by Jon Sprunk
He emerged between two brownstones and hooked a right onto Fulcrum Close. It was a bit of backtracking to get to his destination, but the habits that had kept him alive all these years were ingrained into his bones. When the hairs on the back of his neck tingled, he knew better than to ignore it.
He turned down a street and skipped to a halt as the iron gray walls of the city workhouse emerged from the morning mist. Strands of pearlescent fog snaked through the hollow window sockets of its squat towers and clung to shadowed doorways where the sunlight could not penetrate.
Caim huddled within his cloak as he continued on his way. He made several more turns before he reached the Three Maids. A soft knock at the back door summoned a plump scullion girl who gave him entrance with a smile. The cooks paid him no mind as he slipped through the kitchen. The common hall was empty except for the dregs of last night's carousing, sleeping off their hangovers on the floor. The morning bartender, a lanky six-footer with a floppy crop of orange hair, nodded to him.
Caim placed a silver coin on the bar. "I need to speak to Mathias."
"He hasn't come down yet. He had company last night. Might not be a good idea to disturb them."
This whole night's been a bad idea. "I'll risk it."
The bartender made no move to stop him as he headed for the back stairs. Caim thought back to his last visit, when he met Ral on the stairs. How would Ral have handled last night? Probably would have slit the girl's throat and been gone before the law arrived. That's what I should have done. But he couldn't muster any real enthusiasm for the idea. Killing innocents never appealed to him. Then again, it seemed like the whole world was going to hell these days. Maybe innocence didn't exist anymore.
The upstairs hall was dark. Caim paused at the door. Mathias was a friend, as much a friend as he had in the world, besides Kit. He might not take kindly to someone barging into his abode at this hour. Then Caim remembered the imbroglio on Esquiline Hill and his anger returned. He was a marked man. With the city already cracking down on illegal activities, it was the worst time for such a catastrophe. Maybe Kit was right. Maybe he should leave Othir and start a new life someplace else.
No. He'd been running all his life. It had to stop somewhere.
Caim turned the knob, pushed open the door, and froze with one foot over the threshold as an icy finger of caution slipped down his backbone. Everything appeared ordinary at first glance; the furniture was laid out just as it had been on his last visit. The scent of the exotic incense Mathias favored lingered in the air. Heavy window shades shut out the morning light, but there was nothing sinister about that; Mat was a notoriously late riser. Still, something wasn't right.
Caim drew one of his knives. "Mathias?"
He crossed the room on quiet steps. The suite consisted of several interconnected chambers. Caim parted a curtain of blue silk dividing the front room from the living areas. A short corridor gave entrance to three archways. The doorway at the end was blocked by another curtain.
Caim went down the corridor on the balls of his feet, knees bent. The floorboards flexed under his weight, but did not squeak. He peeked into the side archways as he passed. The left led to a spacious kitchen. Everything appeared in order, from the pristine marble countertops to the copper pans and utensils lined up over a big iron stove. The right arch opened into a private salon. There was a small desk shoved into a corner, its surface piled with loose papers, pens, ink jars, and ledger books.
Caim moved to the last doorway and pushed aside the curtain. He paused a moment for his eyes to adjust. This room was the darkest of all, the windows not only shaded but covered by heavy curtains. A massive canopy bed, large enough for three adults, rested on the far side of the room. Two shapes nestled under the diaphanous awning.
"Mat." He let his voice rise from a whisper. "It's Caim. I need to talk to you."
The shapes on the bed did not stir. Caim eased the other suete from its sheath and circled around to the side of the bed. He watched the dark corners of the room for movement. His ears strained, but there was only the whisper of his own footsteps as he stepped across the carpet.
He stopped at the bedside. Two bodies stared up at the ceiling with dull, blank eyes. Lyell had been one of Mat's favorite pretties. He looked like a doll, pale, with long blond hair fanned around his head like waves of beaten gold. Someone had opened a second smile across his throat with a narrow blade, very sharp. Dark lines of blood were encrusted on his chest. Caim doubted the youth had wakened until the last throes of death were upon him.
Mathias lay beside his paramour. Even in death his bulk was impressive. His slick hair was mussed in disarray. His throat was uncut. Instead, a bloody hole gaped between his breasts. The edges of the wound were tinged with black discolorations. Caim didn't need to check to know Mat's heart had been removed. It was just like the Esquiline Hill job.
Caim stood motionless. Death was an old companion to him, but his hands shook as he looked down on the man he had known and worked with for six years. He gripped the hilts of his knives until his palms hurt. Stay in control. He took a deep breath as he catalogued every detail of the scene. The boy had likely been killed first, and quietly. Mathias hadn't awakened until he was already dead. That gave the killer as much time as he needed to do his grisly work. The sheets were drenched in blood, but there wasn't a drop on the carpet.
Caim went to a window and peered through the curtains. A grille of stout iron bars secured the entry. There were no signs of forcing. The killer must have entered from the front. He was good, a professional. That shortened the list of suspects considerably. Most hired killers were elevated street thugs with more muscles than brains. Only a handful achieved the level of skill it took to enter a locked room and kill without rousing the neighbors. There were a few who could have done this, and most of them worked for Mathias. Sadly, this sort of thing had probably been overdue. Men who murdered for a living came in two categories. One type killed for the money; it was a job for them, the same as hauling crates on the docks or sweeping out stables. The other type was a completely different animal. They took pleasure in their work, deriving some sort of twisted satisfaction that Caim had never been able to fathom; but he had ridden with men in his early days out west who would take their time with a kill, making it last while they watched with sick smiles.
In Mat's line of work, he dealt with both types of killers. Had dealt with them. It had only been a matter of time before one of them came after him, because of a perceived slight or a disagreement over money, but Caim didn't believe this was a coincidence. It wasn't a random murder. It was meant for someone to see, and Caim had a suspicion that someone was him.
A footstep from the hall shook Caim from his thoughts. He cocked his arm for an underhand throw even before he finished turning. He held the action as the outline of a tall, mop-haired man filled the doorway. The bartender stood stock-still with a wooden platter in his hand. The smells of fried eggs and bacon cut through the stale air.
"Mr. Finneus?"
"Dead." Caim lowered his knife. "Sometime in the night. Did anyone come up here last night except Mathias and the boy?"
The bartender shrugged. The tray rose and fell with his shoulders. "I don't know. Olaf was working last night. He went home."
"Go back downstairs and send someone to fetch the law. Don't mention I was here. Understand?"
After a long look at the bed, the bartender turned and shuffled back down the hallway. Caim waited until the apartment door closed. He looked down at his dead friend. You were a good man, Mat, and a good friend. You never did me wrong.
Not the most elegant of eulogies, but those were the best words Caim could come up with. Hell, they were the best words he could say about anyone.
He left via the back stairs and ducked out the kitchen. The streets were filling up as the denizens of Low Town left their homes to begin another day, none of them realizing that one of their own had been lost during the night. Most wouldn't care if they knew. That was th
e sad truth of it. Like him, Mathias had been a product of society's underbelly, a crea ture both loathed and feared even though he served a necessary function. Caim had come to terms with that realization a long time ago. He hoped Mathias had as well.
Despite the rising warmth of the day, he pulled his cloak tighter around his body. The hood hid his face from view. A mix of emotions roiled inside him over Mat's murder: sadness, regret, perhaps a touch of guilt, but anger burned hotter than all else. Anger at whoever had killed his friend, at himself, at Mathias for leaving him when he needed answers. The game continued, and he was falling farther behind. Worse, he was running out of sources of information. The girl was the key. He only hoped she knew something worthwhile.
Otherwise, he might have to take Kit's advice.
From the rooftop across the alleyway from the Three Maids, Levictus worked his knife as he watched his target depart. White-gray wings fluttered in his hands.
With the fat man's blood still wet on his blade, he had waited here while the city awoke to the new day. He had taken no joy in extinguishing the death merchant's life, nor that of the elder on Esquiline Hill. They were simply tasks consigned to him by his master. Ordinary tasks, as mundane as cleaning a pair of boots or beating a mattress. Over the past decade and a half he had given up on the idea of finding a challenge worthy of his talents.
Until now.
He tightened his grip, and tiny talons scrabbled inside his fist as he considered the man below. This one might prove entertaining. Vassili was growing more arrogant and demanding by the day; treachery dripped from his every word. If not for the power he wielded through the Elector Council, Levictus would have left him long ago. But his family's souls cried out for vengeance. Through the long years, he had utilized his sorcery to track down those who had tortured and murdered them. He had dragged Inquestor agents by the dozens out to the forgotten sanctuaries beyond the city walls and given them over to the dark powers of the nether realms. Yet his thirst for vengeance would not be slaked while the initiator of the pogroms, the man who had devised the doctrine of bigotry that had resulted in the death of thousands of innocents and then ridden the tide of bloodshed and torture to the very pinnacle of his order, yet lived. The prelate of the True Church. Until Benevolence himself lay dead at his feet, Levictus would not stop. All that he had done, it meant nothing if he did not accomplish that.
He flicked the blade of his knife and wished he could eliminate the prelate now and be done with it, but Vassili preached patience and Levictus waited. Yet he would not wait much longer. The archpriest's plan had brought certain opportunities to light. The assassin with the lazy smile and eyes like blue crystal was an interesting prospect. Headstrong and ambitious, that one would be easier to manipulate. Perhaps it was time to make a change, or he could do as Vassili wanted and kill the man in the street below.
Or he could do both.
The target reached an intersection and vanished around a corner.
Levictus put his knife away and reached into his robe. From a pocket in the lining he took out a small object and placed it on the rooftop. The bead gleamed black and glossy in the morning light like a pebble of polished obsidian. Warmth pulsed within its ebon depths. He knelt beside the egg and whispered in soft, lilting tones. Tendrils of smoke rose from the bead as its surface dulled. With a pop, it cracked down the center and an inky stain emerged, a tiny serpent as long as his forefinger. Speaking softly, he gave the creature its instructions. It listened, and then disappeared into a chink between two roof shingles.
Levictus straightened and stepped into the lee of an arched gable. As he entered the shadow's embrace, plans formed in his head. Death would reign over this city before he was done, a scourging storm to wash away all the wickedness and iniquity. For a brief moment, he considered his loyalty to Vassili, but then reminded himself that he was a dead man. He had died on the day he was dragged into hell by the foot soldiers of the True Church. And dead men held no allegiances.
A whisper on the wind left the rooftop vacant save for smears of blood and the headless carcasses of a dozen pigeons.
CHAPTER TEN
osey giggled as her nanny crept past the pantry closet. She put her eye to the crack between the door and the jamb and ignored the demands that she present herself immediately. Hide-and-seek was one of her favorite games, and this big new house was the perfect place to play. It had even more nooks and shadowy corners than the hedge maze of their last home. She could hide for days if she wanted.
She was six years old, but Father still left her in the nanny's custody while he attended to business. She didn't know what business was, but it took up a great deal of his time these days, something she was decidedly not happy about. She was used to being the center of his world, his little princess, and anything that took Father away from Josey made her obscenely jealous.
While the nanny went calling into the next room, she snuck out from her hiding spot. She wanted to find a better one, someplace no one could ever find her. In her stocking feet she ran through the cavernous kitchen with its high tables and racks of cast-iron pots, down a wide hall, and around the corner. After several more turnings she found herself in a part of the house she had not yet encountered. Overjoyed at the prospect of exploring new territory, she forgot her game and wandered the long, windowless corridor. Tall wooden doors, their bronze latches dark with age, refused her entry, so she kept going. At the turning of another corner, she looked back. A line of footprints trailed behind her, a clear path she could follow back whenever she wanted.
The hall ended in a shallow niche, its blank walls encased in wooden paneling. A rusty hook for hanging a picture jutted above her reach. Josey crouched in the niche. It was too exposed for a good hiding spot. Dejected, she started to get up when a twinkle of light caught her eye. She bent down and found a crack near the floor. She would have missed it if not for the yellow glow filling the narrow gap. She wriggled her fingers into the crack and grinned when a section of the wall swung out like a narrow door. Deep steps of bare rock descended into the tunnel beyond, from which issued smells of earth and smoke. Below, more light flickered and strange sounds whispered in her ears like distant singing.
She stole down the steps like the daring thief Jangar Bey, her favorite storybook hero. Her fingers followed the curve of the stone wall as the cool steps wended beneath her feet. The lower she descended, the louder grew the sounds. The light got stronger, too. At the bottom of the steps a wide chamber opened before her, cut from the foundation beneath the house. Flaming torches lit the cavernous room and threw deep shadows across its painted walls. People in funny costumes stood in a circle and swayed in rhythm with the rising chant. Deep-blue hoods covered their faces except for dark eyeholes. Fanciful designs were sewn onto their clothes, shaggy birds with rearing claws depicted in golden thread.
There was so much to see, Josey didn't notice the song had ended until the rustle of clothing caught her attention. The hoods came off and faces emerged into the torchlight, men and women smiling and nodding as they finished their play, or whatever it was. A head turned and Josey's breath caught in her throat as familiar eyes cast their gaze across the chamber. With a startled gasp, she ran back up the steps, not sure why she fled, but only knowing she had seen something she wasn't meant to witness. When she reached the niche, she slammed shut the paneled door and darted down the hallway, but the eyes followed her like a bad dream.
The cool eyes of her father.
The hallway stretched into darkness before her. Her breathing thundered in her ears. A haunting dread pursued her through the gloom. She grasped for something to hold on to, but there was nothing there as she tumbled down a well of endless night. With infinite slowness the darkness resolved itself into shapes. At first indistinct, they loomed large and frightening over Josey's head, until their edges came together into long shadows across the ceiling. Her body didn't seem to want to work. She tried to turn her neck and waited for what seemed like hours before anything ca
me into view. She remembered her dream and shivered. She had forgotten about that day in the old wing of the house and the secret door in the wall. She had gone back to the niche days later only to find a bare wall and tight panels that refused to budge no matter how hard she pried at them. She left the wing convinced it had all been a bad dream.
The musty smell of the secret cavern lingered in her head.
She sat up. She was lying on a crude bed, little more than a length of coarse fabric stretched over a wooden frame. The room was unfamiliar, with walls and ceiling of cracked plaster, devoid of color or decor.
Her head felt strange, like it was wrapped in wet towels. She lifted a hand to her forehead and groaned as a sliver of agony slid across her temple. The skin wasn't broken, but she could feel a bruise rising beneath the skin. What had happened? Fighting back a wave of nausea, she moved to get up. She was still wearing her nightdress. All of a sudden, the events in her father's room marched through her mind. She saw Father sitting in his favorite chair, his chest ripped open in a bloody gash, and the hulking specter in black standing over him. She remembered the rough hands that had bound her tight. The authorities had arrived to save her, but the man in black had killed them all. Was that right? Her thoughts were all jumbled. But one thing she remembered with crystal clarity: her poor father was dead.
And now she was a captive, likely held for ransom. But who would pay for her release? She had no other family. The terror of her situation crept over her like an army of biting ants. She shivered on the cot, unable to move. Heavy tears slid down her face as the image of her dead father played over in her head. Poor, poor Father and poor her. She was truly alone in the world.