritus sprawling from the doorway was actually a boot, attached to a leg.

  I froze in midstep. What to do? Calling out would only make more noise. But if it wasn’t a corpse, only someone hurt, I needed them to know that I was a judicar—not the person who had injured them.

  I brought my stave forward, and nudged against the boot. I poked the body softly, then harder.

  No reaction.

  Feeling slightly braver, I stepped forward. This time I struck the boot, hard enough to awaken a slumbering person.

  No. This person was a corpse.

  “Thom?” Scoundrel hopped close to me, ruffling her feathers.

  “I know what you’re saying, little rook.” I kept my voice low. “This light isn’t really doing us any good.” I crouched, setting the bottle down, and then reached into my satchel.

  I still had a few sulfur sticks, after all.

  I fumbled one out and struck it with my thumb nail. Then, I stepped forward, holding the match high overhead. As I opened the door, the stench struck me like a brick in the face.

  It was a man, an older man. He had on a pair of black work-trousers and boots, but no shirt. His arms were positively covered in tattoos. Closer inspection showed that the backs of his hands had been tattooed red, a common marking in Santiago’s guild.

  I placed the stave in the center of his chest, holding him still. He looked like a corpse, but after what I had seen upstairs, I was taking no chances. After I was certain that I could hold him in place if need be, I leaned forward, getting a better look at the man.

  “Tainted night.” I almost retched. “Well, I guess you aren’t going anywhere after all.” His body had been sliced open, using meticulous, exacting cuts. There was one in the center of his chest and another crescent-shaped slice beneath his belly button. The crotch of his dungarees was stained crimson, and his eyes had been removed.

  Harvested? Had someone been gathering the man’s organs?

  Holding my breath, I held the sulfur stick forward, peering into the small room.

  It looked like a small workspace. The two metal tables on the far wall were the cleanest things I had seen since coming into the building. On a small shelf above the table was a smattering of small phials, jars, and packets of dried herbs. There were books and papers up there as well. I could see a half-opened jar of salve from where I stood, as well as a stub of a candle on a brass holder.

  Alchemy? In an old, musty basement?

  I stepped inside, carefully avoiding the corpse. Alchemy certainly made sense. I knew that if certain others had seen what I had seen upstairs, they would have been crying taint and burning the building. Specifically Lilah, the inquisitor who was assigned to my borough. If she saw any of this, there would be a furor and the boroughs would have regulated curfews.

  But it was also true that the human mind could be quite a strange thing, and we judicars were ever dealing with new and strange tonics that had strange effects when misused. As Booker had said, there were only so many things that could do things like make a man ignite from within.

  That was it. Alchemy, not taint.

  There was a sheaf of papers set upon the table. I picked them up, holding the match close so I could hopefully make out what the tiny letters spelled out.

  The stick went out.

  “Lost gods.” I reached for another and struck it. Once lit, I touched the flickering light to the small candle. Then, I turned toward the papers to see what I could read.

  Nothing. At least nothing I could make out. I can read both the vernacular and Eld Teredi, and even a smattering of Esperan, but this scratch-work didn’t even use the Sovereign letters.

  Was it Q’sarri? Perhaps. Whatever it was seemed to be an alchemical treatise, with strange symbols and patterns that seemed more like formulae than writing.

  Then, I stopped. I held one written in Eld Teredi. It was faint, but I could just make it out.

  The first time my master told me of this alchemy, he spent almost a year preparing, eating only seeds, nuts, and berries and chanting the Litany at sunrise and sunset. He told me he was creating a powerful working, the kind which, if I ever succeeded, would make me an alchemist with no equal. Each morning, he would have me slice the mark of Egregian upon his hand with a silver knife and then pleasure himself, using the blood from his hand. Never would he take his pleasure to completion, however, stating that the anxiety was what created the source of power for the concoction. When it was completed, he said, his seed and blood would be part of the fluid-vitae.

  We spent months looking for Greta.

  We didn’t know who she was at the time, of course, but he was exactingly specific in how he sought her. She had to be a child of nine, with long hair and blue eyes. When we found her, her mother was more than willing to part with her for some silver, saying she had too many mouths to feed as it was.

  For over a year, she stayed with us and was happy. Greta was kept away from the workroom, and we treated her exceptionally well. My master did everything he could to please her and make her happy. Before too many months, as is the way of a child, she came to love us as her own family.

  But never did my master let her see anything of the art.

  There were certain things that he did that were odd, however, and thus did I know that he had some secret doings. He never let her eat pork or eggs or even yoghurt. He never cut her hair. He bid me watch her carefully, early in the spring, when her body had begun to change into that of a woman. It was vital, he said, to know when she had her first uncleanliness. As if almost spurred by some event I did not know, he began spending more and more time with her, strengthening their bond with the time they had. One night, as I checked on her before retiring, she told me how happy she was, that this was the best time of her life.

  Oh, may the Radiant and the Devout forgive my life as I hope to forget my deeds.

  “What—?” I read the words, my hand trembling.

  This was more than alchemy. It was madness.

  More than anything else, reading those words drove home how alone I was, how deep this all seemed to wend. In that moment, even seeing the not-so-friendly face of the Warren’s Spider would have been a blessing.

  I rolled the papers carefully and placed them in my satchel. This would require a mind keener than mine to solve.

  With a final glance around, I turned back to the hallway, and then stopped in place.

  “Oh—” There were diagrams on the same wall that the door had been set into, intricate drawings I hadn’t seen from the outside. I held the candle close, peering at them.

  They looked like anatomy drawings, but of creatures I had never seen.

  There were long, tentacular appendages, something like a cuttlefish or nautili might have, only there seemed to be no central body per se. Instead, they seemed to wind around each other, having specialized orifices and organs at the end of certain tentacles. The drawings were remarkably detailed, as specific as anything in a dociere’s textbook.

  I traced my fingers along the brittle, yellowed paper, my eyes wide. I held the candle closer, studying the detail placed into the creatures’ mouth structures and the tiny, hook like teeth.

  “Thom?” Scoundrel muttered my name, peering into the hallway. The sound pulled me away from my revolted fascination.

>   “Right, little crow-kin.” I stepped back into the hallway, careful not to disturb the corpse.

  Yet, I couldn’t get those eerie sketched out of my mind. What were they? What kind of mind conceived of such things?

  Where was I at, really?

  2

  The hallway bent ’round to the right shortly after the door, and I could see a flickering light cast upon the wall. I licked my fingers and pinched the candle dark, wincing at the burn. Carefully, I placed the candle in my satchel with the matches in case I needed them again.

  “Good Thom?” Scoundrel’s croaking voice was soft, almost as if she knew we were trying for stealth. Still, it surprised me, sounding like a peal of thunder in the silence.

  “Hush, pretty girl.” I peered around the corner, slowly, hoping that anyone who might be there wouldn’t see me.

  No one.

  The hallway opened up slightly, widening about three steps ahead. The flickering light was from a small brazier set into the middle of the floor. It burned a merry yellow, with some kind of pot or small cauldron sitting atop it. I could smell whatever was cooking in the cauldron—something foul, like decaying flesh. The scent mixed with the naphtha from the glowing brazier.

  Beyond the light was a stout, wooden door.

  “Alright, pretty girl.” I shrugged so that Scoundrel would hop to the floor. Carefully, I stepped forward, holding my stave in the third stanza. It was a strategy that was especially suited for tight alleyways and corridors.

  Carefully, I crept forward. As I got closer I could see that even though the hallway went forward, this wide spot had a series of narrow, folding doors set in the wall—a giant set of connecting closets. These were separate from the door I had seen at first. As I grew closer, I realized that’s exactly what they were, closets of some kind, all arranged together.

  I realized something else. The whole area stank of rot. It wasn’t the cauldron at all. In fact, as I got closer, I realized that the cauldron was empty, was just sitting there glowing slightly from the heat.

  The smell must be in the closets.