Mourningbird (Empire of Masks Book 3)

by Brock Deskins

  “I have no doubt she will.”

  “What is this summons about, and so soon after their last meeting?”

  “There is rumor of a serious danger lurking within Velaroth, and it could extend to the other cities. I think it may involve deploying the fleet, so Rastus needs to confer with the other city heads on the best way to do so.”

  “The fleet? What could possibly be so threatening? The fleet has never been deployed beyond protecting trade routes and as a show of force when some Thuumian tribe threatens the safety of one of the settlements. Are they gathering to attempt a siege on one of the cities?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I really don’t have a lot of information right now. Just take care if you’re outside the embassy, especially after dark.”

  Lysse stood as Bertram got to his feet. “I’m sure with you as chief inquisitor, you’ll have this all sorted out before they even arrive.”

  “I certainly intend to,” Bertram replied as he donned his mask. “Lysse, I hope you understand me well enough to know that I would react poorly to anyone that betrays me or my family. Very poorly.”

  “Of course. We all saw the duel,” she replied with a tight smile.

  Lysse walked him to the door and gave him a wave of farewell as he rode away in his cab. She closed the door, her smile melting like candle wax into a frown, and kicked the wall. “Shit!”

  ***

  “Beverly, the coal bin is empty. Would you go to the cellar and fill the bed warmer? The nights are so chilly, and I feel as though I am coming down with a cold. I mustn’t get sick before the gala,” Joselyn said.

  Beverly ducked her head and fetched the long-handled bed warmer from where it hung near the bedroom fireplace. “Yes, sahma.”

  The maid hastened to obey, eager to please her employer. She had been one of the powder master’s servants for less than three years, and she worked hard to make herself indispensable. It was a good job for a former ward of Wayward House, and the powder master and his wife were decent masters—for highborns.

  She had hoped to find one of the laborers downstairs, but none were about. Arnaud Newell, Velaroth’s powder master, did not employ a large staff. The only permanent workers were her, another maid, the chef, and his scullery worker. Three men guarded the home in the evenings until morning, and any laborers were hired as needed. This left her the filthy job of retrieving the coal from the basement. She would find an urchin on the street later and pay him a few coppers to fill the upstairs bin so she would not have to do it herself.

  Beverly lit a lantern hanging near the cellar door and eased her way down the creaking stairs, her caution born not just of fear of taking a tumble, but her desire to avoid brushing up against anything that would soil her uniform. The sah and sahma required the utmost tidiness in their employees. She just wished that their fastidiousness extended to the cellar. Then again, if it did, she would likely be the one to clean it.

  She walked past the tall wine rack filled with bottles covered in dust to the large bin sitting below a chute that extended to the outside of the house. The maid held the lantern at shoulder height and searched the dusty room for a stool upon which to stand to better allow her to reach the coal within the bin and avoid touching the filthy rim of the box with her sleeves.

  Not wanting to touch the stool with her hands, she pushed it over to the bin with her foot, set the bed warmer on the ground next to her, and retrieved the shovel leaning against the side. Beverly grimaced at the black grime that transferred from the shovel handle to her hands as she stood over the bin and plunged the blade into the onyx stone.

  The shovel barely sank beneath the surface before striking something and coming to an abrupt stop. Frowning, Beverly scraped at the top layer of coal to reveal the obstacle. She stared at the object a moment before her brain was able to reconcile what her eyes beheld.

  Beverly dropped the shovel and brought the back of her hand to her mouth as a scream tore from her throat. She stumbled off the stool and backed away from the hideous, blackened skull staring up at her. She turned to run and collided with Sah Arnaud.

  He steadied her by grasping her upper arms. “What is it, girl?”

  Beverly whipped her face toward the bin and back to her master. “A body, sah! There’s a body in the coal bin! I think the flesh has been stripped from the bones!” She buried her face into the old man’s chest and sobbed.

  “It’s going to be all right, child. I know all about it.”

  She pushed herself away and stared into Arnaud’s eyes, eyes she now realized were not his own. “How…? Why…?” She struggled for words.

  Dorian smiled at her. “Because I put him there. At least now he will have some company.”

  Beverly’s mouth worked but failed to issue a sound even as Dorian’s cane morphed into the void lance and pierced her chest. Her body seized up, mouth agape, as the Necrophage ripped the soul from her body. He set the lance aside, lifted the young woman with a strength that belied his aged appearance, and casually tossed her into the bin atop the remains of the real Arnaud Newell.

  Dorian filled a bucket with coal, not wanting to risk the old man’s wife sending down another servant for more later in the day, picked up the bed warmer, and delivered them both to Joselyn.

  “Where is Beverly?” Joselyn asked the moment he stepped into the room.

  Dorian set the bucket and bed warmer near the fireplace. “I sent her into town to purchase some fresh fruit.”

  “I thought I heard a scream.”

  “You did indeed. A rat ran across the poor thing’s foot.”

  Joselyn wrinkled her nose. “Do call a ratcatcher. I will not tolerate rodents in my house.”

  “Not to worry. I struck the vermin down. I will see to it that there is not another such incident later, but I must be off to work. I’ll send Innes up to look after you until Beverly returns.”

  Dorian left the house and climbed into the waiting carriage. Four men armed with swords and muskets rode on the driver’s bench or clung to the running boards. The guards were not his. Arnaud was one of only three people in the world who understood the final, critical steps of making gunpowder, and the duke made sure he was well-protected.

  The powder mill was located in one of the most run-down and sparsely populated areas of northern Blindside. The powder magazine was situated more than a mile away in another Blindside borough so that a catastrophic event in one did not destroy the other. It was an intelligent choice of design to prevent an accident. Unfortunately for Velaroth, their precautions were a minimal defense against someone who deliberately sought to destroy them.

  A sturdy wall surrounded the mill as if it were a fortress, which in many ways it was. Men armed with muskets, and even a few cannons, manned the elevated fortifications. Doors made of solid iron and mounted on rollers parted like large metal curtains once the gate officer verified Dorian’s stolen identity.

  As Dorian gazed outside of the carriage at the sprawling complex, more memories rose to the surface, and he grasped at them like a child catching butterflies with his bare hands. They were wisps of thought from a mournful soul imprisoned within a stone, and trying to snatch them too aggressively would tear them apart like smoke rings.

  Plumes of grey and black smog rose into the sky from the charcoal pits near the east wall. Whenever the wind shifted, an odiferous wave of worm manure blanketed the entire district, bringing tears to the eyes of anyone whose senses had not yet been dulled by constant exposure. Only slightly less horrid was the smell of sulfur escaping the tall silos near the mixing plant.

  Dorian tried to leech the names from the soul stone’s stored memories and apply them to the faces he saw. He was successful for about one out of three of those attempts, and only for those his host spoke to on a regular basis. More memories seeped to the surface as the once familiar coalesced into shape like barely remembered dreams.

  He directed the carriage to deposit him before the mixing plant doors. The soldiers guarding the entra
nce snapped to attention at his approach, one opening the door so that he could proceed without delay.

  Huge metal vats, numbering an even dozen, filled the bulk of the interior. Wooden paddles driven by a network of axles and gears turned by a team of rammox continuously churned the black slurry as the liquid evaporated until it was ready to be pressed into mill cake then dried and milled.

  Climbing the stairs of one of the vats, Dorian leaned over, dipped a finger into the slurry, and nodded as he sniffed it and touched it to his tongue. He had no idea of the quality of the batch as his stolen memories could never relay such detailed information, but he did know this was part of his routine, and he would put on the best performance he could. The powder was the humans’ source of real power. If he could deprive them of it, their conquest would be laughably easy.

  A younger man met him back on the mixing plant floor, holding a slate with several pages clipped to it. “Sah Arnaud, thanks to the recent worm hunt so close to the city, production is up twenty percent and the quality is exceptional.”

  Dorian nodded as he searched for the man’s name. “Yes, Jamey, I am very pleased. Follow me to my office. There are things we must discuss.”

  “Yes, sah.”

  The administration offices lay at the far side of the compound. His office was upstairs where he could overlook the milling process on the work floor below. The interior was well-lit. Mage glass lamps provided all the illumination in every building where flame was strictly forbidden. He closed the door behind him. The office was constructed and insulated well enough that he could barely hear the stone wheels pulverizing the mill cake.

  “Jamey, you have worked here for some time now.”

  The foreman ducked his head. “Yes, sah. Twelve years, and my father thirty-two years before me.”

  Dorian smiled and draped his arm over Jamey’s shoulder. “I think it is time to entrust you with some additional duties.”

  “I would be honored to serve in any way I can, sah.”

  “Yes, I know you will.”

  Dorian slid a device that looked like a short hatpin with a small soul stone clamped in a gold setting adorned with techno-scribings. In the blink of an eye, he stabbed the barbed pin into the base of Jamey’s neck. The man’s hand flashed toward it as he leapt away, but his entire body froze up before he managed to take a full step.

  “You belong to me now, Jamey,” Dorian said. “Do you understand?”

  Jamey stared ahead, his eyes vacant. “Yes, master.”

  “Good. You must call me Sah Arnaud as you always do.”

  “Yes, Sah Arnaud.”

  “You will continue to perform your duties as if nothing is wrong. You will carry on as you always do. Keep the device in your neck hidden and let no one discover it.”

  “Yes, sah.”

  “Go back to work. You will know when I want you to do something for me.”

  “Yes, sah.”

  Jamey left the office and returned to the mixing room. Dorian smiled. His plan was coming together. All he needed to do was position a few more pieces onto the board before he contacted his mother. That task was likely to be the most challenging as it required him to subdue the abomination called Nimat.

  He would need to penetrate her organization to get close enough to her to strike, and she was already on guard. Dorian set the thought to the back of his mind. He had other things to do first. The leaders of all four cities were meeting soon, and that was one party he would not dare miss.

  CHAPTER 14

  Bertram found his uncle in the palace library, sitting between a stack of books to his left and a half-consumed tumbler of brandy to his right. The hand not holding the drink moved beneath the lines of handwritten text, the ink faded with age.

  Rastus looked up at his nephew’s approach. “Bertram, have you managed to sort out whatever quandary you were having this morning?”

  The inquisitor sat across from him and sighed. “Not really.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Bertram let his eyes travel around the expansive room with its shelves of books, their spines looking like soldiers standing at attention, each wearing a different uniform. “Two of my officers led me into an ambush last night. It was only due to the intervention of a third party that I survived.”

  Rastus’ jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Who were these men? Have you dealt with them?”

  “The two gendarmes are dead at my hand, as well as several of the ambushers. Of my rescuers, I know little. They did allow the architect of my attempted assassination to go free.”

  “Who was behind it? I will destroy everything they have!”

  Bertram raised a restraining hand. “I have taken care of it, Uncle. I do not think they will try again. It was a personal matter for which I bear some responsibility.”

  The duke leaned back in his chair, his fury fading. “Only a couple of weeks pounding the streets and you are already learning temperance. There is truly nothing you can’t do if you put your mind to it. I think we can get you back onto the fleet command track sooner than I had hoped. I will mention as much when the other leaders return and announce my official recommendation for your successorship.”

  “Actually, that is what I wanted to speak to you about. I think you should hold off on that.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Not having a glass at hand, Bertram took a pull straight from the bottle of brandy separating him from his uncle. “I have a nagging feeling there is more to my rescue than mere happenstance or benevolence. I spoke with Conner Rey, something I have been doing a bit of since taking my new position. You might recall him being our former chief inquisitor.”

  Rastus nodded, his face solemn. “A good man and great inquisitor. I felt his loss deeply.”

  “He thinks the reason these men rushed in to save me was because they wanted me to succeed you.”

  Rastus shrugged. “I imagine there are a great many people who want you to become the next duke. I am not the only one who sees greatness within you.”

  Bertram shook his head. “No, he thinks they want me to replace you, soon, to gain power within the city.”

  “You mean they may forcibly remove me from my seat to put you on it? Who would gain from that?”

  Bertram did not answer, instead he simply locked eyes with his uncle to let him come to his own conclusion.

  “Nonsense. You have made no declaration of intent to marry Lysse. Esmerelda is as devious and cunning a woman as I have ever met, but I cannot entertain the idea that she would have me killed to put you on the throne in hopes that you one day marry her daughter.”

  “Is it really that far-fetched an idea? Lysse and I have grown close, and there is no better match for me than her. The likelihood of our marrying is very high. It is the favorite gossip of every women’s circle in all four cities. What happens if I should pass before naming my successor, with Lysse as my wife? Who do you think stands to gain control, not just of the city but the knowledge of making powder? Nibbenar would then control airship construction, the making of powder, and the deploying of the fleet. Esmerelda could easily conquer Vulcrad and hold so many of the cards that Glisteran would have no choice but to bend the knee.”

  “Have you spoken to Lysse about this?”

  “Indirectly. She appeared amused at the talk of marriage at this point in our lives, but her reaction could have been feigned.”

  “Do you think it was?”

  Bertram shrugged. “I don’t know. She seemed genuine, but she is her mother’s daughter.”

  “Let me offer another alternative, one similar to your theory but slightly less nefarious in nature. I have no doubt that Esmerelda would love to see you marry Lysse. The advantages of the arrangement, for both our cities, is enormous. Perhaps she did seek to protect her investment by having some of her agents watch you, particularly after you chose such a hazardous job as chief inquisitor, and that is as
far as it goes.”

  Bertram nodded along. “So while she wants to see me keep my head, she does not necessarily want to take yours.”

  “Precisely. Of the two, which is more likely? Which one offers the greatest reward with the least risk?”

  “If I uncovered a plot to assassinate you, it would be disastrous for her.”

  “It is why I ensure that the other cities’ powder stores are never any greater than they need to be. I can at any time cut off the flow of powder, and with the fleet at my command, I could blockade their cities and dominate any battle with little resistance.”

  Bertram grunted his acquiescence. “I suppose you’re right. What are you reading?”

  Rastus glanced down at the ancient tome laid out before him. “I was hoping to find more information about these Necrophage creatures.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Very little. A few vague references, and those obliquely mentioned through third- or fourth- party accounts. If the highlords did indeed purge our history of their existence, they did a fantastic job of it. What about you, any more attacks or sightings in the city?”

  “Nothing. It has been unusually quiet with the exception of nearly a score of bodies found dumped in Blindside yesterday.”

  “More gang fighting?”

  “It appears so. Several of the men were known to the gendarme. Fred’s people.”

  Rastus curled a lip in disgust at hearing the man’s name. “Him again.”

  “Yes. I think he had something to do with the warehouse incident, and this was likely payback.”

  “I hope it is settled now, whatever it is. There is a limit to the leash I allow them.”

  “You allow them too much as it is.”

  “Don’t start with me, Bertram. You’ll understand when you rule. At least I hope so, for everyone’s sake.”

  Bertram wanted to press the issue, but he knew he would get nowhere with his uncle on the subject. “I had best get back to work. It would be too much to hope he died of any wounds suffered in the battle.”

  “The creature or Fred Switzer?”