by Alec Hutson
Benwise cleared his throat nervously. “My lady, you asked to be informed if we discovered anything odd while fulfilling your orders regarding the Shan.”
Interesting. Willa had dispatched her eyes and ears to observe the few Shan who resided here permanently—but it was devilishly hard to glean any information from them, since they spoke their strange, tumbling language to each other, and rarely ventured outside their walled compound in the Bright that served as both a diplomatic station and a home for the merchants who lived in Lyr year-round. She had instructed her constables to detain the Shan traveling through the city, before they could vanish behind those high red walls. Since they were in the Salt, she assumed it was sailors who had been detained.
“So you’ve found something on one of the Shan ships in port?”
Benwise shook his head. “No. One of our cutters happened upon a Shan trading junk some ways off shore, sailing north to Herath. As per your instructions, the captain diverted the ship to Lyr so the sailors could be questioned. One of them is inside the warehouse.”
The Oracle had claimed that the looming threat she’d seen would originate from Shan. With so little to go on, Willa had cast her net wide, trying to extract information from every Shan she could find. She’d also consulted with several scholars who had studied the history of that mysterious people and asked about these dark children they’d glimpsed in the vision. The answers she’d gotten had been largely incoherent—one scholar had read somewhere about children being sacrificed to placate the gods in old Shan, another thought the children could be the demons worshipped by some sort of death cult in the Empire of Swords and Flowers. The few Shan she had managed to question were tight-lipped on the matter, though Willa had watched several times while her constables questioned them, and she thought a few had known more than they were sharing.
They crossed the empty street and Benwise pushed open the door of one of the ancient, listing warehouses, holding it open as she hobbled inside. The room was small, an antechamber for the proper storage space beyond, and was dominated by a scarred table where a half-dozen watchmen in the blue and purple of the archon council lounged in rickety chairs, intent on a game of chalice. Telion was there as well, leaning against a wall—damn, how had the man beaten her here? One of the guardsmen glanced over as she entered, then his mouth fell open and he leapt to his feet.
“Lady Numil!” he cried, and at this his compatriots quickly stood, knuckling their brows.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Benwise apologized, glaring at the watchmen. “This lot must have arrived while I was outside waiting for your carriage.”
Willa waved his words away. “Never mind. Constable, I want to know more about what you’ve discovered.”
“It wasn’t me,” Benwise said, pulling out one of the chairs so she could sit. “Lady Philias noticed something was strange first.”
Willa chuckled. “A word of warning. I wouldn’t call her ‘lady’ where she can hear you.”
“Ah, well, then, Goodwoman Philias –”
“Probably even less accurate.”
“Yes, ah, she was the one who said to send for you.”
Most interesting. Had there been a sorcerer among the sailors?
“And where is Philias now?”
Benwise gestured towards the entrance leading deeper into the warehouse. “In there. With the Shan.”
Willa heaved herself to her feet again. “Well, then, let’s see what was so important that I had to suffer through that horrid carriage ride.”
The warehouse was huge, and empty of any goods except for a collection of shattered crates pushed up against one wall. This building was actually owned by the Numil family and had long ago been re-purposed as a space to get answers from the recalcitrant. Birds or some particularly large breed of bat fluttered among the high rafters, which were gilded bronze by the light falling through the large holes cut just below the roof. Dust glittered in the spears of light that reached the ground, and Willa could feel a sneeze starting to build. She slipped her handkerchief from her pocket in anticipation.
There were more watchmen here, another four or five, all holding crossbows in a manner that suggested they did not expect any trouble. They were arrayed casually around a man seated in a chair in the center of the room. Willa could see his hands were bound behind the chair and that, surprisingly, he wasn’t Shan. Philias was perched on the edge of another chair, facing him. Willa couldn’t see her face, but from her posture it looked like she was staring intently at the bound man, who in turn seemed to be trying his best to avoid meeting Philias’s burning gaze.
Willa brought her cane down loudly as she approached Philias and the man. The former nun of Ama stood, turning to her.
“You took your time,” she said.
Willa sniffed. “Those rich in years know that by dashing about, one misses important details. Better to be slow and thoughtful, rather than hurried.”
If Philias had pupils, Willa thought she would be rolling them. “Well, I’m not sure if the time I spent with this fellow waiting for you revealed any important details.”
Willa glanced over at the man, who was staring at them with eyes rounded by fear. Poor little duckling. Interrogated by Lyrish guardsmen and a woman with the eyes of the Pure. He must think he had been accused of something terrible.
From a cursory inspection there was nothing noteworthy about the sailor. He was old enough to have a few strands of gray in his brown hair, but his skin was still smooth and unblemished. If Willa was to guess, she’d have thought he hailed from somewhere in the Shattered Kingdoms, or perhaps the middlelands.
Philias motioned for Willa and Benwise to follow her a little ways from the man, outside of his hearing. Telion had wandered in from the front of the warehouse and was flipping a dagger to himself a few paces away. “Do you notice anything odd?” Philias asked.
Willa shook her head. “Should I? He seems to be just a sailor. We could go down to the taverns on the docks and drag out dozens who look just like him.”
Philias frowned, a flicker of frustration passing across her face. “I hoped you might see what I’m missing.”
“And what is that?”
“Why he’s strange! There’s something different about him, but I just can’t place it.”
“He’s not gifted?”
Philias gave her an exasperated look. “I know what sorcery smells like.”
Willa adjusted her grip on the ebony ball topping her cane, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Tell me why he’s here.”
Philias crossed her arms and indicated Benwise with her chin. “He sent for me when the Shan ship was brought to the docks. Like you asked, I’ve been accompanying the constables and the watch when they’ve been questioning the Shan in Lyr.” The exact nature of the threat from the Empire of Swords and Flowers hadn’t been made clear in the Oracle’s vision, but Willa had a suspicion sorcery might be involved. After all, the last world-ending cataclysm had come about from the machinations of wizards. It had made sense to Willa that Philias and her Pure senses should be present when the Shan were brought in.
“So you went aboard the ship?”
“Yes. Stern to galley—I’ve never been on a boat so large. It was like a floating city! But I didn’t notice anything strange. The hold was stuffed with trade goods bound for Herath, silks and ceramics and the like. Nothing made my senses tingle in the crew’s quarters, though the captain had a few interesting items infused with some minor enchantments. But there was this… sensation I had while traipsing through the ship. I felt almost dirty, like there was some oily residue coating everything. Again, not sorcerous in nature.
“So then we went above deck and lined up the crew. This one stuck out immediately, of course –” Philias pointed at the bound man. “– simply because he wasn’t Shan. But even beyond that, the… taint… seemed to be coming from him. Like
he was secreting it. Even now I can taste it in my mouth.”
“And what does it taste like?”
“Blood and ashes.”
Blood and ashes. Willa turned back to the sailor, who was looking around the warehouse like he could divine a way out of his predicament if he searched hard enough.
“Something you’ve had in your mouth often?”
“I’m just trying to describe it. That’s the best I can do.”
Philias sometimes had a tenuous grasp on both her powers and her sanity, this was true, but there was something troubling about this situation. What was it?
Then it struck her. The man hadn’t said anything since she entered the warehouse. That was odd. No protestations of innocence. No pleading for mercy. Surely he must have noticed how deferential the Lyrish watchmen were to her, and that his fate was in her hands. And yet he hadn’t spoken a word.
Willa stumped over to the bound sailor and stared hard into his eyes. They were wide, yes, and darting about like he was terrified… but he wasn’t perspiring. And his breathing hadn’t quickened at all. Slow and steady.
He was pretending to be afraid.
“Who are you?”
The man remained silent. “He’s a mute,” Philias said, coming to stand beside Willa. “The captain told me so. Made clear he wanted to join the ship’s crew in Ras Ami using only gestures. Kept to himself on the journey. Good with ropes and could climb the rigging like a monkey. That was about all he could tell me about him.”
Cold unease was starting to creep up Willa’s spine. The longer she stared at the man, past the false fear, the greater the sense that something was watching her from behind those eyes.
Sometimes she was such a foolish old woman.
“Philias, come here.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to touch his arm.”
Willa could see the disgust in Philias’s face even without turning to look at her. Those who had suffered through the Cleansing disliked coming into contact with the skin of others—as Philias had explained it, everyone who was not filled with the burning light of Ama felt cold and waxy. Like a corpse.
“Philias?”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. Willa stepped back a pace to give her room.
Philias crouched down, bringing her face close to the bound sailor. “I want this even less than you do,” she said, and then reached out for his arm.
“No,” said the man, and Philias paused, glancing uncertainly back at Willa. His voice was iron dragged across stone.
“Why not?” Philias asked, turning again to the sailor.
“Because,” he grated. “Your eyes. They burn.”
The light from above seemed to darken, as if a cloud had passed across the sun.
Suddenly Philias was reeling backwards, clutching at her face. Flesh fell away in tatters. Blood. Screams.
The man was standing, the leather straps that had bound his arms broken effortlessly. Philias stumbled and fell; much of her cheek had been torn away, revealing glistening red.
His hands. They had changed—his fingers now were tapering claws, long and black, and a squirming darkness seemed to be leaking from the points of those talons. Something moved beneath the man’s skin, near his throat, a shape sinuous and monstrous, his face bulging oddly as it wriggled past his jaw.
The thrum of crossbows. A bolt took the creature in the shoulder, the force making it stumble back a step. It hissed and charged the watchmen, bounding towards them on all fours like an animal. Then it was among them as they dropped their crossbows and struggled to draw their short swords. More screams and arcing blood as the creature lashed out with its claws.
“Behind me!” Telion cried, pushing Willa back as he drew his swords.
The watchmen who had been in the entrance charged into the warehouse brandishing pikes. They halted for a moment, shocked at the sight of what was happening. The creature turned, moving faster than Willa thought possible, sidestepping a thrust pike and jabbing its now sword-length fingers into a watchman’s belly. The dark claws slid in effortlessly, emerging from his back.
Willa rushed over to Philias and knelt down. Her face was a bloody ruin, strips of skin hanging from her shredded cheek and scalp. Willa glimpsed part of her jawbone. Blood was everywhere, though by some miracle both her eyes were unharmed. She still breathed, bubbles of blood appearing from between her lips. Willa pressed her handkerchief to where she saw the most blood escaping, a jagged wound in her neck, trying to put some pressure there and staunch the flow.
Silence. No more screams. She glanced up from Philias.
The creature was stalking towards them like a beast, drenched in the blood of the slain guardsmen. Bodies were piled behind it, some torn apart, their limbs scattered.
Telion positioned himself between them and the creature. His swords did not waver, brave man that he was.
Its face. There was no expression. No hate. No joy. Just calm purpose. The creature’s talons had grown so long their tips now dragged on the wooden floor of the warehouse.
Willa took up her cane and with a twist pulled off the ebony ball topping the shaft. “What are you?” she screamed as it approached. “Are you like the children?”
The creature cocked its head. “How do you know the Chosen?” it hissed in a cracked and broken voice.
Willa swallowed away her fear. She was far too old to be afraid of dying. “The Chosen, eh? Silly name.” Steeling herself, she stepped towards the creature.
“Lady Numil, flee!” cried Telion, trying to block her.
She ignored him. “I always said I’d stare death in the eye when he came for me.”
The creature lunged. Telion swung his swords.
Lady Numil threw the ebony sphere she had taken from the top of her cane. It struck the creature’s chest and shattered, splattering liquid that hissed and smoked. The monster shrieked, clutching at its bubbling face with rending talons. Telion’s sword bit into its shoulder and the creature stumbled backwards, shaking its head as its melting flesh began to smoke. Telion cursed and shook his head as some of the droplets struck him.
The creature leapt away, crossing the room in two great bounds. With preternatural quickness it scuttled up one of the walls like a monstrous spider, its claws gouging great chunks from the wood. A moment later it was gone, vanishing through one of the high windows.
“God’s blood, what was that?” yelled Telion, sheathing his sword and clapping his hand to his still-smoking cheek, his eyes wide from the pain.
“A gift from the artificer lords of Seri. A weapon even an old woman can use. I’m afraid your face might be permanently scarred, Telion. Lucky you were never handsome.”
“What? No, I mean that thing!”
“I do not know. Now help me with Philias. We need to bring her to a chirurgeon quickly.”
Telion seemed to emerge from his daze. “I know of one in the Salt. More used to treating sailors and whores, perhaps, but he’s a learned man.”
Willa clapped her hands. “Excellent. Pick her up and let’s be off. I’ll try and keep her from bleeding herself dry.”
Gently, Telion scooped up Philias, averting his eyes from her mangled face. She moaned and muttered something unintelligible.
“What will we do about that thing?” he asked, his voice thick with pain. “It’s loose now in the city.”
Willa found herself staring at the dead watchmen scattered about. “The ship it was on was headed north, to Herath. I believe it’s finally time I went to see the queen.”
Barbarians.
Alone in her room at The Cormorant, the inn where she had found lodging upon arriving in Herath, Cho Lin sat at a small table and regarded her supper with grim resignation. The servant girl who had delivered the plate had muttered something, probably the name of what animal it had been hacked from, but between
her shyness and Cho Lin’s struggles with the northern tongue the origin of the bloody slab in front of her remained mysterious. She prodded it with the pronged utensil the girl had also delivered with the meal, and red juice spilled out onto the table. Had it even been cooked? Where were the spices and peppers? This was what wild beasts ate in the forest—was it any wonder the men of these lands were covered in hair and smelled so terrible?
As if in response to her musings, laughter and incoherent bellowing floated up from the common room below. Yesterday, when Cho Lin had pushed through the door to The Cormorant, she thought she’d happened upon a brawl—the clamor had washed over her like a wave, burly men and women stumbling together and shrieking, the heat of the hearth and all the bodies pressing together so overwhelming she had nearly swooned. Instead, her hands had gone to the hilts of her butterfly swords, ready to defend herself if necessary. But then she’d noticed the musician up on the raised stage, playing some small, stringed instrument.
Dancing. The graceless revelry had been a dance.
She had much to learn.
As a girl, her tutors had instructed her about the northern barbarians: their customs and history, the names of their kingdoms and empires, the teachings of their philosophers and ethicists. Cho Lin had nearly been reduced to tears on several occasions by strict Teacher Chen, who had forced her to memorize the convoluted grammar structure and characters of the northerners’ language—those strange squirming symbols that represented sounds rather than things. Endless afternoons spent living in terror that she would err while reading A History of Menekar or The Anagogics and feel the crack of the bamboo switch on the back of her wrist, all the while just wishing she could be outside dashing through the gardens with her lost friends.
But the lessons had served her well. She could understand most of what the northerners were saying, and she had successfully navigated several transactions, including securing this room and buying a few changes of the local garb. Warm woolen breeches and tunics, necessary in this cold city, along with a dark, cowled cloak, should allow her to move about without drawing attention to her foreignness.