“It’s just stories from the old times. Myths.”
“It doesn’t belong here. Lo is Lo and there is no other.”
“Lo is all, of course, but when I painted the Eight Eyes, you disapproved.”
Herndon grabbed the painter by the back of his hair, bending his neck back, and wrapped his other hand around his throat. “Listen to me. I hired you because I’m cheap and you’re even cheaper. Your skill with the brush acceptable, but you mistake your task.”
Let go of me, the painter growled in his head. He reached down into the pocket of his smock and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of another brush, his favorite brush, and struggled to keep it hidden.
Please let go of me.
“My clients don’t want sacrilege, and they don’t want to be watched,” Herndon continued, angry spittle landing on the painter’s noise and lips. “You know what they want to see when they look up. I’ve made it clear.”
“Teats,” the painter said, deflated and mournful.
Herndon let go, pushing him back into the scaffold. The painter removed his hand from his pocket, leaving his brush sheathed.
“And cocks! Teats and cocks! Little teats. Big teats. Milky round teats. Tight maiden teats. Old teats. Young teats. Especially young teats. The men that come here and soak in my baths, they come to wash, relax, and get away from their women. And large impressive cocks. I want them to look up at your mural – my mural – and see the teats of shameful women more beautiful than their wives and cocks bigger than they’ve ever seen and be inspired to partake of the other services we offer, no matter what side of the coin they fancy.”
“The whores.”
“It’s whores’ money I’m paying you with, so you can swallow your idiot tongue and stow your high mighty contempt for what we do here.”
“You haven’t paid me.”
“I will when you paint what I want. We’ve been getting more and more busy since I reopened this place and this is the last chamber that needs fixing. I can’t leave it closed off too much longer. I’m running out of room.
“Tell me you understand me.”
The painter nodded.
“In the morning you’re going to start over. Again. If I see a drummer, an old god, the Eyes, Lo Itself, or anything else that will disturb my clients, you’ll do it again. You won’t get paid one mark until you give me what I want. And what do I want?”
“Teats…”
“Teats!”
Herndon stormed off, grumbling.
“And fucking cocks!”
The painter watched him go. He felt unclean. A plunge in one of the baths would do nothing to cleanse the unease inside of him. He would do what he was told. He was out of coin. Truly. Not one bit to his name. He would hide Skarl beneath a coat of white, begin the work afresh and deliver to the disgusting Herndon the debauched and lurid spectacle he wanted.
But he did not approve.
Lo did not approve.
And, he knew for certain, neither did Téssera.
PINQUE PICKED AT A BLISTER on his heel with a rusty farrier’s nail he had found in the street. He felt uncomfortable in Lyton. The people of the district, the richest in the capitol, averted their eyes and turned up their noses as they passed. He had spent the first hour nodding, smiling, greeting, politely asking citizens to help him identify the dead man he had horrifically propped up in an open-faced coffin. But in Lyton money trumped authority, even that of the royal variety. So he had given up and decided to take care of some personal grooming, decorum be damned.
The second and third hours went by without incident. Citizens peered at the dead man as they passed and were noticeably relieved when they didn’t recognize him. Pinque would wait another hour before he loaded the dirtbox onto the wagon and moved onto the next district. Westmoor would be next, then maybe West Silver before Lo took Its leave and left the day behind. If he didn’t find the man’s identity by then, he would begin anew in the morning and work his way down ValleyHeart’s social classes one at a time. He would get to his own neighborhood by the middle of the week.
A lad of eight or ten years, dressed in nicer clothes than Pinque had ever owned as an adult, froze mid-step as he passed. He stared long and deep at the cadaver’s face, grew quite upset, and looked around the forum nervously.
Pinque reached for his boot. “Boy, do you— “
The child ran.
“Wait! By the Constabulary, I order you to— “
He stood and tried to pull his boot on at the same time and lost his balance. He stumbled backwards and bumped into the coffin; it tipped over backwards, hitting the compacted dirt ground with a loud thump. Pinque nearly fell into the box himself, but was able to keep his footing and dance around it.
“Old Slid take you!” he cursed, the Farcoaster in him coming to the fore. He knew the boy was far gone, but he looked out into the crowd anyway. Everyone was staring at him, many of them trying to suppress laughter and many of them failing. He had thrown his boot in the chaos and the five foot walk to it felt like miles. He could feel his face growing flush. Two well-dressed ladies pointed at him while he strained to get his still-laced boot onto his foot.
“Go ahead and laugh, you crones!” he yelled. “We’ll see how curious you find it when The Herald comes for you lot like it did for this poor soul!”
The gathered mob quieted.
“Have your attention now, do I? Best you show respect to this dead one and as well your Cyng. We constables is his eyes and ears, you know. An expansion of his Cyngly senses and whatnot. Best you show respect to me lest he see and hear you cows.”
Pinque shouldn’t have said any of that, he knew, especially not in Lyton, especially not about The Herald. The Captains didn’t want to stoke peoples’ fears any more than they already had been. “The Herald” was not something that was ever supposed to pass his lips in earshot of civilians.
Astia gets wind of this I’ll be catching rats in Greenhall for the rest of my life.
Turning his back on the stunned masses, Pinque knelt next to the coffin. The dead man lay largely undisturbed, although his head had turned to the side, hiding his face. Cringing a bit, he reached in, grabbed the man’s cheeks, and set the head back straight. He stood, wiping the unclean hand on his unclean breeches and wondered if it was worth the effort to push the dirtbox upright again.
“Excuse me.” The voice was feminine and delicate. Pinque looked up from his trousers to behold a lovely young woman. If she was marrying age she was barely so. Her corset and gown shaped her figure in a very desirable way and Pinque found the beauty of her golden hair eclipsed only by that of her silver eyes.
He straightened his spine and ran a hand through is hair, managing to instead make it worse, and flashed his best smile, praying to Beaudu that she wouldn’t notice his rotten tooth.
“How can I help you, miss?”
She approached slowly, her gaze locked on the body, not the bumbling constable.
“Was he really killed by The Herald?” she asked quietly.
“To the best of our knowing at the current present.”
She bent down on one knee next to the coffin, dirtying a gown that would have cost any constable two months of pay. “May I touch him?” she asked, looking at Pinque for the first time.
“I don’t know why you would want to, but there’s no law against it.”
She’s touched, Pinque thought. Beautiful creature like that all wobbled up in her head. A shame that is. Then again, maybe she’s touched enough to give Pinque a second look.
The young woman ran two fingers down the corpse’s cheek. “He’s so cold,” she said to herself. She brought her fingers to her nose, smelled them, then down to the tip of her tongue.
How did she escape the sanitarium? Pinque wondered.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Bala,” she said, standing. “Bala Dinora.”
Dinora. Dinora, the second Eye of Lo and the watcher of merchants, bankers, and all others wi
th precious metals in their veins. It was an affront to Lo to take any Eye’s name as your own, with one exception. The Dinora family was the richest in The Valley and had been for twelve centuries or more; the dawn of their fortune predated any sage’s written history. There wasn’t a coin in ValleyHeart that didn’t pass through the Dinoras’ hands at least twice. Many believed the Eye had been named after them and not the other way around.
Pinque’s attraction to the women had evolved into curiosity and then pity and now fear. His goal became not to bed or help the woman, but to not anger her. Even a stupid man like Pinque knew it wasn’t smart to cross a Dinora.
“Lady Dinora.” Pinque’s hands were already sweating. “I apologize. I did not know— “
“Your apology is unnecessary. I should be the one begging your pardon. I am keeping you from your task.”
A Dinora begging pardon? No one is going to believe this.
“I do have one other question, though, if you would do me the favor.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady Bala.”
She leaned moved closer to Pinque and learned her towards his ear.
I haven’t cleaned my ears since—
“What did he write?” she whispered. “What was his message?”
Ah. I would have told you anything but that. Even about that dalliance with my cousin Erya.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I can’t unleash that knowledge. It’s best for the common good, you understand?”
“I do understand, Constable…”
“Pinque.”
“Constable Pinque. The Master of Order is lucky to have you. You are loyal. But don’t you think the people have the right to know what this madman is foretelling? In case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case he’s not actually mad.”
He wanted to tell her. To make her happy. To give him more time to stare into the silver eyes that were entrancing him so. “I am sorry, Lady Dinora.”
Bala gave him a sweet smile. “As am I, Master Pinque.” She turned to go.
“I must ask you, though,” Pinque said, stopping her. “Do you know this man? It is my duty to ask all I can.”
She shook her head and walked away.
“I believe I do.”
A woman of forty years came forward, holding the hand of the well-dressed boy Pinque had seen earlier. She approached, looked down into the coffin, and nodded.
“That,” she said flatly and with seemingly no concern, “was my husband.”
Herald of Tessera
Part II
An excerpt from an upcoming novel by Chad J. Shonk
T HE FIRST THING DRAV HAD DONE after purchasing his cottage was board up the windows.
The act had invoked suspicion in his neighbors; what kind of man had the gall to bar Lo from his home and hearth? But Drav knew his desire for darkness would not anger The Skyfire. Everything he did was in Its service, including staying out of Its light.
To protect those who thrived in the light, Drav had to wallow in the dark. And he would continue to do so, until his soul or body gave way. Until Lo called him into Its bosom. Only then would it be light and warmth for Drav Astia. Then, and for all ever after. In the mortal plane, though, he slept while others lived.
Drav was not asleep. Thoughts of the elusive Herald made him toss and turn. Each clue, each previous victim and message, was a spoke on a quickly spinning wheel. The mangled body. The chest torn open. The choice of target. Pinque and his portly companion.
The message.
Four words. Sixteen letters.
THE HEART WILL BURN
Was it a threat or a warning? Did the killer think he was doing something righteous, sacrificing a few old men for the sake of all? Criminals often times found ways to justify their actions. They blamed hunger, poverty, the victims. Some claimed they were moved by Lo to do what they had done.
Except for Creno Nar. When Drav caught him, he had gleefully recounted defiling and slaying all of those children: “I loved to hear them scream.”
The Herald was more likely than not an addled soul. Diseased and out of control.
The alternative was a more frightening theory, but one Drav could not avoid.
Drav had to entertain the notion that The Herald was a Seer, however unlikely that seemed.
The Gloomwalker managed two hours of restless dozing before someone knocked at his door, loudly and with urgency. If the visitor did not bear information of import, Drav considered murder an appropriate response. He opened the door. Lo’s light nearly blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, the form of Pinque came into focus.
“I know who he is, Drav,” the constable blurted out without the politeness of a greeting. “I brought his wife and boy. They wait ‘cross the lane.”
Drav looked into the sky. Lo burned high and bright; it was an hour past midday. “Bring them in here,” he said with a yawn. While Pinque retrieved his witnesses, Astia grabbed an oil lantern off his dressing table and lit it, hoping it would burn bright enough to put daytime visitors at ease.
Pinque escorted in a woman a boy. Their vestments expressed great wealth; it must have been a feat for Pinque to convince them to come this far East. The woman was younger than the dead man by ten years or more. She looked around at Drav’s lodgings with unveiled disgust.
“This is Lady— “
“Where was your husband the night he disappeared?” Drav had as much interest in the woman’s name as he did in doling out platitudes and sympathies. The steely look in the widow’s eyes made him believe she felt the same.
“The baths,” she said.
The baths…
“Ever since that place opened its doors again, he has been going more and more often. Once a week, then twice. As of late he was there more than he was at home. I know what goes on there, what they sell in that place and I am glad for it.”
The baths. The baths…
“He could rut with all the whores in the ‘Heart if it kept him off of me and out of my bed.” She put her hand on her boy’s shoulder. “But a boy needs a father, even an old disgusting bastard like the one I saddled him with.”
The baths! The words had sparked something in Drav and now he knew what.
“I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do when the child starts asking questions about what to do with his prick.”
“Which house?” Drav asked.
“Which house?”
“You said the place had just recently opened its doors. How long ago?” Pinque asked.
“Five, six months.”
“Which house?” Drav asked more forcefully. It was all he wanted to know.
“Off Roseneedle Square. Big place, left over from the old ones. Was but a ruin until—”
“Thank you,” Drav said. “You can go.”
“Don’t you— “
“Get out.”
“You cannot speak to me— “
“Pinque, get them out of here.”
Before Pinque was able to wrangle the insulted woman and fatherless boy out the door, Drav rushed to his desk to retrieve his quill and ink. He rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk, grabbed one that no longer had any value, turned it over, and scribbled with haste.
After a minute Pinque returned. “If that woman’s tongue was any sharper I’d be bleeding from stem to stern. Never heard such words from the mouth of a— “
Drav handed him a list, the ink wet and bleeding. On it were the names of three women and their districts. “Speak to these widows,” Astia commanded. “Each of them. Ask where their husbands took their baths. Do not leave them until they tell you. Disregard any other information.”
Pinque looked at the list. “I don’t think I can get to all of them by nightfall.”
“No need. We are on the killer’s schedule, not our own, and it will be another month before he resurfaces. But if I’m right, we will find ourselves in Roseneedle at that time, waiting for him.”
Pinque nodded, starting to unders
tand. “It for surely can’t be that easy.”
“One thing I have learned is that murderers, thieves, and even monsters of this sort are dumber than we think. Dumber than even you. Now go,” Drav said, pushing Pinque out the door and slamming it behind him.
The Gloomwalker collapsed onto his bed.
And slept.
HE PAINTED AND HE WATCHED AND HE DREADED.
Painted a repulsive scene rife with fornication, indulgence, and, yes, teats and cocks.
Watched Téssera in the night sky as it lazily closed, rested, and then slowly opened.
Dreaded what he would not see, what he would not hear, on the night the Eye waxed fully and cast its gaze upon him.
He painted and he watched and he dreaded and soon that night was upon him.
It came. All of it. The sea. Bones. Fire. Death.
It told him a story, his visions compiled, and for the first time he understood.
When he went outside to commune with Téssera, he saw that the Eye, on the night it was full and at its brightest, was obscured by gray clouds. He tried to call to it in its mind, to seek its counsel, but no reply came. Hours passed and Téssera did not reach out to him, offered no instruction or direction.
It had no more to offer him. He knew what was needed.
He was to grab his favorite brush.
Prepare his palette.
Find a new canvas.
And paint.
For the final time.
SIX CONSTABLES POSED AS CUSTOMERS inside the Roseneedle Baths with three times that waiting outside in the shadows. Drav had been preparing for this night for weeks, ever since they had confirmed that all four of The Herald’s victims had frequented the newly-opened bathhouse. It was the one thing they had in common, save the heft of their untouched purses.
And they had an idea of who the monster was. Herndon, the establishment’s new owner, hadn’t hesitated to point a suspicious finger. Drav wasn’t one to act on another man’s hunch, especially one whose breath reeked of mead and well-used women. But after several days of careful observation, he was convinced they had found their killer. Unlike many of the city’s other lawbreathers, though, Drav preferred to catch his quarry in the act. After capture, a criminal such as this was sure to feel the Hand of Judgment and find oblivion at the tip of a doru, so Astia always wanted to make sure the man deserved it. It was not so with the others, he knew, but evidence, fact and certainty paved his preferred path to justice.
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