The Traitor God

by Cameron Johnston

  “I am glad to have caught you,” he said to Eva, his voice slick with the cultured tones of the High Houses. They all sounded the same, these honey-tongued, spoilt bastards. “The famed Ahramish illusionist Lucata of Sumart is performing a play at the amphitheatre tonight. I was wondering if you would care to join us?”

  She groaned. “Always when I am working. I have night patrol with the wardens tonight.”

  “A shame,” he said, sighing. “I find shadow-play fascinating. Another time perhaps. Fare you well tonight.” With that he gave a slight bow and left.

  “So,” Eva said, once Harailt was lost in the crowd. “You know Magus Harailt?”

  “Was it that obvious?” I had slid from mysterious into suspicious.

  “You don’t seem the bashful type.”

  She had me there. “I knew the heir to High House Grasske when we were young. It’s a long story.” I couldn’t keep the venom from my tongue.

  “Ah,” she said. “I have heard about his old scandals. By all accounts he was a flaming prick back then.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Was? In my experience people like him don’t change.”

  She made to reply, stopped, pondered it for a moment, and then chose her words carefully. “How much do you know about the disappearances ten years ago?”

  Careful! A mundane shouldn’t show that he knew too much. “A god died. And Archmagus Byzant disappeared.”

  She nodded, “Harailt and Archmagus Byzant were particularly close. It hit him hard when the Archmagus went missing so shortly after Artha died, and, well, there were a few accidents afterwards.” Meaning Harailt had probably maimed or killed people and Grasske covered up the worst of his excesses. “His house disinherited him and the Arcanum shipped him off to work in our embassies based in city states bordering Esban and the southern Skallgrim tribes. When he returned to he had become an entirely different and better person. He is not that odious youth you knew so long ago, that I can personally vouch for.”

  Her taste was piss-poor. It still rankled that Byzant, a good and decent man, had shown that cock-maggot Harailt any favour after what he had done to Lynas and I. Maybe my old friend thought he could rehabilitate the swine.

  “The bastard can burn, for all I care,” I said. “Some things cannot be forgiven.”

  She shrugged, body language displaying her distaste. Not surprising – I was bitter and twisted, sour as any lemon at the suck.

  We walked in silence for a while. “I’m sorry,” I said eventually. “It’s not a pleasant topic for me.”

  “We all have our wounds, and some go deeper than others. I rarely get to see a man’s scars before I know him well.” She looked at the ragged scars marring my cheek and neck. “How did you acquire those? I suspect that’s an interesting tale.”

  “Bad jokes and worse timing,” I said. It was close enough to the truth.

  “Ha, I am surprised you are in one piece in that case. I would bet good coin that most of your jokes are terrible.”

  My mind was churning with anger, questions, and the acute fear that I would be caught if I stayed any longer in the Old Town. I was not in any kind of mood for flirting and small talk, and as for love or sex – pah, no time for that! She was far too sharp to risk revealing anything more.

  “I might tell you that tale someday,” I said, giving her a small bow, as befitting a noble of the Old Town taking his leave. I did have proper manners when I cared to use them.

  “I will hold you to that,” she said. “Hope to see you soon, Master Reklaw.”

  With that we went our separate ways. I kept my head down and hurried through the gate to the lower city, paranoia ebbing with every step I put between the Arcanum and myself.

  I was finished earlier than I’d thought and not due to meet Charra until tomorrow. What to do now? The gaps in my current knowledge of Setharis were glaring. I needed to immerse myself in the underbelly of the city, to feel its ebb and flow before I could identify more links to Lynas’ murder. I knew just the place, and it wouldn’t hurt to earn coin while I did it; information would cost me dearly, and the people there would know who else Bardok the Hock was working with. It was time to toss the dice.

  Chapter 12

  Gold and silver are the greatest lubricants known to man. Greasing palms makes everything easier, everywhere, and black-marketeers and snitches were never less than ruinously expensive, which made my meagre stash about as useful as teats on a fish. It didn’t take me long to find a gambling den in the Warrens; all you had to do was follow the sweet scent of alchemic smoke and the sour odour of drunken fools shuffling along with golden dreams in their eyes and poverty in their future. Sooner or later they all ended up in the sleaze-pit called the Scabs, the scummiest part of the entire city, an impressive claim considering the competition. The muddle of crooked lanes housed the very worst gambling dens, where underground slavers and pimps bet flesh as often as coin. It was also where the best information brokers plied their trade.

  An old man doddered into me from behind and I felt a hand slip into my pocket. I backhanded him into the mud and gave it no more thought. Cutpurses were the least of my concerns – I was far more worried about the moneylenders. When I fled Setharis I’d owed a bucket of gold to various unsavoury characters and their sort never forgot or forgave, but to look on the bright side, hopefully they were all dead by now.

  I ended up dicing in a copper-bit dive occupying the mouldy basement of a raucous tavern. It was heaving with painted, pox-ridden doxies and hairy-knuckled toughs with overhanging foreheads taking bread money from the desperate and the drunk. It wasn’t the sort of place to hear interesting snippets of gossip, not the sort of place I needed to be, so I stayed just long enough to grow my handful of copper into silver and got out before they dragged me into a back alley and kicked my head in. I didn’t even use my Gift, just a load of bullshit and skill gained from a misspent youth and a downright wasted adulthood. I didn’t even enjoy the games: amateurs like them exhibited too many tells and their attempts to cheat me were frankly embarrassing.

  I went up-market, as much as you can in the Warrens anyway – at least the building wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse, even if it did seem held up mostly by soot and mould. It was the kind of place a man might hear rumours dripping from loosened lips of gang bosses and their lieutenants, boasts of murders and dodgy deals. In short, it was exactly where I might uncover information on the Skinner and Lynas’ murder. I walked through the door, past the cold eyes of gang enforcers on guard duty, the sort of men that wouldn’t balk at breaking bones and cutting up bodies before heading home to tell their daughter a gentle bedtime story.

  One big brute covered in scars was overly twitchy. The scar tissue was surgically straight and smooth, his skin a little flushed, the muscles too defined and bulky; all classic signs of fleshcrafter modifications to heighten reactions and muscle growth. It was highly illegal, but some magi with the talent for healing would happily pervert their calling in the cause of extra gold, or to obtain fresh research materials. Usually his sort were built for cavern-fights, their owners pitting prize fighters against each other in underground rings. His body would burn itself up and he would die early, but until then he would be like a daemon in a scrap, and earn extra coin for it too. He had probably accrued a hefty debt to the wrong people, but I supposed it was better than a knife between the ribs or selling your organs for a fleshcrafter to implant into the diseased and unscrupulous rich.

  The brute’s gimlet eyes lingered on my back as I descended to the card tables. A smile slipped onto my face. Oh, how I had missed the bluff and tumble of high-stakes gambling, the expectant thrill of my gold wagered on a single toss of the dice or flip of the last card, the sudden hush as one by one my opponents revealed their hands. Fleecing drunken farmers in the hinterlands lacked this dangerous lustre. If only I had the time to enjoy such frivolities.

  I scoped out the smoky room, dimly lit by twinkling rush-lights on the tables and oil lanterns on the
walls, taking in the padded booths at the back where purple-lipped khufali addicts reclined immersed in sweet smoke and vibrant dreams. Scantily clad men and women served drinks, occasionally slipping upstairs when they took a customer’s fancy and their coin. I didn’t dare use my magic here: with this much coin changing hands they would have a sniffer mingling. Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t open up my Gift in a more passive way, soaking in the atmosphere and any stray thoughts; here those thoughts were dark and perverse, reeking of fear, aggression and despair. It was maddening to have my Gift open but not draw in magic, akin to wafting slabs of sizzling bacon under the nose of a starving man and telling him not to chow down.

  After earning some gold at dice I slipped into a booth and engaged an information broker for details on the Skinner murders, and for events that occurred around that date. He knew only two things more than I already uncovered: the first was that the murdered magus had been a white-robe. The revered members of the Halcyon Order were the only magi that normal folk had anything good to say about. Healing was a rare talent that I dearly wished I possessed, and I would have traded my cursed Gift for that in the blink of an eye. I’d seen far too many people die while I looked on helplessly. They were the closest thing to sacrosanct that Setharis had. The other was that somebody had torched an old temple in the Warrens that same night. In my mind I was plotting distances from there to Bootmaker’s Wynd, but the slums of Setharis stretched a good half-day’s walk and I was going to need Charra’s map. It might prove coincidental but I filed it away for investigation. On mentioning Bardok the Hock he proved a more bountiful source. That greedy old git was working with the Harbourmaster in charge of Pauper’s Docks, who was on the payroll of the alchemic syndicates. Which linked to imports, and to Lynas.

  Once I was done with the information broker I picked a central table suitable for mental eavesdropping, tossed some coin in and eased myself down onto the bench opposite a heavily built older man wearing a flat cap – a dockhand judging by his rope-burned hands – with a clay pipe clamped between rotten brown teeth. He glanced at me and then went back to studying his cards and puffing on a pipe with the tarry reek of cheapest tabac. The dealer flipped two painted cards my way and then placed another three face-up on the table. I peeked at my hand, kept my face still at the glorious sight of two High House cards. So the dealer was going for the usual hustle of letting me win small, then upping the ante until I was overconfident and bet all my coin on a single round of cards. Then some accomplice would wipe me out with an amazing hand, with the help of some dodgy dealing of course. Naturally I had no qualms about cheating outrageously myself when the time came. I tapped my highest cards thoughtfully, letting the tiniest trickle – barely a sip – of magic seep into them with each tap, building my trickery up layer by layer, each use far too subtle to be noticed by any sniffer they could possibly afford.

  Usually I wouldn’t resort to using my Gift for something so minor; it felt like cheating when I could win through skill and deception, but I didn’t have the time to fritter away. It was easy to bluff when you could read people’s expressions and body language as well as I could, no magic needed; all it took was a little attention to detail. Most people seemed to meander through life blindfolded when it came to the emotions of others. I couldn’t quite fathom that sort of ignorance, but then I was hardly normal.

  I let the chatter of customers wash over me, immersing myself in the mood of the room, keeping ear and mind out for any interesting titbits to fill in gaps in my knowledge. The Skinner was a topic on many lips and stray thoughts, but I learned little but unsubstantiated rumour and conspiracy theories. A tension filled the air, so thick I could almost taste it. It was the sort of atmosphere that built up slowly, thickening until it eventually exploded in somebody’s face. It wasn’t just the Skinner; this was something that ran much deeper. Too many bad things in such a short time, too many people gone missing, and nobody knew who, which let suspicion bloat into a loathsome beast.

  I won the first three rounds before the dockhand threw his cap in and admitted defeat. It was a shrewd man who knew when to quit. Three others took his place around the table, lured by the chance of winning a share of my growing stack of coin. They just made my winnings rack up all the quicker. The gambling den’s owners sent free drinks over, but that was fine with me, it’d take more than a little booze to throw me off my stride thanks to years of rigorous training in that respect. My winnings grew. You don’t win that much without drawing attention, and I could feel people’s eyes on me now, including one woman I suspected to be a sniffer from the distracted look as she walked past me, nose crinkling even though she wasn’t looking for a physical scent. I flipped a smoke between my lips and lit it from a rush-light. I’d have to be careful to time my cheating just right.

  Focused on the game, studying the cards being dealt, I sensed a woman slip down beside me and noted a smooth dark thigh and the subtle, exotic scent she wore. I knew the type, the sort of pretty leech that attached themselves to winners and drained them dry. Her mind gave away nothing, no strong feelings or stray thoughts. In a place like this it was possible there wasn’t an alchemic-free thought in her sluggish mind, but it was surprising all the same.

  “Sorry, love, I’m not in the mood,” I said, watching the dealer’s fingers deftly slip a card to an accomplice from the bottom of the deck. He was a very good cheat, but I had been taught by the minds of masters. I glanced at my cards. It was a damn good hand but his accomplice would have better. I frowned at the dealer. “Fold.” He gave me a sick smile and started sweating.

  The woman at my side gave a throaty chuckle, then leant in close to whisper in my ear. “You couldn’t afford me, Uncle Reklaw.”

  I almost choked on my smoke, turned my head slightly to see Layla’s raised eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She was wearing a tight fitted dress that showed a lot of leg and a hint of cleavage, positively modest for these parts, but far from how I’d seen her last.

  “So, what brings you here?” I said. “Didn’t take you for the carousing type.” The dealer flicked out another round of cards, no cheating this time. I had good odds of an excellent hand. I tossed gold into the pot.

  “Do I look like an old maid to you? I’m here to meet a man.”

  I tapped my nose. “Point taken. I’m to keep this as our little secret, yes? I doubt your mother would approve of this place.”

  “You had better. Don’t worry, at the first sign of trouble I’m out of here.” Then her voice hardened. “So this is why you returned? Gambling and drinking?”

  “Hardly.” I leant in close. “That tub of lard at the side there, dicing with his friends – he’s cheating on his wife. Mind you, she’s spreading her legs for the lanky fellow sitting next to him, so she’s no better.” Layla looked surprised, but I still felt nothing from her. She was as controlled as any magus. I nodded to an older man in velvet coat and tunic smoking an ornate pipe, his pupils dilated and his mouth slightly slack around the stem. “Him, he’s a syndicate gang boss working with the Harbourmaster. Some of his best men disappeared a while back after they tried to break into the mageblood trade and he’s never quite recovered. He blames Charra in public but actually fears that it was the Skinner. No proof though. People disappear in the Warrens all the time, especially these days.” Him I was paying particular attention to. When he left I was going to follow and force him to answer all my questions.

  “How can you possibly know all of that?” she said.

  The dealer flicked out more cards. One of my opponents folded, but the other two slid piles of coin in. One seemed unsure, but the other exuded a quiet confidence that he was very good at hiding behind a twitch of fake worry. Not skilled enough though. I chucked more coin in anyway, calling their bets.

  “I’m very good at listening,” I said to Layla. “Most people hear but few listen.”

  The unsure man opposite laid his hand out. Two middling pairs. I made a show of scowling
at my cards to waste just enough time and draw enough attention to me – the trick wouldn’t work otherwise. Then I spread my hand out on the table. “A high court,” I said. People murmured in the background, every eye in the room lingering on the large heap of coin at stake. All eyes turned to the fake worrier.

  The man smiled broadly and finally spread his cards out. “All High Houses,” he gloated. “I win!” He reached for the pot.

  I cleared my throat. “What are you talking about, pal?” I tapped one of his cards, setting off the temporary glamour I’d placed in it earlier. “That’s a two, not a high house. Just what are you trying to pull here?” Through some quirk of fate his high card seemed to have changed into a two for the observers. Almost without exception, people saw what they expected to see, and I had just given them a little nudge: part deception, part subtle magic.

  He gawped at his card, picked it up and stared at the dealer, a question on his lips. Oh-ho, the crowd caught that look and a murmur of disquiet stirred as they looked between the two. The dealer turned to the sniffer, who stared at me trying to sense if I was using the Gift. The sniffer shrugged and shook her head. Beads of sweat appeared on the dealer’s forehead and a sickly smile grew. “Another round?”

  “Nah,” I said, “don’t want my luck to turn.” I scooped up the heap of gold and silver, then turned to grin at Layla, but she’d already slipped away to find her lover. I packed away my winnings, pouch bulging at the seams.

  A woman screamed. A tray of drinks crashed to the floor. One of the serving girls stood staring down at the twitching corpse of – ah, shite! – the gang boss slumped over his table, pipe still smoking. Blood oozed from a small wound between the base of the skull and the spine. It had been precise and quick, with minimal blood – this wasn’t a mere stabbing, it was an assassination. And what’s more, they’d used my game as the perfect distraction.

  Layla was nowhere to be seen. Paranoia reared its head. Oh gods, was she safe? Then I spied her over by the far wall, unharmed and with a half-empty goblet of wine in her hand. She shot me a worried look, set it down and then slipped out of the door while everybody else was busy gawping. I sighed with relief; it was just another ganglands killing, they were not here for her or me.