Just as Eloise had shown him, Fray extended his senses without using his magic. As he passed people in the street he briefly touched them with an extended net of awareness, but nothing happened. He felt no echo as he’d done with Eloise. After feeling nothing for the twentieth time he began to wonder if he was doing it right.
“Someone has been watching the house all morning,” said Byrne, breaking the silence. “We’ll take over until he shows his face.”
“Do you think he will?”
“Maybe,” said Byrne. He didn’t say what they would do if Bav failed to turn up or how they’d move forward with the case.
With questions swirling in his head Fray felt his pace and heart quicken. They passed over the river and people stepped aside to make room for them on the narrow footbridge. Byrne didn’t seem to notice or acknowledge the courtesy, but Fray smiled at or thanked each person.
When they reached the end of the street where Bav lived, Fray felt something prickle at the edges of his perception. A tight ball of tension formed in his stomach. His skin began to itch and he absently rubbed his forearms before he realised what he was doing.
“Byrne,” he said, and the tone of his voice made the Guardian stop.
“What is it?”
He’d felt something like this yesterday. “He’s been here. The killer.”
Some of the colour drained from Byrne’s face. “Shit.”
Byrne marched up the street, Fray a second behind him. Halfway down the road two Guardians stepped out of a doorway.
“Anything?” asked Byrne and they shook their heads.
“Who’s that?” said Fray, pointing at the elderly woman going into the house.
“Bav is supposed to live with his mother,” said Byrne. “It’s time to get some answers.” He marched down the street and hammered on the front door. “Guardian of the Peace. Open up!” shouted Byrne.
Fray scanned the street for signs of trouble or someone that might be the killer. He only saw surprised faces and ordinary people going about their business. It now felt as if a colony of ants were crawling across his skin. The prickle at the edges of his senses had become a sharp jabbing pain in the back of his mind, making Fray afraid to embrace his magic. The arena had nearly killed him and this felt just as bad, if not worse.
Byrne thumped on the door again and finally they heard someone shuffling behind it. It opened slightly to reveal a thin grey-haired old woman with a stooped back and rheumy eyes.
“Is your son at home?” asked Byrne.
“He’s not here. You should go away,” she said, trying to close the door.
“Are you sure?”
The old woman gave Byrne a withering look. “I’m old, not stupid.”
“Perhaps we could come in and wait for him,” said Byrne. The old woman shook her head and started to close the door. “We don’t have time for this,” said Byrne, sticking his foot in the door. He shoved it open, knocking the old woman backwards. She would have fallen if she’d not collided with the back of a chair.
Fray paused on the threshold while Byrne went inside without being invited. “Where is he?” he yelled at the woman, but Fray was only partially listening. The crawling sensation across his skin was even worse.
“He’s been in this house,” he whispered.
Byrne turned to Fray. “Do what you need to do. Find me something.”
With that, Byrne grabbed the old woman by the elbow and pulled her out of her house onto the street. Fray could only stare at Byrne in horror.
“Get on with it,” said Byrne, gesturing at Fray’s eyes. The old woman glared at them both, but didn’t struggle or say anything else, which only made Fray more nervous. He stepped across the threshold, descending three steps into a small kitchen.
It reminded him of his mother’s kitchen, with dry herbs hanging from the ceiling, an old black kettle over the fire on a hook and a worn table covered with flour and dough. Coals in the fireplace took the chill off the stone walls but Fray felt a different kind of cold in his bones. Bracing himself against the inevitable rush, he slowly embraced his magic.
Despite his preparation Fray stumbled backwards and fell to one knee as his senses were flooded, the world exploding in a variety of new colours and feelings. Power throbbed all around him, from the stones beneath his feet to the grub-infested ceiling beams above his head. Slowly he adjusted to the wash of feelings that filled his senses, keeping them at a distance so they didn’t overwhelm him.
When he looked around the room it seemed as if every surface had been covered with a thin layer of red and black paint. It was the only way his eyes could process it, layer upon layer of tainted magical residue from the killer’s passing. As he’d seen at the arena it was an echo from the past, days old, but also he sensed fresh layers.
“He’s been here recently,” said Fray over his shoulder. “But I don’t think he’s here now.”
“Make sure. Check every room,” said Byrne.
With his sword held ready, Fray moved into the narrow corridor that led to two small bedrooms. The first showed very few signs of being touched by the killer. A narrow bed, a small wardrobe and chest of drawers glowed with echoes of old memories and strong emotions, but no real magic. Even before he set foot in the other room Fray felt waves of power pulsing towards him like ripples on a pond. As he pushed open the door with one hand he expected to find something grisly inside, but at first glance it was much the same. A small room with a few pieces of worn furniture, a narrow bed, a table, a wardrobe and a set of drawers. When he looked again he noticed a black stain on the floor that echoed with fear and pain. Bending down he briefly touched it with his fingers but pulled them back as if burned. Someone had recently been murdered here.
A quick search of the room revealed very little of worth, but Fray felt as if he were only scraping the surface. Opening his senses a little more he stared around the room again, his breath whistling through clenched teeth.
The wardrobe caught his attention, but he found nothing inside apart from worn clothing and a few mementos. Bending down again Fray noticed marks on the stone floor. He tried to shove the wardrobe to one side but it was well built and he could barely move it. Putting his back against it and bracing his feet against the wall he managed to move it just enough to see behind.
Someone had carved an opening in the wall and a narrow set of steps led down into the earth. Basements were illegal in the city for many reasons, but the primary one was to stop people growing venthe, which thrived in dark, damp conditions. But the smell coming out of the hole wasn’t earth, but a dry rot of old bones and musty paper. There wasn’t enough light to see inside the hole and Fray didn’t want to go in there while using his magic.
“Fray!” shouted Byrne. Fray raced back through the house to the front door to where Byrne stood pointing up the street. He heard the old woman’s gasp as she caught sight of his glowing eyes.
“It’s Bav,” said Byrne, pointing at a figure that had stopped in the street.
Instead of the normal mix of bright colours that infused every other person on the street, all Fray could see was an absence of light. A black pit that absorbed the energy that drifted past from other people. Tiny red sparks danced like crazed fireflies in the abyss, but they did nothing to fill it with any semblance of life.
“It’s him. It’s the killer,” said Fray.
Bav dropped his bag and sprinted away down the street, Fray and Byrne a few seconds behind. Fray withdrew his magic, reducing his senses to normal, which came as a relief. The flood of emotions from the city around him was too much to process at once. Besides, he didn’t want anyone else staring at his eyes.
Bav was heavy set and middle-aged, but he ran like a much younger man, flying along the streets, widening the gap between them. He collided with several people but every time they were knocked aside and he didn’t lose any momentum. Fray and Byrne were left to dodge around obstacles and jump over bodies in the street, but they managed to keep him in sight.
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br /> As they chased him along curving streets and down narrow alleys Fray’s lungs began to burn, his sword heavy in one hand. He managed to sheathe it without tripping over, but fell a few steps behind Byrne. Despite his training Fray was already beginning to tire and he could hear Byrne’s breathing getting louder and more laboured. He knew Bav must be feeling it as well, which was probably why their quarry shoved his way into a tavern, taking the chase off the street.
Screams followed and a few seconds later Byrne burst through the front door, Fray a few steps behind. People pointed towards the back of the room and the two men skirted around tables and chairs, jumped over a fallen woman, raced through the kitchen and flew into a paved backyard with a closed gate. Byrne didn’t hesitate. He leapt for the top of the wall, caught it with both hands and scrambled up, before disappearing over the other side. Fray mistimed his jump and slipped down to the ground. He took another run-up and managed to clasp the top, pull himself up and drop into the narrow alley on the other side. At several intervals along the alley clothes had been hung up to dry on lines between the buildings. But it wasn’t that which drew his attention.
To his surprise Byrne stood a short distance away looking at something on the ground by his feet. Fray drew his sword and approached, scanning the alley for signs of Bav, but there was no one in sight, just clothes flapping in the breeze.
“What is it? Where’s he gone?” asked Fray.
Instead of answering, Byrne moved to one side, letting Fray see what sat on the ground beside his feet.
At first Fray didn’t understand what he was seeing. It looked like the spilled innards of something from an abattoir, red and fleshy with bits of hair and bone clinging to it. He watched in morbid fascination as Byrne lifted one section of the pink lump with the tip of his sword to reveal the full horror.
It was a whole human skin, the face staring back at him, complete with a beard and eyebrows.
“By the Maker,” hissed Fray.
“I know what he is,” said Byrne. “I’ve seen this before.”
CHAPTER 21
The directions Rodann had given Katja took her to a rundown part of the city. The people who lived here had fallen on hard times and never managed to claw their way back to a better standard of living.
The buildings reflected their tenants, structures that had once been grand with beautiful carved figures on odd-shaped asymmetrical ledges, delicate iron scrollwork railings around tidy gardens, decorative fountains and even a few trees. Now hordes of squawking seagulls nested in the crumbling ledges of every building. Their fronts were smeared with a frozen river of bird shit which had turned them grey and black. The iron railings had been stolen or rusted, leaving behind only jagged spears that no one wanted. The gardens had been paved and the rare trees cut down and burned for firewood.
No one came here unless they had to. Katja could see why they’d decided to hold their meetings here. The locals were dejected, lost and in desperate need of change. Rodann and his talk of revolution would fire them up, for a time at least. If he didn’t produce results they’d slit his throat and throw him in the river.
Katja knocked on the warped wooden door before glancing around the empty street. She couldn’t see anyone but the cold prickle along the back of her neck told her someone was staring.
She’d taken precautions to make sure she’d not been followed, and would do the same when she left. If she left. Rodann had said they would part ways as friends if she didn’t want to join his crusade, but she doubted it would be that simple. There would be a complication, a wrinkle he’d forgotten to mention previously, and seconds later Teigan would try to cut off her head.
Katja patted her thigh, double-checking that the blade was still there. She had a dagger tucked into the front of her belt and another hidden in the top of her left boot. She wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
The door opened a little and someone in the shadows peered out at her. A second later it was thrown wide and Teigan gestured for her to enter, her eyes on the street. In her other hand she held her sword at the ready.
“Expecting trouble?” asked Katja as Teigan closed and then locked and barred the door. From the outside it looked feeble, but it would take someone a long time to get into the building.
Teigan didn’t answer, just sheathed her sword and set off down the dusty corridor. Katja followed although part of her was tempted to stab Teigan in the back and then kill anyone else she could find in the building. That might end the assassination plot before it went anywhere.
Through open doors on either side Katja saw dusty storerooms full of old furniture, discarded chairs, plates, tables covered in sheets, a few worn religious statues and even an old fountain. The tail of the fish at its centre scraped the ceiling, and stood all around it, like silent witnesses, were more battered old statues of men and women.
“Through here,” said Teigan from the far end of the corridor. Katja didn’t realise she’d stopped. Taking a deep breath she tried to keep her mind in the present and focus on the immediate danger. Part of her struggled to care but she shoved that voice to one side, smothered it and did her best to pretend it wasn’t there.
All of the other rooms were covered with dust. The air was heavy with regret. Katja followed Teigan into a room that was noticeably different, full of bright candles, a roaring fire to chase off the chill and lots of comfy chairs stuffed with brightly coloured cushions. There were so many in fact that the floor was littered with them and some of the people there were lounging on the pile.
Everyone’s attention was focused on Rodann, his face lit up with intense passion as he spoke. Katja only caught the end of what he’d been saying to the half-dozen people gathered there, but it was more of the same. Talk of change, of making things better for everyone, creating a better future.
She didn’t recognise anyone in the group, but despite big differences in appearance, Katja could see they were all of like minds. All were nodding along to Rodann, swept up in his story, rapt and focused to the point that they barely noticed her and Teigan’s arrival. It was only when Rodann stopped talking suddenly that they looked around for the cause of the disturbance.
“Ah, we have a guest,” said Rodann, gesturing for Katja to approach. With all eyes on her she moved to stand beside him with her back to the fire. She noticed Teigan close the door and then lean against it. There were no other ways in or out of the room. She would have to go through the swordswoman.
“Everyone, this is Katja. She hasn’t decided if she’s going to join us, so I invited her here tonight to listen. Hopefully we can win her over.” Rodann oozed confidence and the tone of his words suggested it was a foregone conclusion. She would join them, or else. Dancing with Teigan was the alternative.
Rodann made the introductions and Katja carefully studied every face, making a mental note of small details to help her identify them. One woman, Lizbeth, had chapped red hands and the hair on her head seemed strangely flattened and misshapen. It was common with servants who wore livery that included a tight bonnet. That meant either Lizbeth worked at the palace or for a rich noble, one of the old families, not the recently appointed nobility who didn’t bother with such old-fashioned traditions.
The couple in the corner, Lord and Lady Kallan, had done their best to show off their wealth, but there was something peculiar about them. They were both dressed impeccably, with perfect hair, nails and teeth, but they seemed nervous. It took Katja a moment to realise that while their clothes were expensive they were old and not the latest fashion. They wore very little jewellery and what they had was silver. All of which made them minor nobles, probably with a grudge, or perhaps they were greedy individuals who just wanted more.
She would have said the big man with broad shoulders and thick arms was a thug or a mercenary, except for the way he held himself. He looked uncomfortable at being at the meeting, in this company, but the shrew-faced woman beside him was full of venom. To her surprise, Rodann introduced Marcella and Borr
en as a married couple.
The last woman was the easiest to identify. Her clothing was ridiculously expensive and seemed risqué, yet she showed off very little bare flesh. She was utterly stunning with huge brown eyes, luxurious black hair and features from a sculptor’s dream. Katja also had no doubt that the egg-sized red jewel hung around her neck on a gold chain was real and not coloured glass. An escort for the rich who probably had more money at her disposal than Lord and Lady Kallan. For some reason Rodann didn’t introduce the escort by name, perhaps because in her line of work names and identities were easily changed and cast off like clothing.
They were an eclectic group of strangers with nothing to connect them to one another. Except for Rodann and this meeting. Katja felt relief that she’d not followed through on her earlier impulse and tried to kill everyone. This group wasn’t all of those involved. She recognised none of them from Rodann’s previous meetings in the tavern.
Rodann guided her to an empty chair, then resumed his place by the fire. She listened to him talk for a while, absorbing the words, but most of her attention stayed on the others. All but Borren, the big timid man, were true believers. Some more than others and one or two had the gleam of a zealot in their eyes.
“So, that brings us to our guest,” said Rodann and Katja felt all eyes settle on her. “She’s here because, like us, she’s disillusioned with how things are. Something must change. Do you agree?”
Katja considered her words carefully. “Yes, but so far all I’ve heard is no different to any sermon given in a temple or church. What makes you different?”
One or two people started to grumble but Rodann held up a hand and they fell silent. “It’s a fair question. We’re not a religious group. We don’t believe sinners and wrongdoers need to be cleansed with fire. Lack of faith isn’t what led to the downfall of this city, or our country.”
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