by Ari Marmell
The baron stepped back from his somber duty and promptly toppled once more into the waters as his niece violently shoved him. He stared upward, spitting and gasping, too shocked even to be angry.
"You didn't have to do that!" she screamed down at him. "He wasn't any danger to us! We could have just walked away."
"Mellorin-"
"My father's not the only monster I've got to deal with, is he?"
"Mellorin, it was an ogre." And then, apparently bewildered that his explanation wasn't sufficient, he could only blink as she unleashed a low growl and stalked away as rigidly as the marsh would allow.
Kaleb, too, watched her go, brow furrowed in thought, and made no move to aid Jassion out of the muck.
Chapter Fourteen
BOISTEROUS CACOPHONY and stifling heat battled for the right to claim possession of the Third Sheet's common room, while a thick miasma of alcohol and body odor waited in the wings to challenge the victor. Shutters and the front door gaped wide, propped open by sticks or stones, but the gentle breeze that wafted through, stirring sawdust across the floor and hair across many heads, was no match for the roasting temperature within. Press so many bodies together, fill the air with the hot breath of laughter and conversation, add just a pinch of smoke from the kitchen fires, and the result was a refuge where summer lingered long after the rest of the city had kicked it out.
Given its halfway clever name, Corvis had hoped for more from the Third Sheet, but it was just another tavern. Tables and chairs stretched unevenly across the room. Laborers and craftsmen-some as uneven as the furniture-sat scattered around those tables or along a bar formed of a single tremendous log. Barmaids with harried faces and pinch-bruised bottoms wended through the throng, delivering drinks and plates of roast something-or-other on orders from a bearded bartender with an equally harried face (though, one might assume, a less battered rear).
A number of the larger men, and no small handful of women, carried themselves with the posture of professional soldiers. Even half drunk, clustered around a table and trading jests coarse enough to send a sailor diving overboard, they kept watch on the door, and on occasion a particularly startling sound inspired a few to drop their hands toward their waists.
Corvis, clad in the scruffiest traveling leathers he possessed-which was saying something-had seated himself a few tables away. He nursed a tankard of more foam than ale, and tried his best to make sure they noticed him watching them, all while appearing as though he was trying to be inconspicuous.
Harder, by far, than it sounds.
Eventually, however, one of the women met his gaze once too often. Scowling, she elbowed the fellow beside her and whispered, pointing Corvis's way with a chin so pronounced it was practically belligerent. Her companion, in turn, said something to the man beside him, and a moment later Corvis found his table surrounded by five tipsy soldiers.
This plan made a lot more sense before I actually put it in motion, he thought grimly.
'Don't most of them?'
"You got a problem?" the woman who'd first noticed him demanded, leaning across the table on her knuckles.
"I do," Corvis told her, deliberately keeping his hands well away from Sunder. "But not with you. Actually, it occurs to me you might be able to help me." He offered up what he hoped was a friendly grin. "Join me for a round?"
"You buyin'?" one of the others rasped.
"Wouldn't be a very polite invitation if I wasn't."
Amazing what the promise of free drink did for their attitudes. As Corvis waved over the nearest barmaid, he found himself suddenly surrounded by his best friends in the world.
More of them, he realized with a quick head count, than had actually come to threaten him in the first place.
"So," he said, once everyone was settled with tankard, mug, horn, or flagon in hand, "it seems to me that you folk have the look of fighting men. And women," he added, with what he hoped was a respectful-and perhaps just slightly appraising-glance at the sharp-featured soldier. She smirked and raised her mug. "And I'm thinking, with you being here in the city, and rumor telling me that the various House and mercenary companies are assembling outside the cities, that at least some of you must be city guards. Right so far?"
Nods and assenting grunts proved adequate, if not eloquent, response.
Corvis took a deliberately messy swig of his own beverage, wiping foam from his mustache. "So would I also be right in guessing, then, that some of you could tell me a bit about those murders that happened here recently?"
The table went dangerously silent, smiles flipping over and inside out into aggressive glowers. "Some of us lost friends that night," one man muttered darkly. "What makes you think that we'd want to talk to you about it?"
"Look," Corvis said, leaning inward, "I think we've all heard who was responsible, right? Well, there's an awfully large price on his head because of it. I don't pretend my odds of finding him are all that good, but I'm looking to collect on it. A man could retire on what they're offering, and the gods haven't yet answered my prayers about getting younger."
"You're a bounty hunter?" the women to his left asked.
"I am." Then, after an almost imperceptible pause, "Evislan Kade, at your service."
"We don't need any help from your kind," the first fellow grumbled.
"I don't doubt that," Corvis said lightly. "But you're stuck here. If You-Know-Who is still in Denathere, fine, you'll get him, and gods help him when you do. But you think he is still in Denathere? He's killed folk from here to Mecepheum, and if he's moved on, wouldn't you want to see him get what's coming to him? Even if you can't do it yourselves?"
The guards glanced and mumbled at one another, working through the logic in what "Evislan" said. While they considered, Corvis took the opportunity to order them all a second round, wincing only slightly at the tab he was racking up.
It did the trick, though. "All right," the woman said to him, hostility once more gone from her voice. "What is it you want to know?" THE CLOUDS HUNG LOW AND PREGNANT over Denathere, overripe fruit seemingly ready to burst. The scent of autumn rains perfumed the air, but the mischievous sky would only tease, withholding the cleansing showers it promised.
Corvis took it all in as he walked the streets: the shuffle and clatter of passersby, the looming faces of edifices nearly as old as Mecepheum's, the occasional flicker as beggars and urchins earned a few coppers by lighting the street lamps in advance of evening.
And he hated it, loathed every last inch of it with a burning passion that startled him after so many years. This damn city represented everything that had gone wrong in his life. Here, his first campaign had ground to a halt in bitter failure. Here, though he'd not recognized it at the time, he'd left behind sufficient clues to alert not one mortal foe, but two, to the nature of the wondrous prize he'd sought. And here, Audriss the Serpent had reignited the slow-burning embers of his own conquest into a roaring conflagration that had dragged Corvis from his family and ultimately cost him everything he'd loved.
There were places he'd want to be even less than the city of Denathere-but not many.
It had been Seilloah's idea to come here. "Maybe it's from spending several days as a dog on my way to find you," she'd said, "but it seems to me that if you're looking to track someone, you start where the trail started."
Corvis hadn't been able to argue with her, as much as he desperately wanted to. They had to examine the murder scenes, maybe find some clues there they'd not unearth anywhere else. He couldn't safely return to Mecepheum, and since the only other "Rebaine murders" that they knew were more than idle rumor had occurred here, they'd had precious little choice.
So here they'd come. Corvis scoured the taverns of Denathere, leaving Irrial to ask questions of the more affluent and influential, and with every moment he seethed beneath the fury, the hatred, and the burning shame the city cast on him from all sides.
Wrapped in a smothering cocoon of self-pitying anger, Corvis didn't realize he'd stormed
clear through the small bazaar of vendors' stalls and open carts where he and Irrial had agreed to rendezvous.
Only when he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun, fists rising, did he comprehend where he was. He recognized Irrial-in time, thankfully, to arrest his punch-and the scents of roast meats, smoked fish, and sweet fruits finally penetrated the thick fog blanketing his mind.
'Aw, you should've hit her. When else are you going to have the chance to pretend it was an accident?'
"Damn it!" As swiftly as he'd returned to his senses, he seemed to forget that it was he who'd left their meeting point behind, forcing her to chase him down. "Don't sneak up on me like that. I-Irrial, what's wrong?"
"Come with me. Quickly."
She launched into a barely restrained pace that threatened to break into a run at every step, and Corvis fell into lockstep behind. Again he was utterly oblivious to the hawking shouts and brightly fluttering pennants of the marketplace, though now his vision was obscured and his gut churned with worry rather than anger.
They cut across one corner of the bazaar, and the baroness finally led him to a halt directly in front of…
"Another alley?" Corvis complained. "Isn't there anywhere-"
He staggered as Irrial bodily shoved him into the narrow walkway, caught himself just in time to avoid tripping over his feet, and found himself staring downward.
"Oh, gods. Seilloah…"
It had happened before, twice, on their way to Denathere. But then the witch had slunk away in secret, on her own, returning in a new form when it was all over. Never before had Corvis seen it.
The arm-length lizard that was her current shell lay on its side, body heaving as it struggled to breathe. Limbs spasmed; its jaw hung open and drooled a thin, blood-tinted soup. Even as they watched, scales sloughed from its hide, exposing open sores and necrotic skin beneath.
Corvis dropped to one knee with a dull splash, scattering the slimy refuse of the alley. A finger reached out, stroked the creature's squamous crest. "What can I do?"
She twisted her head his way, and Corvis gagged as a faint ooze trickled from beneath one eye. The jaw twitched, just once. The lizard emitted the faintest squawk, a sound that might, just might, have been "Cor…"
And then, with a final shudder, lay still.
"Seilloah?" It was a whisper, at first, then a cry almost loud enough to be heard beyond the alley. "Seilloah!" He searched frantically, actually digging through the garbage as though some other animal might lie hidden therein. "Seilloah!"
It couldn't end this way! Not for her…
"I'm here, Corvis." The voice was weak, her breath ragged and gasping. "I'm all right."
From atop a fence, a tortoiseshell alley cat bounded to the ground, stumbling slightly. Corvis frowned at the awkward landing, and wondered if the patches of mange on the creature's fur had been there moments before.
"Don't scare me like that, Seilloah," he said, slumping against the wall.
"Scare you?" It was peculiar, more so even than listening to it speak, to hear a cat laugh. But then, more seriously, "I'm not sure how many more times I can do that."
"What about a person?" Irrial interjected. Corvis jumped a bit. He'd all but forgotten she was there.
"What about a person?" he asked.
"Seilloah, I mean. Wouldn't a human body last longer, since it's meant to house a human soul?"
Four eyes, two human, two feline, widened in shock.
'Say, that's not a bad idea. The lady may not be entirely hopeless after all.'
"Oh, for the gods' sakes… I'm not advocating it. You two haven't completely corrupted me. I'm just wondering why you don't do it."
"Can't be done," Seilloah said. "Not by any magics I practice, anyway. It's because of the soul. I can't impose mine on a body that already has one, and I can't ride anything that's already dead."
Irrial nodded. "I guess that makes sense."
"I hope so. I'm too tired to explain it any further."
Corvis reached a hand toward the cat. "I can carry you, for a bit."
"That might be nice." She sniffed and recoiled as he hefted her in his arms. "Corvis, are you drunk?"
He couldn't help but chuckle. "No, I'm not drunk. I had just enough ale to make them think I was getting sloshed along with them."
"Well," Irrial muttered impatiently, "I hope you learned more than I did. Nobody I spoke with wanted to say much. Thought it an unseemly topic. Might drive away customers."
"A bit," Corvis said as they moved back into the crowded streets. Seilloah climbed from his arms and draped herself across his left shoulder. "It seems-Seilloah, must you?"
She froze, claws half extended, in the midst of kneading his chest. "I'm sorry, Corvis. Instinct, I suppose. I'll try to pay more attention."
"I'd sure appreciate it." He turned back to Irrial. "So it seems the killings occurred in two separate locations: the ducal keep, which is probably crawling with more soldiers than a brothel offering free samples, and a home belonging to the majordomo of one of the Guildmasters. I'm thinking that'll be the easier one to get into."
To get into, perhaps, but not necessarily to find. While Corvis had wormed the house's general vicinity from the soldiers in the Third Sheet, he felt he'd have been pressing his luck trying to pin them down to specific directions. For long hours he and Irrial wandered the streets of one of Denathere's fancier neighborhoods, nodding politely to passersby in colorful bloused tunics, gleaming brocades, and whatever other foolishness the aristocracy could foist off under the guise of "style." They dodged horse-drawn carriages trundling over cobblestones, squinted at homes whitewashed to a blinding sheen, gagged at the cloying aroma of flower gardens that had survived the sweltering summer, and found nothing at all out of the ordinary.
Yes, Corvis had anticipated that any obvious signs of violence would have long since been swept away, but he'd figured on spotting some indication-a house with a boarded-up window or a newly replaced door, a property that pedestrians crossed the street to avoid, something.
"That one." Seilloah, whom Corvis had thought to be sound asleep on his shoulder, raised her muzzle at a modest house they'd passed twice already-when the witch actually had been asleep.
"Are you sure?"
"I smell old blood."
Corvis shrugged at Irrial, drawing a sharp yelp of protest from his passenger. "I guess that makes sense."
"As much as any of this does," the baroness replied.
As casually as they could, they lingered, watching. Now that they were focused on it, they did indeed note that the locals quickened their pace just a bit as they went by, as though fearful of being spotted by someone within.
"All right," Corvis said finally to Irrial. "I think we wait for evening, and then you keep watch on the road while I take a look inside."
"Maybe I should go. If there's trouble, it's likely to be outside, right?"
He shook his head. "I'm not looking to get into a fight with the guard, Irrial. Besides, you don't know what to look for. If anyone shows up who you can't distract or dissuade, I'll give them my bounty hunter story."
"I'm not sure that'll justify you being inside the house."
"It's a better excuse than you could-"
"Or," Seilloah interrupted, "you could, you know, send the person who won't draw any attention or suspicion at all since she happens to be a cat just now."
Corvis turned away, so embarrassed that he was certain even his beard must be blushing. "Say, I've got a thought," he told them a moment later. "Why don't we send Seilloah?"
The tip of the witch's tail flicked against the back of Corvis's neck. "What a remarkable idea," she said. SILENT AND INEXORABLE as an embarrassing memory, Seilloah padded across the yard. A frightened sparrow took off in a flutter of feathers, while a handful of insects and what sounded like a squirrel skittered away through the garden, but otherwise no one and nothing marked her passage. She remained fixed on her objective, ignoring both the vague urge to chase after those fl
eeing creatures, and the hot, infected ache of lesions forming beneath her matted fur as feline body and human soul seared each other.
The violence hadn't been limited to the house. She could smell where the blood had seeped into the soil, run between the stones of the walkway. This near to the earth she saw scratches in the cobblestones and pebbles, perhaps where weapons were dropped or armored bodies fell. If the murderer had battled someone outside, there might be witnesses; she made a mental note to mention it to Corvis.
Corvis. Seilloah felt a surge of uncharacteristic anger, and though she squelched it with a will so strong it had already defied death, she could not wholly forget it. Twenty-three years ago, six years ago, it didn't matter; she'd joined him willingly, stood by his side committing horrors scarcely less foul than his own. She'd well understood there might one day be a price to pay, and it had never stopped her. And it had been the Baron of Braetlyn's blade, not the Terror of the East's, that had cut her down.
Yet she could not entirely shrug off the chilling knowledge that she was already dead save for the formalities, wasting away her last days in a sequence of diseased, agonizing bodies-and that it was, in part, because of Corvis Rebaine.
Seilloah leapt from the grass to land atop a windowsill and wormed her tiny form between the wobbly shutters. Again the scent of death wafted over her, and she directed her attentions to the task at hand.
She wouldn't blame Corvis, at least not much-and certainly no more than he would himself. And if the witch required any small vengeance on the friend she'd followed unto death, his own guilt would surely suffice. THE HOUSE HAD BEEN CLEANED, at least to an extent. The worst of the blood and other humors had been washed away, the tattered bodies and mangled clothes removed, the shattered furniture discarded. Still, senses far less acute than those Seilloah currently enjoyed would have detected lingering signs of murder. The carpet looked diseased, showing stains of a deep, brittle brown. Several walls were badly scorched, and a few corners retained bits of splintered wood. The stench was overwhelming to her feline nose, and even if she were to go utterly blind, she'd have easily pinpointed the precise locations where death had come.