Mourningbird (Empire of Masks Book 3)

by Brock Deskins

  “I don’t suppose we’re lucky enough that she succeeded this time?”

  The officer shook his head. “Naw. She ran off as soon as things turned bad.”

  “Any word about a man in a highborn mask?”

  His question seemed to shake the man, but he said, “Mask? No, sah, no man in a mask I heard of.”

  Bertram grunted. “I didn’t expect there to be. Show me where this nightbird went to ground.”

  “This way, sah.”

  The gendarme led the inquisitor and Sergeant Randolph to a short flight of stairs leading beneath the main floor. A door barred their path perhaps halfway down the steps.

  Bertram tried the handle and found it unlocked. “I want the girl taken alive if at all possible. Use deadly force only if your life is in danger. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sah,” Randolph said with a bob of his head.

  Bertram pulled out his sword and pistol, slowly opened the door, and stepped through it onto a small landing above the basement floor.

  “Only one dying here is you,” Randolph rumbled, and shoved Bertram down the stairs.

  Bertram tumbled headlong down the rickety wooden steps. He instinctively brought his arms up to protect his head as he fell. Not knowing what to expect when he reached the floor, he climbed to his feet without pausing to assess any damage. Bertram had miraculously kept ahold of his weapons during his tumble, and he pointed his pistol back up the steps.

  Whatever other dangers awaited him, they were not going to come from the treacherous sergeant. Randolph had already closed the door, and Bertram could hear the men barring it shut on the other side.

  Bertram spun back around at the sound of footsteps issuing from behind the massive stills. Matches flared, illuminating the faces of two men, and lit a pair of lanterns that revealed at least half a dozen more. More disconcerting than the hostile faces was the presence of a man wearing a mask.

  The lantern light glinted off the enameled porcelain as well as the shadowed eyes behind it, eyes that spoke of fury and hatred. Bertram’s first thought was that it was Cleary, but at second glance he knew it was not. Not only was Conner’s butler horribly injured, but this man was taller and more slender.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t know what your intention is or what you have been promised, but I am Bertram Velarius, Chief Inquisitor and likely heir to all of Velaroth. You would do well to sheath your weapons and leave now.”

  “We know who you are, and I think our intentions are clear,” the masked man said.

  Before Bertram could say another word, two men raised pistols. The inquisitor, experienced in the ways of combat, was faster. Guided by instinct, his pistol settled between one man’s eyes and erupted in a cloud of smoke and fire.

  He was moving the instant the shot left the barrel, not bothering to witness the carnage it created. Another pistol roared, and Bertram felt the shot tug at his cape of office as he charged a knot of men to the side of the nearest still. In an ordinary sword fight, Bertram knew that his best defense lay in positioning himself so that only a few men could engage him at once, but with pistols involved in the fray, he had to remain mobile and able to put a barrier between himself and any potential shooter.

  His blade sang as it cut through the air, its crescendo punctuated by the ring of steel or the cries of a wounded man. Charging and cutting his way through the first group, Bertram situated himself between the two massive metal kettles that were simply too large for scavengers to salvage.

  The gap between the stills limited his attackers’ ability to engage him on two sides. That also meant that the few men with pistols had to shoot over the tops of their friends’ heads, which on two occasions resulted in instances of friendly fire. Unfortunately, there were more assassins in the room than he had first realized. While five men lay dead or wounded, there were still more than half a dozen clawing to spill his blood.

  More gunfire rang out and one found its mark. A shot tore through his coat and scored a deep furrow across his left shoulder. The sudden pain caused Bertram to fumble, and a sword slipped through his guard to deliver a nasty cut to his side. Bertram recovered, blocked another thrust with his spent pistol, and ran the man through with his sword.

  Even with the additional small victory, the tide of battle was turning against him. Sensing his flagging defense, the killers pressed in with renewed vigor. Bertram found himself purely on the defensive, unable to launch a successful counter-attack.

  The door above crashed open, and Bertram thought his end had come with the addition of the assassins’ reinforcements. Muskets spat lead and the men around him began to cry out and fall. Feet pounded on the stairs and there came a massive clash of steel.

  Scarcely believing his luck, Bertram fought his way out from between the stills and ran into a man wearing a cloth wrap around his face.

  “Time for you to go, Inquisitor,” the man said, the thick fabric muffling his words.

  “Thank you, but who are you?”

  His rescuer responded by pointing a pistol at Bertram’s stomach. “I said leave. We’ll deal with these men.”

  Confusion warred in his mind, but the man’s order was clear. Bertram spared one last glance at the man in the mask, now held against the far wall by swords and pistols, his hands above his shoulders, before running up the stairs and out of the old brewery.

  ***

  Commandant Vanos looked up from behind his desk at the sound of his door opening. Sergeant Randolph and a subordinate gendarme saluted, the senior man wearing a broad smile.

  “Our inquisitor problem has been taken care of, Commandant,” Randolph said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sah, we—”

  The sergeant’s face exploded, spattering Reto and a large section of the wall behind him with bone and gore. A slender, black blade burst through the junior man’s chest an instant later while his mouth still gaped at what was left of Sergeant Randolph.

  Reto grabbed for the pistol strapped to his chest, but Bertram shook his head as he touched the tip of his sword to the hollow of his throat. The commandant withdrew his hand and pressed his palms against the desk. Bertram stood at the other end of the deadly blade, his uniform sundered in various places, and blood streamed from several wounds.

  Bertram set his sword on the desk’s surface between Reto’s hands and started loading his pistol. “You have until I finish loading to convince me not to kill you.”

  Reto gazed into the young man’s deadpan eyes and saw his impending death. “Bertram, son, I had no idea what these two idiots were up to. Granted, it’s no secret that you and I have our differences, and perhaps they read too much into that rivalry and thought to do me a favor, but if they had told me that they had effected an assassination, I would have killed them both on the spot!”

  Bertram slid the small ramrod back into its place beneath the barrel and pointed his pistol at Reto’s head. “We are men of action. Lies are an insult to us both.”

  The commandant’s eyes flared open as Bertram cocked the hammer back. He raised his hands before his face and cried, “I know who your father is!”

  Bertram lowered his gun to Reto’s chest. “Another lie.”

  “No, I swear. If you kill me, you will be killing your own kin.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Farelle is your father, my brother. I am your uncle.”

  Bertram shook his head as his pistol drifted down toward the desktop. “Impossible.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course he does. Think about how he has always doted on you.” He flicked his eyes to the dagger Bertram wore opposite his sword. He gave you our father’s blade for Bronte’s sake! Why else would he do that?”

  “Why didn’t he ever tell me? Why did he let me go through life thinking I was a fatherless bastard?”

  “It’s complicated, but he had no real choice. He loved your mother dearly, but he was married. You have to
understand the financial and political repercussions should your heritage become public knowledge.”

  “Then…Darynn is my brother. I have a brother. And I think he just tried to kill me.”

  Reto’s face paled. “He was there? You saw him?”

  “I saw a man in an unregistered mask, but I think it was him.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, but I cannot say if he got out alive. The only reason I’m not dead is because a group of men stormed in at the last moment. They ordered me out and said they would take care of my assassins.”

  “Who were these people? Friends of yours?”

  Bertram shook his head. “I don’t know. They covered their faces and certainly did not act like friends. That’s another mystery I’ll have to solve later, but first I want to know why Darynn tried to kill me. Surely he wouldn’t risk everything, his life, just because his friend lost our duel?”

  Reto’s shoulders slumped. “It was just the latest of poor decisions made in the heat of powerful emotions. Darynn came to me a couple of weeks ago. He had just had another fight with his father, mostly about that blade you openly carry and why Farelle seemed to place you above his own son. I had to tell the boy why. He did not take it well, I’m afraid.

  “Put yourself in his shoes. All of his life his father placed what seemed to be impossible expectations upon his shoulders, expectations he couldn’t possibly meet. Then he gives his birthright to another only to find out that your claim is as great as his own. You were the favored son even when he didn’t know you were brothers. It burned inside him his whole life, and when he found out the truth, he couldn’t handle it.”

  Bertram stood silent, his finger caressing the trigger’s smooth metal. He holstered his weapon, picked his sword up from the desk, and slammed it home in its sheath before spinning around and storming out of the office.

  Reto called out at the young man’s back, “Bertram, please, he’s your brother!”

  He wiped blood and bits of brain matter from his face, leaned forward to look at the mess of bodies on his floor, and cursed.

  CHAPTER 11

  The sun had finally set, and from what Kiera could see from her hiding place in a partially collapsed slater’s shop, Fred’s gang was starting to give up on finding her. That was good if they simply went home and chalked it up as a loss. Her greatest fear now was that if they gave up looking for her on the streets, they would shift their attention to the airship. After all, she had to go home eventually. Or did she?

  Kiera had to admit that she could not protect herself and her family alone. She needed help. The thought filled her stomach with bile, but she had to swallow her pride for the sake of Wesley and Russel.

  She crept out of her hiding place, watched the darkened streets for several minutes, studying every shadow and corner for anyone lurking about before breaking cover and blending in with the foot traffic. Kiera moved as swiftly as she could without drawing undue attention to herself, a feat not easily accomplished since she knew that every passing minute could mean that the danger to her friends might be drawing ever closer.

  She was nearest the Blindside border with Midtown, but potential help was still closer than her airship was. Besides, she was just one person, and even with her help, it was unlikely she would prove to be the deciding factor in a concerted attack from Fred’s gang.

  Every minute it took her to reach her destination felt like an eternity. Even so, her fist hovered over the door, resisting her desire to knock. She broke the invisible hold and rapped soundly upon the barrier.

  Another eternity passed before the Thuumian woman opened the door. Surri did not speak a word and simply extended an arm, gesturing for the girl to enter.

  Conner stood up from the sofa on which he reclined and smiled at Kiera’s entrance. “Mr. Cleary, our guest has returned.”

  Cleary appeared at the top of the stairs and made his way into the sitting room. “Well, it appears you were right, Conner. The fates are moving swiftly around this one.”

  “I hope you have reconsidered my proposal,” Conner said.

  Kiera tried unsuccessfully to glare the smug looks from both Conner and Cleary’s faces. “I have one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “You have to protect my friends.”

  “From what exactly?”

  “From everything! From the thugs, gendarme, or any other enemies I might make doing your bidding, and I need that protection to start right now.”

  Conner pursed his lips in thought and nodded. “Understand that I do not have a gang or dedicated group of men at my beck and call, but I have employed outside help at times, and I can do that for you. There is no shortage of men looking for work, but that is all they are, hireswords more loyal to money than a name or cause.”

  “Fine, I’ll take what I can get, and I need them right now.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Fred Switzer.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “He beat up Wesley and robbed him so he couldn’t pay him back, and I’ve spent the last several hours hiding in a hole while his people tried to hunt me down and kill me. I got away, but they’re probably going to go after my friends now, and they don’t even know they’re coming.”

  Cleary said, “I have a few men I should be able to round up on short notice.”

  “Are you sure you are able to do this?” Conner asked with a notable glance at his arm still in a sling.

  “It’s fine. I can carry more pistols with this thing.”

  “All right, but no sword fights for you. Take my carriage and see to it. Try to buy Fred off if you can.”

  “I don’t think this is about the money anymore,” Kiera said.

  “You’re probably right, but I would prefer not to get involved in open warfare with Switzer if I can avoid it.”

  Kiera snorted. “Me neither, but look how that turned out.”

  ***

  A shrill, ear-piercing sound cut through Wesley’s delirium. “Russel, is that you? You’ve been making a racket all damn day. Would you give it a rest?”

  The noise redoubled. It sounded like a nest of skitter lizards if someone had doused them with lamp oil and set them on fire.

  Wesley rolled out of bed, wobbled on his feet a moment before catching his balance, and slogged from his room. “Russel!” He paused as the angry voices of men sounded from below the airship’s cairn. “Uh…Russel?”

  Wesley crept to the port railing and looked out. He spotted several dark shapes moving about in the moonlight, apparently searching for whatever was making the awful keening. Someone must have found it as one cry abruptly cut off and was soon followed by the silencing of the other.

  “What in the Tormented Plane was making that racket?” someone shouted.

  “Looks like some damn metal skitter lizard!”

  “Same over here,” a third man called out.

  “So much for surprise. Let’s get this done with.”

  The group stalked toward the airship. Someone below spotted Wesley’s head peering over the rail, raised a musket, and fired. Wesley yelped as he felt the ball cut through the air next to his head, ducked down, and scurried toward Russel’s door.

  He raised his fist to beat on the metal. “Russ—”

  The portal swung in and Russel emerged bearing a large rucksack on his back. “Go inside.”

  Wesley saw that Russel was not following him back through the door. “What are you doing? Get in here!”

  “They’re trying to get in my airship. People aren’t allowed in my airship.”

  “They’re here to kill us, you idiot! There has to be at least a dozen of them. We need to hide.”

  Russel ignored his brother as his hands were too busy to sign. He dropped his rucksack onto the deck, the pack standing up on its own and only about two feet shorter than he was. He reached into it and pulled out a thick metal disc a foot across, covered in techno-scribings, bearing a large piece of mage glass in its
center.

  Carrying the device to the rail, he hurled it like a discus thrower over the side. Several musket shots rang out, but the angle from which they aimed, coupled with Russel’s short stature, gave them a very small target to hit, particularly in the darkness. Russel appeared unfazed by the thought of potential death and walked back toward his rucksack.

  Below the airship, ignored by the attackers until now, the disc began to spin, slowly at first but with ever-increasing speed. The mage glass set in its center lit up and gave off enough light to illuminate a large area. Unsure what it was, but having already destroyed two of Russel’s small machines, several men ran toward it with their weapons raised, ready to do the same to this contraption as well.

  The disc leapt five feet off the ground, hovered in the air, and began spewing out large nails by the handful with every rotation. Men screamed as the iron darts pierced their flesh. More furious curses issued forth as the survivors scrambled up the rocky slope to the base of the airship.

  Russel ignored the grapnels hooking onto the railing, as well as his brother’s hushed pleas for him to come hide with him, as he dug into his pack. He pulled out a musket stock with a full breech assembly followed by an odd component consisting of four barrels splayed like the fingers on one’s hand, each “finger” having a bore more than an inch in diameter. Russel slid the barrel assembly into the breech and locked them in place as close to a dozen men scrambled over the rail with their weapons drawn.

  The intruders crouched next to the rail and behind anything that provided a modicum of cover as they searched the deck with their eyes. Russel whistled from behind the entrance to the crew cabins, alerting them to his position. The men charged toward the open doorway eager in their bloodlust.

  Russel stepped out from around the corner, braced the strange weapon’s butt against the wall surrounding the doorway, and fired a cone of lead death into the murderous gang. Pea-sized shot tore through the leading knot of mean with devastating effect. Dead bodies tumbled to the deck, while the survivors threw themselves behind any cover they could find.