People of the City

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  One last touch. She checked the dead beasts—they truly were misshapen horrors. How was that possible? Were they born that way, was it done to them? After a bit of a search, she determined which robe was the least bloody and put that on. She was going to have to be stealthy right now, figure out what she was up against before she just charged in.

  Fight smarter.

  Satisfied that she was sufficiently disguised, she went off down the tunnel.

  She didn’t have to follow down it very long before it opened up to an enormous cavern, larger than she even thought possible. At least the width of four or five city blocks.

  It was filled with tents and huts and buildings. Saints, it was a village.

  A village filled with the robed figures. All of them going about their own business, like it was any other part of the city.

  Who were these people? How did they live down here? What did they do, why were they here?

  None of them had taken note of her. It was good she hadn’t lit the lamp; she would have been announcing her presence to all of them. She cautiously walked around the encampment, eyes and ears open. Looked for signs of Maresh and Lin. Where had they been taken? A few of the buildings were rather sizable. Was one of them their Constabulary House where they would take prisoners?

  Saints, what if these poor wretches were just innocents who saw Jerinne and the rest of them as invaders?

  No, they were taking children. They may be a lot of things, but innocent couldn’t be one of them.

  There were no children in this village, not that Jerinne saw.

  Nor was anyone talking.

  She passed by one tent where a pair of the robed figures were cooking. Again, no talking, and the smells coming out were atrocious. Jerinne held back her urge to retch. There was one notable thing about the cooks: from what she could see of their hands and faces, they were not the same sort of misshapen creatures that she had fought.

  But others in the village were.

  What was going on?

  Bells rang in the distance, from the tallest building in the center of the encampment. That building was dark, foreboding and even . . . unholy. A twisted set of tall, thorny spires. Like something out of a nightmare. As soon as the bells started, every person around Jerinne—human and beast alike—stopped what they were doing and made for that building.

  A church? Or whatever the opposite of one was.

  Jerinne wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, answers were probably within. And more than likely Maresh and Lin. It certainly was worth investigating.

  Jerinne kept her head down and followed along.

  The Hard Whistle Pig was the exact sort of place where someone who wanted to avoid notice would want to stay. No one would ever walk in here unless they had to. It was a pit of a pub, in absolute shambles on the outside. The door was hanging loose on one hinge and couldn’t even close. Stepping inside was like being punched in the nose: the rank stench of rot and human waste was overpowering. A few patrons slumped in the taproom. When Amaya entered, some didn’t react at all, others winced at the sunlight streaming onto their sallow faces.

  “What ye want?” a barman asked. This fellow looked like everything but his hair had died a month ago, and his beard had taken on a life of its own.

  “Looking for a tenant of yours,” she said.

  “Ye the law?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “I ain’t telling nothing to the law.”

  “I’m not the law.”

  “You can’t just shove in here. Ye got writs on us?” This fellow seemed daft.

  “Just here to talk to a friend,” she told him. “I’m not a constable or a marshal.”

  “Yer armed. What are ye, bounty hunter?”

  She had grown weary of this conversation, having had too many like it over the course of the day. There was no need to belabor it.

  “Room seven,” she said firmly. “I presume that’s up the stairs.”

  “You can’t go up without a writ!” he yelled at her as she ascended.

  “Stop me.”

  The scent was no better upstairs. The reason why was clear, as right at the top of the steps there was a broken water closet with no door. Amaya held down the bile that surged up her throat.

  Nothing short of fire could cleanse this place.

  She held her breath as she made her way down the hall to room seven. The door was open, and for a moment she assumed that it was yet another door in such disrepair it couldn’t close properly.

  Then she noticed the cracked wood. The splinters looked fresh. The door had been kicked open.

  Cautiously, she pushed the door and went in, hand on the hilt of her sword. The room was a mess. Papers strewn everywhere. The bed flipped over. Drops of blood on the ground.

  And no Kemmer.

  Clearly there had been a fight—and of course no one downstairs had even noticed. Would that barman or any other employee even care if a tenant was abducted? Or killed? It wasn’t like the scent would stand out.

  She looked through the papers—there were quite a lot, both on the floor and affixed to the wall. Newsprint articles. Notes of account from goldsmith houses. Maps and sketches. Lists with names, each one headed with The Lord, The Soldier, The Duchess, The Man of the People, and so on.

  The Grand Ten. Kemmer had been hunting them down, and it looked like he had narrowed down some of them. At least four of them he had narrowed down to one name. The rest, he had several candidates.

  His list for The Warrior wasn’t helpful. He had written, “Spathian? Tarian? Could it be Tharek? Or Dayne Heldrin?” So he had no idea. He didn’t even suspect Grandmaster Orren.

  Amaya examined the rest of it. There was a method to the arrangement, all focused on a map of the city on the wall. A few different locations were marked, but the one he had circled strongly, with several lines pointing to it: the Grand Druth Opera House. It had been closed for repairs for nearly a year, owned by Duchess Leighton of Fencal. From Kemmer’s notes, she was his prime candidate for The Duchess.

  She looked back to the rest of the disarray. There had likely been a tussle here—the drops of blood on the floor started by the overturned bed, and then led out the door. Not much blood at all—consistent with someone getting sliced on the arm, but still able to walk out on their own power. Someone had come for Kemmer, but left his notes and evidence here. Perhaps he fought the person off, perhaps they grabbed him and took him away. She had no way of knowing.

  All she had was a place, and an instinct that she would find what she was looking for there.

  She gathered up the papers and made her way back to the chapterhouse. It was getting late, and her absence would be noticed.

  “So you aren’t really moving your hand? Or feeling it?” Miss Nell asked as they continued down the twist of passageway, the horrifying hybrid animal leading them along. She had had the foresight of grabbing a piece of chalk off one of the slateboards and marking the walls so they could find their way back. While she was no Inspector Rainey, he found her a companion of excellent wit and temper. He could see why Veranix worked with her on his vigilante mission.

  “Moving, no. I’m controlling entirely with magic. I do have sensation, but . . . I confess that I cannot tell if it is the natural sense of the body or the application of my magical senses.”

  “And you don’t know what it is?”

  “I know what Mister Olivant of Lord Preston’s Circle called it,” Minox said. “He said that it was ‘a menace beyond the scope of my comprehension.’”

  Miss Nell let out a low whistle.

  “He also told me, ‘I will likely spend the rest of my nights lying awake terrified, praying you don’t lose control of the unholy power you use to wiggle your fingers.’”

  “Is that an exact quote?” she asked.

  “Someone tells you so
mething like that, it stays in your memory,” Minox said.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Dim the light on that, something up ahead. Hear that?”

  Minox covered his hand with a glove, which mostly muted its blue glow. He was deeply troubled that he couldn’t completely turn it off, that he had lost that level of control. Was this just down here, with the cat-rabbit in proximity? Was something else triggering it? Would his control return once they returned to the surface? He had no idea.

  Low bells were ringing up ahead, a deep, resonant clang that echoed through the passage. Their path led them toward the sound, and the passageway opened up to an enormous cavern, lit with a dull green glow from all the walls. The cavern had an entire encampment of tents and huts, centered around a large building with several high towers that touched the roof.

  The building was the source of the bells.

  “Well, that’s disturbing,” Miss Nell said.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Minox whispered, which was all his voice was capable of at the moment. “How could something like this exist?”

  “Look,” she said, pulling him behind one of the huts. “People are going in there.”

  “Then we need to do the same,” Minox said. He immediately regretted this, and corrected himself. “That is, I intend to investigate it. I will not impose upon you.”

  “I’ve got your back, Inspector,” she said. “Stop doubting that, all right?”

  “I don’t want to presume or abuse your assistance,” he said.

  “You haven’t yet,” she said.

  They slipped through the encampment, Minox noting that all the residents had gone into the building. The bells must indicate obligatory attendance. Who were these people, and what was this—church? Temple? It certainly wasn’t like any of the sainted houses of the Church of Druthal, or even the Racquin-influenced Church of Saint Veran outside the city that his mother favored. As they got closer, he saw that the structure was built out of wood—blackened as if by fire—but the wood was raw and twisting, as if it had grown this way of its own accord. That was, of course, impossible, but that was how it looked.

  Miss Nell gingerly touched the wall, pulling away after running her finger along it. “It’s thorned.”

  “You work with plants, Miss Nell,” Minox said. “Are you familiar with a wood like this?”

  She crouched down to look at where the wall met the floor. “It has roots that dig into the stone,” she said. “If I were to guess—” She paused and shook her head.

  “I welcome your guesses, however absurd.”

  She looked at the creature, which was rubbing its grotesque form against the building, as if doing so gave it pleasure. “If I were to guess, the same sort of twisted magic that was done to this animal was done to several trees.”

  “To what end?”

  “Is ‘make a creepy building’ not an end to itself?” she asked.

  “I reject that such an effort would be expended on aesthetics alone.” Minox went to touch the wall himself, but felt his hand surge with power. Like it was drawn to it. “They all went inside. I would like to know why.”

  “And I yell at Veranix for doing stupid things.” She pointed to an opening. “Let’s try to stay out of sight.”

  “I concur,” Minox said.

  The inside was like a maze of brambles, walls formed of dead, entwined vines and branches, leading them to a large congregation surrounding a stone dais and altar. The residents—dozens upon dozens of them—were all in dark robes, but it was clear that some of them were not human. Like the creatures in Senek’s lab, these people had been twisted and disfigured into mockeries of humanity.

  “The results of his experiments?” Miss Nell’s hot whisper burned in Minox’s ear. “Were they the children?”

  “Possibly,” Minox said, making sure they were hidden behind one set of brambles.

  Two robed figures came up to the dais, carrying a third person. No, a body . . . an unmistakably dead man with his head caved in. They placed him on the altar.

  “Our brother is fallen,” one of them said. “He is fallen, and the Brotherhood is lessened of him.”

  Moans of lamentation filled the congregation.

  “We would wish him joyous rest, having sunk to the waiting love of the Nine. That unburdened of flesh, his soul could pass through the deep stone to them.”

  “Blessed be the Nine!” someone from the crowd yelled.

  “May the Stone be cracked, so they can rise to us!” another called.

  “Yes, indeed,” the man on the dais said, gesturing for them to be quiet. “We would love to mourn our brother, that he might touch the divine before we all. But we cannot. We must call him back to us, so he can share with all of us his news.”

  “Call him! Call him!” the crowd shouted.

  “Call him back!”

  “Only the High Dragon can perform this great and terrible duty,” the man on the dais said. “Please, High Dragon, Holder of the Fervent Fire, we beseech you, your people need your guidance!”

  A man stepped out from behind one of the other bramble walls. A young man—no older than Minox, at least—with rich, dark hair and immaculately manicured beard. Racquin, like Minox, by the look of him. He was not wearing a robe, but rather a gentlemen’s shirtsleeves with red suspenders and cravat. He looked like he had just walked out of a north city theater, rather than being part of this dark, underground cult.

  “The High Dragon is here,” he said, his voice easy and untroubled. “As I am always on hand to guide my shepherds, my faithful, my dear Brotherhood.” He walked over to the body on the altar. “Oh, my beloved friend, we will bring you home.”

  “Blessed be the Nine!” the crowd called. “Blessed be their High Dragon, Crenaxin!”

  It really was a giant. Dayne couldn’t believe his eyes. Nine feet tall at least, and skin like gray leather, and a monstrous face. It charged at the hooded archer, not slowing down in the slightest when it took an arrow in the chest. It smashed its giant fists onto the archer, who only got away with a series of rapid backflips.

  Whoever that archer was, he certainly was nimble.

  “You’re the one,” Dayne said. “The child thief.”

  “Gurond is taking children, yes,” the giant—Gurond, clearly—turned his attention to Dayne. Was this the same Pendall Gurond that Vollingale spoke of? How was that possible? “You cannot stop Gurond!” He swung a punch at Dayne. Dayne dodged out of the way, despite still being entangled in this damnable rope. How did it feel like iron?

  “Gurond needs to learn personal pronouns,” the archer said. He shot another arrow at the beast’s feet. This arrow didn’t penetrate the creature’s skin, but instead exploded with some form of paste. The archer waved his hand, and it and the paste both glowed crimson. A mage as well, it would seem. The beast tried to step forward, but his foot was stuck to the ground. He howled with rage.

  “Tarian,” the archer called, jumping over to Dayne. He grabbed one end of the rope, and it uncoiled off of Dayne’s arms. “Sorry for thinking this guy was you.”

  “Accepted,” Dayne said, moving away from another wide swing from Gurond’s massive fists. The giant kept pulling his trapped foot, and the paste was cracking. “I don’t think that will hold him.”

  “I’m never that lucky,” the archer said. Who was he? What was he down here for? He was trying to protect the boy, so Dayne wanted to assume the best of him, that he had the same mission as Dayne.

  Gurond pounded the floor.

  “Where are the children?” Dayne asked him, moving around Gurond’s range to get to his shield. “Why did you take them?”

  “Really, now?” the archer asked.

  “I want to know why,” Dayne said. But the beast was about to be free. Dayne had to think of what to do. How did Amaya usually beat him, when he had size and strength over her?
Used his strength against him. Pins and holds. “But get ready to bind him.”

  “Fine,” the archer said, drawing another arrow.

  Dayne had his shield, and Gurond wrenched his foot free. He looked at each of them, for a moment unable to decide who to attack. One punch would destroy the archer.

  “Come on!” Dayne shouted. Gurond charged, and Dayne dropped down in a crouch as the beast punched, driving his shield up into his belly while also knocking him in the knee.

  Saints, it was like hitting a tree.

  Even still, the beast stumbled forward, and Dayne heaved up with all his strength, flipping the creature and slamming it back-first into the wall.

  The archer fired, and with a wave of magic, Gurond’s whole back was stuck to the wall. Gurond, upside-down, flailed his enormous arms, and the archer flung out that rope, wrapping it around the beast’s wrists.

  “None of that, big fella,” he said. “You’re going to answer his questions, now.”

  “Gurond not answer!”

  “Come on, old boy,” the archer said. “I, me, mine. It’s not that hard.”

  “Where are the children?” Dayne asked.

  Gurond’s attention was entirely on the archer. After a moment his inhumanly black eyes narrowed. “I remember.”

  “There you go,” the archer said. “That’s much more helpful.”

  Gurond struggled with the rope, veins straining against his moist, leathery skin.

  “Where are they?” Dayne said. “What did you take them for?”

  “I remember,” Gurond said again. “I remember . . . this fancy rope . . . can’t hold me, Thorn.”

  The archer stumbled back away from him. “What the blazes?”

  At the same time, the sound of bells—deep, resonant ringing—echoed through the passage.

  “And I remember!” Gurond shouted, pulling his arms hard. It was as if the bells had given him newfound fury. The rope came flying off, almost hitting the archer in the face, knocking him to the ground. His image shimmered, and the shadow over his face faded. Terror washed over his young face—young, easily Jerinne’s age or younger.