Moon's Artifice

by Tom Lloyd

  He eased a bolt into the trace and paused, weapon ready to aim. Through the mist he saw a small shape, slinking down the side of a building in parallel with them. Not a rat, though demons could use them too, but smaller than a dog for certain. He raised the bow and looked for a shot, drawing in shallow breaths while Shir waited silently behind.

  Nothing happened. The fox, or whatever it was, seemed to melt into the night. The layer of mist went undisturbed on the ground ; the street frozen like a sheet of ice. After two dozen breaths, Cotto lowered the bow and turned to Shir.

  ‘Did you see it ?’ he whispered.

  The small man with greyish skin opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  Cotto frowned and waited a heartbeat longer before his senses screamed in panic. Light burst all around him and a clap of thunder seemed to burst in his head as a fox screamed just behind Shir. The smaller man jerked and juddered, looking pleadingly at Cotto for help, but he was already scrambling out of the way. Cotto fired the crossbow and the bolt cut a trail of white through the night sky as a narrow vulpine head appeared over the crest of the roof. He hurled the spent bow at it, but the fox dodged with unnatural speed and shrieked again.

  This time he felt it, the demon touch they had all been warned about. It drove into his ears like a stiletto. Searing pain and a cacophony of sound filled his head, causing Cotto to lurch on the shallow slope of the roof. Somehow he found his hand around his long-knife and he tore it from the sheath, slashing wildly towards the fox but catching nothing. At the back of his mind, against the mess of noise crashing on his ears, came a second sound, the long deep note of a tolling bell.

  Cotto gasped with relief and fought for balance, swinging his knife wildly as he sought purchase underfoot. The clatter of the demon touch dimmed, eclipsed by that sonorous peal rising from inside him – another Blessing, this one buried deep within his mind to combat the chattering voices of demons. The fox vanished from sight but Cotto kept moving, desperately seeking an escape route. Shir was still slumped against the roof, his jaw working as though still trying to warn Cotto, but his limbs were frozen in place.

  Venom, Cotto realised, he’s gone.

  He ran to the edge of the roof, intent on jumping to the grand arch. Before he could leap, something struck him in the side and spun him around. Cotto was thrown from his feet, sliding and scrambling down the shallow roof. Knife abandoned, he flailed for purchase and after a moment of panic found the ornate cornice at the edge of the roof. The muscles of his wrist screamed as his weight pressed down on it, but he managed to fight the pain and hold himself long enough to twist and plant a foot.

  He looked up and saw a nightmare staring back. Four angular limbs held it steady at the peak of the roof while a mass of eyes fluttered and twitched madly on its misshapen head. Cotto flapped at his knife sheaths for a moment before tugging a slim blade free. As he hurled it the demon darted to one side and then it was on him. The forelegs slammed into his body and Cotto felt its claws bite flesh. Only his raised forearm prevented the demon from burying grey fangs into his face and still he cried out as the force of the bite crushed his arm.

  Cotto struck back with a closed fist, the steel knuckles of his gloves crashing into the side of the demon’s head, but it was like punching stone. The demon jerked sideways and hurled him back up towards the peak of the roof, pouncing after him like a striking spider and biting down again. This time it tore through the leather spaulder and down into his shoulder. Cotto had drawn a knife by then and hacked at one of the limbs pinning him. The blade scraped down the limb, tearing through velvet-black skin before catching and digging into bone or chitin.

  The demon ignored the injury and used a free limb to drive Cotto onto his blade-arm, pinning the weapon while it tore at his armour. This time it found a vulnerable point under his arm and ripped at the flesh. Cotto howled, then screamed as the demon slammed a clawed limb into the wound and snapped the ribs below. Pain flooded his body. Cotto felt the strength drain from his limbs as the demon hooked multi-jointed limbs around his shoulders and pinned his arms back, turning him face-up to stare at the uncaring clouds above.

  The fox appeared again, a malevolent arrowhead against the darkened sky. Its pale pelt faded to black around narrow eyes in which Cotto could see jerky, twisting bluish light. The air around it flickered and shuddered, lambent and ghostly. Pinpricks of white light burst before his eyes, jagged shapes that hinted at a huge hunched wolf looming over him. The fox advanced and screamed again, needle-sharp teeth showing as the sound ripped into Cotto’s mind and he howled with it. The phantom wolf lunged at the same time and he felt its teeth scrape down his belly, his muscles shrieking as the crackling maw bit down. Again the peal of the bell rose up unbidden from the depths of his memory, but this time the fox was undeterred.

  A second cry burst Cotto’s eardrums. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fox as it came close enough to sink those slender teeth into his face. Pale light thrashed like a storm all around it as the white wolf continued its assault, tearing underneath his leather armour. He tried to free his arms, but the misshaped demon was far stronger, its grip unbreakable. Inhuman voices screamed through his head and the tolling bell became increasingly distant. The bursts of light in its eyes intensified and Cotto felt a searing pain in his own as he tried to hide from the light, but he couldn’t move. The fox’s eyes blazed bright and—

  Without warning the demon was thrown to one side, almost spun around by the force of a crossbow bolt tearing into its gut. It screeched and turned to flee, the wolf collapsing into eddies that folded back into the fox. Over the far side of the roof appeared a black, expressionless face. For a moment Cotto felt a fresh pang of fear, seeing only unnatural, inhuman lines of brow and jaw. Then he realised it was a mask as the figure slammed a slim axe into the fox’s neck. There was great spurt of blood and the fox’s head tumbled while the wolf-spirit seemed to explode and evaporate into nothingness.

  The monster holding Cotto released its grip and scrambled to attack. Before it could, another black-masked goshe appeared and hooked one of its legs, dragging the demon off-balance before chopping into its shoulder joint with a second axe. The demon threw itself around, driving up with lightning speed to claw at its attacker, but somehow the goshe was faster. It deflected the limb and whirled around with the grace of a dancer – slashing at the demon’s bulbous body as it went, before hooking another limb and dragging it close once more.

  The demon lurched unsteadily towards it, but this time the goshe drove in to meet it and smashed a lightning-wreathed fist into the snagged limb like a hammer. A cracking sound cut through the night and the demon yowled, but then the first goshe was on it and hacking down at its head. Both struck in quick succession and the creature spasmed and fell limp.

  Cotto managed a croak, a gasp for air as everything fell still around him. The second goshe looked down and slid up its mask, revealing a woman’s face. In the white light of his Starsight, Cotto saw pale skin and light eyes, a wisp of hair creeping down her cheek towards a thin scar that seemed strangely bright in the augmented light.

  ‘Kodeh,’ she said briskly to her comrade, pointing at the larger of the demons with her axe. ‘Take that one and head back before anything comes to investigate.’

  ‘And the fox ?’ Kodeh asked, accent and black skin marking him as a fellow Dragon – a native of this district in some fashion, just as Cotto was.

  ‘Leave it, it’s just a vessel. The demon-spirit’s gone, but the other is one of their soldiers. The Elders will want to study it.’

  ‘As you command.’ The big man spared a glance down at Cotto. ‘What about him ?’

  She looked down and Cotto drunkenly tried to pull himself upright with his good arm. ‘They have his scent now.’

  ‘Syn … Synter,’ Cotto gasped. ‘I can walk.’

  Her face was blank. ‘I doubt that,’ she said. ‘Kodeh, I’ll meet you at the safehouse. First I need to warn Father Jehq.’

&n
bsp; ‘Of what ?’

  The woman’s face tightened with anger. ‘This was an ambush ; they knew we’d be looking for signs of Irato. That fox was digging into Cotto’s mind, we’ve no idea how much they know. We need to cover our tracks and protect the artefact.’

  ‘What … about me ?’ Cotto panted, fear taking him as Kodeh tossed the dead monstrosity over his shoulder and trotted back across the rooftops.

  Synter ignored him and went to see to Shir. She crouched down over the man for a few moments then drew a knife from her belt and cut his throat, tossing the body with ease down the sloped roof until it fell to the ground.

  ‘Synter !’ Cotto pleaded as she stood over him. ‘Don’t !’

  There was no pity in her pale eyes as she returned to him, nor remorse. Focused on the task at hand, the female goshe didn’t even seem to hear him.

  ‘Let’s hope they got nothing from you,’ she muttered to herself, ‘we’re too close now.’

  She reached into a pocket and withdrew a small bag, hefting it in her hand as she gave Cotto an appraising look. ‘Time to clear up behind us. Wouldn’t want to leave anything for the Astaren to find now, would we ?’

  The blackened blade flashed once more in his star-lit eyes and then all was dark.

  Chapter 4

  Blood stains his hands and streaks the grey of his trousers. His knees are damp, sodden by the dark, sticky mess of death surrounding the unconscious Wyvern nobleman. The stink of human waste hangs thick on the air, the voided bowels of those who have died, but there is no time to be disgusted. Enchei tears a surcoat from the body of one fallen guard, uses a knife to cut away the bloodied front. This he wads up and, pulling Narin’s blood-slicked hand away from the nobleman’s crotch, he presses the fresh bandage against the wound.

  ‘He’s still alive ?’ Narin hears himself ask as the first compress peels jerkily away from his palm and flops to the ground.

  ‘He’ll live,’ Enchei confirms, ‘but this needs proper bandaging.’

  ‘Can we carry him ? It’s not far to Dragon District.’

  Enchei is silent for a while. There’s a smear of blood on his forehead – not his own, he’s just wiped away the sweat of his exertions with bloodied hands.

  ‘No, I have a better idea,’ he says at last.

  ‘Better than taking him to safety ?’

  The tattooist nods. ‘I know a woman, not far from here. A midwife, she’ll have clean bandages.’

  ‘You’d trust her over a Great House’s finest doctors ?’

  Enchei shrugs. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Yourself ?’ Narin looks around at the bodies of their attackers. He is reminded of how quickly Enchei killed them, the quick efficiency with which he made corpses of six killers. ‘How are we even alive ?’

  ‘Told you I was a soldier,’ Enchei says gruffly. ‘Was a damn good one, ’cept the bit about taking orders from fools.’

  ‘And you learned to wrap wounds too ?’

  ‘In war men get hurt quite a lot.’

  Enchei looks the nobleman up and down and for the first time Narin does so properly. The man they’ve saved is not typical of his countrymen ; he’s short and rotund with a thick neck and lighter skin than most Wyverns. Without warning the tattooist grabs Narin’s hand and uses it to take the place of his own. That done he begins to strip off the nobleman’s once-grand jacket to reveal the plain linen shirt beneath.

  ‘Why ?’

  ‘Why ? All those weapons lying around. Bound to be an accident o’ some sort.’

  ‘Why dress it yourself ? Why take his jacket off ?’

  The tattooist’s eyes seem to shine now, each tiny vein of his iris edged in light. ‘Make him less obvious.’

  In his dream Narin hears the words echo distantly as Enchei begins to fade into the dark shadows behind – all except his eyes, which remain bright and terrifying.

  ‘Why ?’

  ‘He’s been castrated,’ he hears Enchei say as his view begins to recede and he finds himself in front of the narrow, whitewashed house belonging to Enchei’s midwife friend. ‘You realise how that’s seen where he’s from ? He’ll be disgraced, for this and running up debts. Those were enforcers I’m sure, out to punish a man who couldn’t pay, given what they’ve done.’

  ‘You want to hide it,’ Narin says as the door opens and a wizened face peers and ushers them in, the darkness enveloping them all.

  ‘Might as well try, give the man a chance. Without that he’s done – most likely he’ll kill himself through shame and his family’ll forget he was ever one of ’em. I ain’t saying this’ll work ; you need to find his steward or manservant, hope they’re loyal and competent enough to keep the secret.

  ‘He’ll be the best friend you ever have,’ Enchei says from somewhere in the dark. ‘Forever thankful – and in this life that’s worth as much as gold.’

  Narin woke with the dawn. Grainy, feeble light slipped through the angled slats of the window shutters along with a damp breath of wind. He scowled and rolled over to face the open doorway that led into the main room. A moment of panic gripped him, but then he heard the soft exhalation and relaxed again. The goshe was still there ; he hadn’t woken and fled in the night.

  He eased himself up off the floor where he’d spent the night, barely sleeping, while his unconscious guest remained in the bed next door. A sharp ache behind his eyes blossomed as soon as he moved ; his limbs were sluggish and heavy with fatigue. Unsteady for a moment until he found his balance, Narin straightened and stretched his arms up to brush the whitewashed ceiling, slowly tilting to each side to work the stiffness from his back. He grimaced at the twinge in his right shoulder when his arm was fully extended and rolled it in slow circles to work the discomfort out. A nagging injury from the dachan court, his shoulder hadn’t enjoyed a night on the wooden floor.

  Narin crossed to a small washstand and scrubbed away the greasy feeling on his face, blinking at the reflection in his small mirror as though not recognising himself. Once his brain had caught up, Narin wiped a cloth over his chest and armpits. The damp chill raised goosebumps over his skin until he turned away again, swinging his arms to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

  Opening the window shutters, Narin stared out across a city rendered ethereal and alien by the blanket of mist. The familiar lines of buildings and streets were broken up by a tattered curtain of white, the waters of the Crescent almost entirely obscured. The Imperial District was an island three miles across – nestled in the protective embrace of the mainland that extended around four-fifths of its shore – with the Crescent that band of water separating the two.

  His eyes were inexorably drawn to the huge structure that dominated his view, one that even fog could rarely hide. The great arcs of the Tier Bridge rose high in the sky ; as white as ice and, to Narin’s eye, just as cold. The ornate grey towers of the temples on both banks looked tiny in comparison to the bridge’s oppressive bulk, curving slightly left as it stretched to the far bank in House Dragon’s district.

  The bridge had no straight lines ; each tier was suspended from a twisting spray of white arches that rose from each corner and crossed diagonally to the opposite corner. Anchored to the cold forest of arching supports on each bank, ramshackle houses ran along the shore behind a bustling network of market stalls.

  Against the haze of morning Narin could make out little of the white flags bearing the Emperor’s sun at the nearer end, but the black and red dragons on the far side remained visible. Out of deference to the Emperor’s divine blood there was one fewer of the dragons, but the largest was a banner forty feet long that ensured no one could forget where the power in the Empire lay.

  He closed the shutters again and pulled on a clean set of grey trousers and jacket. Dressing quickly, Narin snatched up his stave from beside his bed, running fingers over the familiar smooth wood as he headed into the other room. The goshe lay on the bed in the same position he had been the previous day, his breathing faint against the sound
s outside the quarters. Narin watched him a moment longer before turning to the door where Enchei had hung a slate the previous night. On it was a brief greeting and instructions that Mistress Sheti would be looking in on him occasionally during the day.

  Most likely it wouldn’t stop the man leaving if he woke, but Sheti was right that an Investigator – of all people – couldn’t keep an injured man tied up in his assigned quarters. Politeness might surprise a street-fighter and make him think twice about escaping, Narin guessed, while a rope would be unlikely to stop him if he was determined.

  ‘So who is the moon ?’ Narin asked the goshe softly. ‘Is it you ? Someone you answer to ? Just what are you going to tell me when you wake up ?’

  There was no response and Narin shrugged, pocketing the piece of paper they’d found in the goshe’s pockets the night before. He went to the stove on the other side of the room and opened the pantry cupboard. There was little left in there after Enchei’s efforts the previous night so Narin contented himself with taking a swallow of weak wine before finding a twig to scrub at his teeth.

  With one last look at the goshe, he slipped his stave through a loop behind his shoulder and ran it through until the flattened end nestled in a small pocket at the bottom of his jacket. Outside, the air was muted and still, the sounds of a city waking to the day softened by the mist. He guessed it was an hour after dawn as he headed down to the compound’s high gate, greeting the other two Investigators also leaving.

  ‘Narin !’ the ebullient younger of the two called out. ‘A bad morning for the early shift, eh ?’

  ‘Morning, Diman !’ Narin said with a forced smile. ‘And you, Nesare. Not keen on finding a half-eaten body before lunch then ?’

  Nesare snorted. He was a tall, willowy young man, but with an old head on his shoulders. ‘You’re as bad as Diman – worse, in fact, you’re a native. There’s shit-all chance any demon crawled out of the Crescent last night ; it’s rare enough in winter let alone spring.’