Wicked Ways: An Iron Kingdoms Chronicles Anthology

by Douglas Seacat

  The pair had journeyed with them from Ceryl, though they’d secured their own passage in a separate car. Bornal Dungot was an old friend and ally of the Workshop, essentially an honorary member, though technically he was a hired gun—or more accurately, a hired bookworm. An expert in all matters occult, he was also an arcanist, a profession that was the main obstacle to his formally joining the Workshop. He was versed in all their gear and had helped on countless investigations, but management could never trust those who wielded mystical forces with their minds. There was a perception among Workshop veterans that arcanists were often responsible for the supernatural problems they investigated, directly or indirectly. Not every occult scholar was a necromancer, of course, but trust was in short supply among those who had seen their friends killed in countless horrific scenarios involving dark magic.

  Both Grimes and Mel had worked with Dungot and Takal several times and had found them to be good people, reliable, even if the dwarf was prone to talking just to hear himself speak. It was a common habit among self-identified scholars and professors. Grimes didn’t hold it against him so long as he could shut up and listen when he needed to.

  They had just finished extracting their gear from the train when they were approached by a well-dressed older man whose collar included silver pin displaying the Strangelight emblem. “Welcome to Caspia, friends. Duncan Grimes, is that you? Glad to see you’re still alive, old man, and intact as far as I can see.”

  Grimes was, indeed, the oldest member of their team, but the man talking to him had at least a decade on him, if not more. Grimes recognized him at once and gave a small smile, reaching out to clasp his hand in greeting. “Martin Lestingway. Didn’t think I’d see you again, ’cept maybe at your funeral. Let me introduce Abigail Thorpe, our investigator. She’s in charge. I’m just here to punch things as usual.”

  Abigail stepped forward and took Lestingway’s hand. “An honor to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about your exploits.”

  Lestingway smiled but waved a thin hand dismissively. “All in the past, I’m afraid. I’ve not been active in years, though this was a matter I felt compelled to check into personally.”

  “You scouted the site personally?” Abigail asked, surprised.

  Lestingway nodded. “I thought it best to keep the number of people involved to a minimum so as not to strain the Royal Guard before your arrival. They’ve been a bit jumpy. I’ll be introducing you to Orin Midwinter upon our arrival. He’s our client, the king’s advisor on the arcane. Once I’ve delivered you to him, I’ll head back to the office and leave this in your capable hands. On the way, I’ll fill you in with what I’ve learned thus far. I have two carriages waiting and porters to see to your equipment.”

  Lestingway was one of the few old salts left in the Workshop, and he had made quite a name for himself in his prime. Like Grimes, his eyes looked a bit silver, and it might be easy to mistake the effect for cataracts. It was a trait not uncommon to those who had stared at Strangelight too long. If it went too far, it could cause blindness, though most chose early retirement well before that happened. No doubt such a possibility had prompted Lestingway to step down from active investigations to manage the Caspian branch instead.

  They followed him as bid. Grimes felt vulnerable in his ordinary civilian clothes, though it wouldn’t have done to be walking through the capital in an inflated encounter suit. None of them were properly geared up, and in fact most of them had taken pains to dress well, knowing they were visiting the castle. Even Mel had put on a bit of finery—a blouse with a bit of lace and frill around the collar, though she’d already managed to get it smudged with grime while moving the crates. The group looked sharp, though he didn’t think they’d exactly fit in hobnobbing with royalty. The thought made his stomach feel ill, though he conceded it might have been the sausage he’d had on the train.

  Lestingway, Abigail, Grimes, Dungot, and Elliot clambered into the lead horse-drawn carriage, while Mel, Kincaid, and Takal took the second one with the bulk of their cargo. Grimes climbed aboard and sat next to Dungot, while Abigail, Lestingway, and Elliot squeezed into the bench opposite. Given how slender Elliot was, they fit reasonably comfortably. Once they were moving, Abigail asked Lestingway, “Have there been developments since you wired Blackwell?”

  Within her wire cage, Artis made a plaintive sound, as though echoing Abigail’s question.

  “You could say that,” Lestingway replied in a droll tone. “There were murders.”

  “Oh no,” Abigail said. At the same time, Elliot said, “Not the royals…”

  “No, thank Morrow.” Lestingway sighed. “The casualties were a pair of sentries on patrol on the upper battlements. Still, it was a gruesome scene, from what I’ve been told. Bodies torn apart, blood everywhere. There has been no sign of whatever was responsible.”

  “Any chance the murders are unrelated to the earlier manifestations?” Abigail asked.

  “Can’t rule it out, though given the unusual circumstances, I’d be surprised. I’ll admit I’ve not investigated the murder scene personally. Given what we might be dealing with, I thought it prudent to wait for your arrival. That’ll be the first hot spot you’ll want to check.”

  “And what are we dealing with?” Elliot asked. “Most apparitions, even dangerous ones, aren’t known for tearing people apart.”

  “That is, indeed, the question,” Lestingway said. His tone was icy.

  Grimes knew Elliot hadn’t meant to cast aspersions on Lestingway’s preliminary investigation. The young caller was always trying to find the best in the spirits they were looking into, and he hated to admit when a ghost might be up to something sinister. He had an abundance of empathy, something that helped him do his job, but this frame of mind was also an occupational hazard. He was reminded of Grimes’ younger brother, who’d been both sensitive and gullible. Elliot was always looking for the deeper cause, the root of the madness or disquiet. By contrast, Grimes had seen enough horrors to not have any sympathy for ghosts. The dead should stay dead. If they refused to go to Urcaen like they were supposed to, they were fair game.

  Lestingway handed a thick envelope to Abigail. “These are the spectragraph plates I took at the initial manifestation sites.” He continued as she went through the exposures one by one. “This one was first, in the royal suite. This other one was in the king’s meeting chambers, and this last came from the secondary dining hall.”

  From his angle, Grimes couldn’t clearly see the marks along the thin metal sheets, so he watched Abigail’s face instead. She frowned with a focused look typical when she was searching for clues. She took a magnifying lens from her satchel and squinted through it. “There are definite signs of a recent manifestation, though these ectoreactive marks are indistinct. Nothing strong enough to suggest a powerful malevolent ghost.”

  “Can I see those?” Dungot asked politely. Abigail handed him the exposures. The dwarf’s reaction was considerably stronger. “Oh my. This is quite something!”

  “Is it?” Abigail frowned while looking back at the spectragraph plates in his hands.

  “Yes, well,” the dwarf said. “I mean, you’re correct, of course. These marks are indistinct and dim. But consider that these were taken inside Castle Raelthorne. The royal suite, no less.”

  “Precisely,” Lestingway agreed. “That’s why I decided to take extreme precautions and sent to Blackwell Hall immediately. It was all the confirmation I needed.”

  Abigail rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit slow on the uptake this morning. No doubt that long trip through the night without a proper breakfast. Clearly I’m missing something.”

  Grimes said, “The castle is protected, am I right?”

  Sudden comprehension lit Abigail’s eyes. “Of course. I hadn’t considered that factor. I’ve never done an investigation or taken lumitype exposures on warded ground.”

  “Just so, just so,” Lestingway said, looking a bit smug. “Yo
u’d be hard pressed to find a more secure location in Caspia, except maybe in the Sancteum. Despite its somewhat bloody history, Castle Raelthorne is well protected.”

  “We left so quickly I didn’t get the chance to research the building,” Abigail said. “But I didn’t think it was old enough to have built up spiritual resonance. Its construction was relatively recent, correct?”

  The other investigator nodded. “By Caspian standards, yes. It was built during the reign of Vinter Raelthorne the Second, finished about eighty years ago. There are some sections retained from the previous palace, but most of the structure isn’t very old. It doesn’t have the deeply ingrained spiritual resonance one might find on longstanding holy ground, like, say, an old church. Still, it was built using more modern and expensive techniques to safeguard against external forces. Both the Church of Morrow and the Fraternal Order of Wizardry contributed to its protections, and they have been diligently maintained.”

  Abigail asked, “What sort of protections are we talking about?”

  Dungot cleared his throat. “This is a matter close to my own specialty. There is no foolproof way to prevent spectral manifestations or other supernatural intrusions. Holy ground is often safe from such things, though the methodology by which prayer and religious ritual serve as a barrier is not well studied. It isn’t as if gods like Morrow don’t have better things to do than linger around dusty buildings keeping ghosts at bay.”

  Elliot tensed at this. “Protecting the faithful is no burden to Morrow.” The young caller was the most pious of the group by a large margin. The Strangelight tended to attract skeptics. Not that any of them were foolish enough to doubt the existence of the gods. But after what Grimes and other lifers had seen, it was hard to imagine there being aloof and powerful beings who cared enough about individual mortals to protect them. The gods didn’t seem bothered by atrocity. Not that he’d begrudge Elliot his prayers.

  The dwarf went on. “More likely it has something to do with the power of belief and force of will that gets invested in a place over decades of services. Whatever the cause, some places are truly holy, and that keeps restless spirits at bay. Castle Raelthorne arrived at its protections through hard work, engineering, and a large investment of gold in those with rarified skills. This involved creating permanent wards through deflective architecture, including inscribing foundation stones and doorway arches with runic protections. One technique I’ve seen is to set metal bands deep within the walls, each inscribed with runes. Such conduits can channel protective energies throughout a structure. Such measures require energy, fed by large alchemical or arcane capacitors, which must be recharged or replaced periodically. It’s an expensive service so few buildings bother. But such measures can be seen in places like the Fraternal Order Stronghold in Ceryl, Stasikov Palace in Korsk, and so on. Anywhere—”

  “Right, we get it,” Grimes interjected. “So, in a place like this, any of these strange doings we’ve heard of would be bloody unlikely.”

  Dungot made a face at being interrupted but nodded his assent.

  Lestingway said, “Not just unlikely—nearly impossible or requiring an entity of terrifying power. Either that, or there’s something wrong with the protections keeping Castle Raelthorne safe. Either alternative is worthy of a complete investigation. I am thankful you brought additional expertise and manpower.” He inclined his head toward Dungot.

  “We’re glad to be here,” the dwarf said, also speaking for the ogrun riding in the other wagon. “The client is paying well, from what I understand. Which is good, given my rates.” He smiled and winked at Abigail.

  Lestingway was clearly in a more serious mood. “I wanted to forewarn you before we arrived regarding the sensitivity of this matter. The situation with the royals is delicate, and it’s vital we avoid a scandal.”

  “Things often get messy on a job,” Grimes said. He ignored Abigail’s sharp look. “We can’t guarantee there won’t be problems.”

  She asked Lestingway, “Is there something in particular you’re concerned about?”

  He said, “King Julius is young and relatively new to the throne. He is still building his reputation. There are already rumors among the castle staff—dangerous rumors, I should note—calling these troubles a ‘curse.’ Some even say the ghost of Vinter Raelthorne is behind all this. It was Midwinter’s decision to turn to us instead of to the Church of Morrow for help, though some of the king’s advisors would have preferred the latter. Not that they all even know we’re here. You will have to be careful and quiet. There will be operational restrictions.”

  “Well, that’s just lovely,” Grimes said. “Does he want the job done right or his way?”

  Abigail’s look suggested he should let it go. She said, “Understandable, given one of the hot spots was in the princess’ bedchambers. We’ll work within Midwinter’s requirements, so long as we can do our work properly.”

  “Of course.” Lestingway paused then added, “This could be a big job for the Workshop, if things go well. Having friends in the government could be a boon. Midwinter might become a regular client.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about all this,” Grimes said under his breath.

  Elliot smiled and said, “Then again, you’ve always got a bad feeling.”

  • • •

  GETTING INTO THE CASTLE involved a circuitous route. They drove past the main grand entrance and swung through a narrow alleyway adjacent and then circled the Castle to arrive at a more obscure gate. The alley they took led through a yawning tunnel straight into one of the larger foundation walls, a path that swallowed the sky and threw them into darkness, lit only by periodic gas lights. It reinforced the fact that Caspia was a place with walls large enough for entire neighborhoods to live inside them.

  Watching out the wagon’s windows as they pulled to a stop, Grimes deduced they were making use of one of the castle’s hidden supply entrances, likely where bulk food, coal, or other necessities were brought in. The passageway looked as though it were intended to allow relief even if the castle were besieged. The dank tunnel was dark as night, and they were ushered into the walls through similarly dimly lit corridors and narrow, steep stairs. Not the stateliest way to arrive at Castle Raelthorne, Grimes thought.

  Several liveried servants waited to help them with their supplies. They were then led through additional narrow halls, past many people busily working in the bowels of the castle complex. At one point they walked past a broad doorway revealing a massive kitchen with dozens of cooks and assistants, lit by the blazing fires of numerous stovetops and massive ovens. They eventually arrived at several cleared rooms set aside for their use, still deep in the bowels of the castle. Bare cots lined the walls.

  “Living in luxury, I see,” said Mel. She began to take stock in her equipment, separating the crates. “I hope we’re not staying long.”

  “I’ve slept in worse,” Grimes said. “Cot’s fine by me.”

  Elliot asked, “Should we put on our gear?”

  “Don’t tell me I got dressed up for nothing,” Mel said, frowning sadly. Then she noticed one of the smudges on her blouse, which prompted her to unleash an unladylike curse and sent her searching in her gear for something to expunge it.

  Abigail said, “Wait to gear up until we talk to our client.” She opened her carrier to let Artis leap out. The cat immediately began exploring the room.

  They didn’t have to wait long for Lestingway to return. At his side was a white-haired man several inches shorter attired in a formal deep blue- and silver-fringed robe of office that resembled those worn by Cygnaran judges. His shoulders were covered by faux-armored leather and cloth pauldrons, creating a more formidable silhouette, underscored by his high collar. Around his neck was a thick chain bearing a silver medallion upon which was situated the Cygnus over a pair of crossed scrolls. He steadied himself with a long staff topped by an ornate mechanikal head. It appeared less like a symbol of office and more like a functional weapon. Behind the man we
re several well-groomed soldiers dressed and armed similarly to the Royal Guard but wearing the older man’s symbol.

  Lestingway said, “Let me introduce Arcane Administrator and Magus Orin Midwinter, a member of King Julius’ Inner Council.” To Midwinter, he said, “These people are with the Strangelight Workshop. They’re the specialist field team sent by Blackwell Hall in Ceryl. They are led by Investigator Abigail Thorpe, who has been briefed.” He signified her with an extended hand.

  While Midwinter was smaller and more elderly than Grimes had expected, there was something in his eyes that suggested he was not to be trifled with. All Grimes knew about Midwinter was that he was said to have once been a member of Vinter Raelthorne’s feared Inquisition. Midwinter inclined his head to Abigail and briefly scanned the faces of the rest of the team. “Welcome to Caspia and the castle. Thank you for your speedy arrival. I apologize for the unusual welcome and less than ideal quarters. I trust that your colleague has told you of our need for delicate handling with this investigation.”

  Abigail said, “Yes, that was made abundantly clear, your lordship… Er, Magus.” She stammered, clearly uncertain how to properly address the man.

  He waved a hand. “No need for titles. I no longer belong to any arcane organization and no one here really knows what sort of work my position entails.” He paused and said, “I had requested Blackwell Hall send Tomas Mongrav to lead this investigation. Was he unavailable?”

  Abigail frowned. For his part, Grimes felt a pang at that name, a reminder of a grief that had not faded. It had only been two years since his old team had perished, including Tomas, his old investigator. Grimes had been the only survivor of that debacle, a matter that had preoccupied him on many sleepless nights.

  Abigail looked to Grimes to answer, knowing their history. He cleared his throat and said, “Tomas is dead, I’m afraid. Two years ago. Died on the job.” Likely Abigail had expected him to give more details, but he was not inclined to get into it. Instead, he asked, “You knew him?”