Blackthorne

by Stina Leicht

  Good.

  His memory of the return journey was marred by patches of blackness. There was no second attack—at least, he didn’t think so. His awareness centered on the snow-covered ground as he struggled to walk. The next thing he knew, they were met by Slate near the docks.

  “Is that everyone?” Slate asked.

  “All that are living, as far as we know,” Hännenen said. “I won’t risk anyone else to search, not now. It’ll have to wait until the morning.”

  “What happened to him?” Slate asked.

  Blackthorne felt Slate’s hand on his shoulder.

  “He killed that thing,” Viktor said. “I think he was bitten.”

  “Get him to the infirmary,” Slate said. “Someone wake Westola or Ilta. Tell them they’ve got a patient on the way! Now!”

  CAIUS

  ONE

  NOVUS SALERNUM

  THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA

  20 NOVEMBER

  THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS

  “Close the door,” Senior Warden Tolerans said.

  Caius followed the order. The cavernous study became claustrophobic, and the pleasant scent of pipe smoke took on a sinister quality. Valarius turned you in. Caius’s body completed the betrayal by revealing his terror. His hand shook as he reached for the door. His heart hammered a loud drumbeat in his chest, and his knees threatened to disobey him altogether. Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t Valarius. They’ve been watching you since Severus was reconditioned. Standard procedure—to watch for a philosophical taint. Thoughts, if not regulated, can be like a disease. Severus was your closest friend, after all.

  You’ve been stupid.

  Caius assumed his place on the large geometric-patterned rug before the Senior Warden’s massive writing desk and resumed a rigid posture.

  “At ease, Fortis,” Senior Warden Tolerans said. His tone was flat, almost bored.

  Caius dropped his shoulders and let his hands fall away from the small of his back. However, his heart continued its panicked gallop.

  “We have a serious problem,” Senior Warden Tolerans said. “One that cannot involve anyone else, including the Watch. Am I understood?”

  Oh, Mithras, Caius thought, will reconditioning be as terrible as they say? Will they tell my mother? What will Father say? “Yes, sir.” He was thankful that his voice didn’t crack.

  Senior Warden Tolerans said, “According to the census records, there is a discrepancy in the population numbers.”

  Caius blinked. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. It took him an instant to recover. “An error?”

  “Not an error. A discrepancy,” Senior Warden Tolerans said. “It would appear that someone is smuggling nonhumans out of the city.”

  “Sir? I thought—I thought we created that rumor.” Such stories served two purposes—the first was to trap nonhumans who would attempt escape. The second was, to Caius’s way of thinking, far more cruel. Naturalists and philosophers working within the Brotherhood claimed that nonhumans were more cooperative when they believed freedom a possibility. It was this meager hope that filled the arenas with fighters seeking a quick, inexpensive, and seemingly easy path to citizenship. For those without the strength, speed, and stamina for the games, there was always the possibility of running—of reserving a berth aboard a coffin-coach, so called because of the small spaces inside wagons used to secrete runaways. In either case, the official story was that a haven existed for those foolhardy or desperate enough. The logic seemed perverse to Caius. If no one returned to verify the haven in question, it only served to prove it existed.

  Or had so far.

  Senior Warden Tolerans said, “In this case, it seems someone co-opted our little lie.” He went to a bookcase and retrieved a ledger from the rows of similarly black leather-bound volumes. Setting it on a table, he leafed through the pages.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Caius said, “but a percentage of inaccuracies shouldn’t be unusual, surely. Statistically, we—”

  “Are you suggesting that the census is inaccurate?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Senior Warden Tolerans returned his attention to the ledger beneath his fingertips. “Sixty-three nonhumans declared missing. This, from Novus Salernum alone. Other sectors have reported discrepancies, but the numbers are far less by comparison.” He looked up from the tome. “There is a clever Rogue in our midst, Fortis. One who takes advantage of our little lie and is intelligent enough to hide the bodies. One who is familiar with our procedures. That makes him very dangerous indeed.”

  “Could it be one of our own?”

  “That isn’t possible. A relative, perhaps? That I might believe,” Senior Warden Tolerans said. Using a quill, he made a note on a scrap of paper and blotted it with sand. “Nonetheless, there is one known witness. Interview her and report. Speak to no one else of your findings. You are to report directly to me and me alone.” He offered the slip of paper.

  Caius accepted it and read the name “Lucrosa Aurelia” and an address off of Regent Street in the Senior Warden’s precise hand. “Yes, sir.”

  “And Fortis? Be polite. The witness is a high-ranking Lucrosa. The director will not want his alliances … damaged.”

  That meant that Caius couldn’t use any of the standard methods for obtaining cooperation—no coercion, no threats. He had to manipulate her into volunteering the information he needed, which would be damned near impossible. Why send me? Why not someone of more senior rank? “I’ll be careful, sir.”

  “See that you are.”

  TWO

  The coach’s iron step unhinged, announcing Caius’s arrival with a heavy clang.

  The Lucrosa’s manse wasn’t visible from the street. That wasn’t unusual. Most of the residences in the area were situated on large plots in spite of being located within the city. Due to the malorum, it was considered safer. An ornate black iron gate twenty feet high and an equally imposing red brick wall shielded the property. He knew without looking that the tops of both were dotted with silver. On the other side of the bars, a private drive wound its way through a wooded lot.

  One of the two guards stationed at the gate approached. Both were heavily armed and dressed in the loose black clothing of professional Retainers. Caius displayed his credentials and was granted access to the property. The rented coach drove off down the public street, rattling a goodbye on the cobblestones. The huge iron gate creaked before it slammed shut behind him. The crisp winter air filled his lungs as he gazed at the grey afternoon sky. A gusty wind rattled the naked tree branches, their dull clatter reminding him of bones. He tugged his scarf closer around his neck and pressed his tricorne tighter on his head lest it blow away. His boots crunched on an icy drive wide enough for three carriages and paved with thousands upon thousands of broken white shells imported from Archiron.

  When he finally reached the building with its tall white columns and classical pediment, he noted that it was more palace than house. It projected a foreboding and impenetrable quality. Aristocratic rows of glass windows reflected the dull clouds, quartered by silver-plated mullions. It had been recently built, or had been remodeled, not that Caius was familiar with the minute distinctions between older buildings and newer ones. Unlike his mother, he didn’t keep up with architectural fashion. Such esthetic endeavors were beyond his reach and therefore weren’t worth the effort to study. For him, the telling details were in the brightness of the mortar and the fresh coat of paint.

  The drive continued around the manse. He spied other buildings on the property, which he guessed were for servants. There were a stable and a large, white-fenced paddock. The carriage house was larger than his parents’ home.

  He approached the massive front door with a sense of helpless awe and resented it. There was no one on the grounds to greet him. So, he resorted to the brass knocker. The abrupt tap of metal against metal was invasive in the stately hush. After a long, oppressive silence, footsteps echoed on th
e other side of the white double doors, and a handsome elph with dark skin, wearing a powdered wig and a footman’s uniform, appeared. He held out a silver salver. “The master is not receiving visitors today. Please leave your card on the tray.”

  “I am Inspector-Warden Fortis Modius Caius. I’m here to speak with his daughter, Lucrosa Aurelia, if I may?” It was best to make it sound as if there were a social call.

  The footman bowed with a brief nod that only just satisfied modern standards of courtesy. “I will inform the mistress.” He opened the door wider, permitting Caius access to an entry chamber. The floor seemed to have been fashioned from one huge piece of expensive white-veined black marble. “Remain here.”

  Removing his hat before entering, Caius felt insulted. No one spoke to Wardens as if they were barely worthy of the front door, particularly not nonhumans.

  Careful, he thought. Be polite.

  Recesses for the pocket shutters on the outward-facing windows were the only evidence of commonality between the classes—that is, the need for security from malorum.

  When it became apparent the wait would be long, he entertained himself by examining the paintings on the walls. Several were hunting scenes. Others were portraits of aristocratic, alabaster faces with long noses and softened square jaws. All had varying shades of golden brown to blond hair. The women wore diadems, elaborate and fashionable wigs, and bright silk gowns. Quite a few of the men were dressed in military uniforms and equally intricate wigs. There were two Wardens in the mix. Both wore Director’s insignia. Their pale grey eyes stared out of the paintings at him in faint disdain. Caius had edged closer to read the first name etched in the brass plate when he heard someone clear their throat.

  Startled, he turned.

  “My mistress will see you in the library,” the footman said. “This way.”

  Following the elph footman, Caius was led beyond the vast upward curving staircase and down a wide hallway. They passed several dark oak doors with crystal and filigree silver doorknobs. Thick wool runners protected the polished wood floor, muffling the echoing rhythm of their steps. At last, the footman stopped at a set of open pocket doors, revealing a large room whose cathedral-height walls were lined with books. A blond girl sat reading in a large brown leather armchair with her silk slippered feet propped up on a matching footstool. Her soft buttercream yellow gown was the same shade as her slippers. She was about his age, beautiful and well groomed in a pampered way. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he was more attracted to Drake, who was many years his senior and far less refined.

  Aurelia didn’t get up. She granted him a condescending smile and gestured for him to sit in a nearby armchair. “Father informed me that I wasn’t to speak with you when you came calling.” Her voice was cultured and prim like the rest of her, but an impish curl nested on the corner of her mouth.

  “Is that so?” Caius asked, growing annoyed. “Then why did you have me shown in?”

  “Because Father informed me that I wasn’t to speak with you.” Her pretty face pulled into a spoiled smirk. “Of course.”

  “Oh.” I see. So, these are the rules? Caius thought. As he had spent a majority of his life among the children of the rich, it was a game with which he was far too familiar. I’m not spoiled.

  Aren’t you? Your family has money too. Remember that. They’re just not as wealthy.

  “Why do you wish to speak with me?” she asked.

  “Your father owns an elph named Tobias Freeson.” Caius retrieved his sketchbook and graphite holder in order to take notes, such as they would be. He suspected his time was being wasted, but an order from Senior Warden Tolerans was an order from Senior Warden Tolerans. One didn’t argue with one’s superiors. Much. He swallowed. Perhaps Severus rubbed off on me after all. “I’ve come to talk about Freeson.”

  “Toby wasn’t a slave. He was an indentured servant. You would think you’d know that by his family name.”

  “Doesn’t it amount to the same thing when they break contract?”

  “Maybe for your purposes,” she said.

  That was risky, maybe even reckless, he thought. He reassessed the situation accordingly.

  She continued. “But there is an important distinction.”

  “I stand corrected,” he said. “What happened to this Tobias?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Caius held her gaze for what seemed an eternity. He knew he could out-stare her. She didn’t have any discipline to speak of; that was obvious. He decided to let the tense silence stretch between them for as long as she wished. Right about the time he began to feel immature for having lowered himself to participating in one of her childish games, she broke the silence and glanced away.

  “Toby quit working in my father’s smithy. He … left without permission.”

  “How well did you know Mr. Freeson?”

  “Toby is—was my friend.” It was easy to see she was daring him to say anything to her about her openly associating with a nonhuman.

  Caius ignored the challenge. “Can you tell me if anything unusual happened before he left? Anything at all? Did he talk to anyone you’d never met before?”

  She let out an impatient huff. “He took a few stupid old books from my father’s library. So what? All that fuss over stupid books Father was going to destroy anyway. What is so important about that?” she asked, tilting her chin down so that the fringe of her curls hid her eyes. “They were recovered and destroyed, you know. Everyone knows.” Again, she met his gaze. This time, a flash of worry creased her pout. Once more, she looked away.

  “Is something wrong?” Caius asked.

  “Do you think … Do you think Toby is safe?”

  Her display of concern for someone other than herself caused Caius to revise his earlier estimate of her. Pausing, he decided to try a new tactic. “His chances aren’t good.”

  “But they say … They say there are people who can help. People who can … you know, get people like him out of the country.”

  “Who says this?”

  “You know … everyone.”

  “Did someone contact him claiming to be able to do such a thing?”

  She stared down at her hands.

  “What did this person look like?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t want to say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  Her expression transformed again into defiance. “You’re a Warden. How stupid do you think I am?”

  He shrugged. “You’re assuming I hate nonhumans.”

  “Don’t you? You hunt them when they escape the census.”

  “I don’t hunt anyone. I’m an Inspector Warden.” That declaration was, at best, a half-truth. He didn’t hunt nonhumans. Not anymore. However, tracking down lawbreakers was a part of every Warden’s training, and lucrative bounties saw to it that many continued the practice even when their positions dictated otherwise. “I became a Warden in order to protect Acrasians from magic. All Acrasians, including nonhumans.” That was the truth; at least, that had been his original reason. Magic was said to harm the user as well as the target of the spell. If the nonhuman population, and thus their magical power, were controlled, then everyone would be safer. Unfortunately, after serving six months in the Brotherhood, he wasn’t so sure of his vocation. If nonhumans are so powerful, then how is it they don’t use magic to save themselves?

  He returned his attention to the task at hand. “You care a great deal for Tobias, don’t you?”

  She didn’t say a word. Her expression answered the question for her.

  “He’s in a great deal of danger,” Caius said. “Runaways often fall prey to the unscrupulous.”

  “He’s not a runaway slave.”

  “Bounty hunters and Field Wardens don’t care for distinctions between indentured servants and slaves, not when a nonhuman is involved. They’ll profit off of him. Abuse him. Sell him, maybe even kill him, if they haven’t already.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “
Because nonhumans need our protection,” he said. As puzzling as it all sounded coming from a Warden, it was how he felt. It isn’t the nonhuman that is the problem; it’s the magic. It occurred to him that he’d repeated that thought to himself a great deal over the past year.

  Caius argued with himself. They don’t sell hunting licenses for nonhumans because of the threat of magic. You’re the worst sort of hypocrite. You’re lying to yourself. And you’re manipulating her. For an instant, he wondered what she would do if she knew what he did—that her friend had probably been killed by an unlicensed hunter. And that the only reason the Brotherhood was interested was because of the revenue loss. The fact that it was a particularly fastidious hunter made it less of a priority, he suspected, in spite of the revenue loss. No chance of the public finding out about this one.

  “His name was Andrew Blackthorne. Worked out of the Golden Swan on Headley Street,” she said.

  Caius blinked and then jotted down the name before he forgot it. “Description?”

  “He was attractive, if somewhat rough. He was tall, kind of slender. Had straight black hair, a beard—just on his chin, a mustache, and light-colored eyes,” she said. “He looked human.”

  “What do you mean, he looked human; wasn’t he?”

  “I thought Mr. Blackthorne was a Warden, but Toby said that he couldn’t be, because he was nonhuman,” she said. “Toby gets funny hunches about things like that. He’s never wrong. So, I believed him. I let him go. Was I wrong?”

  Pausing, Caius fought to hide his surprise. “Why would you think Mr. Blackthorne might be a Warden?”

  She shrugged. “He was wearing boots like yours.”

  “Exactly like these?” Caius asked, stretching out a leg. While Wardens had been known to fall on hard times on occasion, no one would ever consider selling their boots. It was unthinkable. Anyone caught wearing them without the credentials to match would be killed on sight. It was one of the few instances when a duel didn’t require a license or a fee. “Are you sure?”