“Ha!” I blurted. “As if.”
Charra stared daggers at me. Eva’s eyebrow quirked.
“I have better taste than that,” Charra said. “He’s all yours, if you want him?”
“Perhaps another time,” Eva said. “I am on duty at the moment. Good day to you both.”
After we turned the corner, Charra stopped and wagged her finger at me. “I thought you were supposed to be laying low? Be wary of that one, she would snap you like a twig.”
I rubbed my arm. “I’m already aware of that. Have no fears of me dipping my wick there.”
She led me to a near-deserted tavern called The Fuddled Ferret. We sat at a bench and ordered ale, being entertained in the loosest sense of the word by a hungover bard in a colourful patchwork coat plucking the strings on his lute in vague accompaniment to the lacklustre tale he was telling to two snot-nosed pups staring up at him, rapt with wonder.
After the drinks arrived she busied herself sorting her map and papers while I listened to the bard’s tale. A poor rendition but it still evoked golden memories. I knew this story well: The Journey of Camlain Calhuin had been one of my mother’s bedtime stories. Young as I’d been, the sense of wonder my mother’s tales evoked in me was still vivid. It had been one of the last before the voices in her head finally drove her to fevered madness and death. This dreary-tongued bard was mangling it. Perhaps it was a cultural thing between the Clanholds and the Setharii, but this version had none of the details that made my mother’s so real to me: it lacked her gritty humour as she told of the time Camlain learned which mushrooms were safe to eat, and which gave him explosive squats, or how he’d tried and failed and tried again to learn hunting and fishing on his epic journey north. It had been as instructive as it had been fascinating to hear Camlain Calhuin grow from boy into doomed hero. This bard’s hero was seemingly born with the innate ability to be the greatest at everything without putting in the sweat to learn, and I suspected that none of this bard’s heroes ever took a shite, ate a dodgy meal, got ill, or had wounds that took months to heal. Pah, a pox on that! Still, it was a happy reminder of my youth.
“Are you ready?” Charra said.
We barely touched our drinks as I related what I’d discovered in Lynas’ warehouse and the Templarum Magestus, and what I’d learned from the information broker and gang boss in the Scabs.
“Why chase him through the Warrens and kill him there if they could just steal what they wanted from his warehouse?” I said. “If the Skinner had wanted to murder him beforehand then he would have. No, Lynas had been snooping into something, I’m sure of it.” I massaged my temples, trying to recall the fractured details of the vision. “Something big. He bought us time, paying with his life.”
Charra cleared her throat and studied the map in front of us. It was fairly crude and the further away an area was from main thoroughfares like Fisherman’s Way the less detail it depicted. The Warrens was mostly just blank space with a few older points of note marked. It would be nigh-impossible to keep a map of the Warrens current: by the time you finished such a time-consuming task you would find entire areas had already changed due to fire, collapse and construction.
“While you were up in the Old Town I compiled all the information I have on what occurred on the fourteenth of Leaffall,” she said. “This…” she swallowed, “this is where Lynas died.” She had marked Bootmaker’s Wynd with an X, smudged where a charcoal stick had broken from pressing down too hard.
I clenched my jaw as resurgent terror drifted to the surface of my mind. I felt the ghost of the scalpel’s bite and our hot blood pattering down across our face. “The air smelled of blood and smoke as he pounded on doors asking for help.”
Her finger pressed down on a circle, not far from the first mark. “This old abandoned temple is within running distance of Bootmaker’s Wynd. It burnt down that same night, which explains the smell of smoke.” Two marks were next to it. “Multiple fatal stabbings here and here, a small-time alchemic-dealer named Keran and his gang, the Iron Wolves. Could be coincidence. Could be that Keran and his men saw something they shouldn’t. Normally I’d say good riddance to the filth.”
I gulped ale like water. “Did anybody live in that temple?”
“A few years back the area was ravaged by a flesh-rotting plague and it’s been abandoned ever since. Rumour claims it’s cursed. It was a rat-infested shithole by all accounts, occupied by a dozen or so alchemic addicts. None survived the fire so far as I know.”
“Whose temple was it?”
“I suppose that it must have been inherited by the Hooded God after Artha died…” She let the comment drift off unsaid, studying me.
I examined the map, trying to trace Lynas’ likely route. “I still don’t know what happened that night.” Not yet. All I knew was a deal had been cut amidst fire and blood. She had no need to know that I left to keep Lynas, Layla and her safe. I wasn’t about to lay guilt on Charra that wasn’t her fault.
I cleared my throat. “Assuming he started from the temple, the quickest way for Lynas to get to a public place and any hope of help was through the streets near Bootmaker’s Wynd.” If only you had made it my friend.
“Where do we go from here?” she said. “We know Lynas was working with Bardok the Hock, who is apparently newly flush with coin, and we know Bardok works with the Harbourmaster at Pauper’s Docks. The Harbourmaster is in the pocket of the alchemic syndicates and not exactly inclined to be friendly to me, but if all these murders are linked then the Skinner is a bigger threat to all of them than I am.”
“True. Can you can get me in and out of the docks under the sniffers’ noses?”
“Of course.”
“Well then, it’s settled. First we investigate that razed temple to see if there is anything left to uncover, pay that slimy git Bardok a visit on the way back and then, if needs be, we find out what the Harbourmaster has to say. We’ll leave him to last, no point putting ourselves in danger if we don’t have to.”
She nodded agreement and fingered the hilt of the short sword at her hip. “Drink up. We have work to do. If Lynas bought us time then I won’t waste it. Whatever it takes.”
It was so good to work with people who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty.
The reek of burning still lingered around the site of Artha’s old temple. The blackened stonework had once been part of a proud and martial edifice, albeit latterly left to decay and swiftly hemmed in by cobbled-together wooden structures propped up against its walls. Ironically, that very sodden decrepitude had been what had saved most of the surrounding buildings from the worst of the blaze. We circled the site, kicking over the occasional cracked stone or burnt cinder. I squatted down and touched fragments of an arrow slit and a spiked iron rail twisted by heat, but if Lynas had indeed been here on the night he died I felt nothing, not a whisper of magic or hint of his emotions. Fire was the great devourer, and hungry tongues of flame had destroyed anything that might have been imprinted on the surroundings.
“Not much left,” Charra said, stating the bloody obvious.
“There must be something here. Some clue they’ve overlooked.” I picked up a sodden doll made from straw and flicked off grey ash. It had been bound into a human shape with clothes of coloured rags, two twists of yarn carefully woven and teased into the hairstyle a proper Old Town lady might wear.
The stone cobbles underfoot began shaking as another earth tremor shook the city. The building to my right creaked like an old man, gave a splintering crack and listed a hand-span towards me. A rain of rotted wood pattered down nearby. The place was an ill-omened death-trap; no wonder it was deserted. Soon it would collapse in on itself – hopefully long after we were out of here – and then it would be reborn once people got up the nerve to pilfer the stone from the ruined temple to build a new tenement.
As the buildings settled I sensed a tiny tremor of movement from a roof behind me. I opened my Gift, trying to sense any stray thoughts or emotions. I rel
axed as a corvun screeched and took flight from behind one of the crooked chimney stacks that leaned like bad drunks over the alleyways.
While I was busy examining the buildings, Charra climbed over a pile of rubble and scanned the ground for clues.
“Walker, look at this.”
Something cracked underfoot and she disappeared shrieking into a hole.
“Charra!” I scrambled over the rubble.
She was sitting on her arse in a muddy hollow half-filled with debris, wincing and holding her chest. Her face and hair were grey with ash. She coughed, spitting mud and blood.
I opened my mouth to comment.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” she said.
“As you wish, my lady.” I lowered my hand to help her out. Stale fetid air wafted up out of a dark opening in one side of the pit, sending a shiver up my spine. “Merciless Night Bitch,” I cursed. “There is an entrance to the Boneyards here. This old temple to Artha must have been built to guard the exit.”
She looked up at me in alarm, recalling our old stories of the things that lurked in those dark catacombs. Once upon a time she had liked to sit with us and listen to gruesome tales of the twisted, broken things gone howling mad down below her streets, but that was when our tales had merely been scary stories of a strange place she would never see.
The stink of the Boneyards summoned the foul taste of bile to burn the back of my throat. Dizziness and terror overcame me. I stumbled, foot falling over the edge, blood flooding my mouth from a bitten lip. Charra’s eyes widened, her arms opening to catch me as I fell, racked by old nightmares of being trapped in the darkness…
Chapter 14
My breath misted the air of the dusty, disused cellar. I was starting to shiver so I pulled the threadbare cloak tighter around my bony, gangly body, feeling like a shabby street rat amidst the finery of the high-born boys that surrounded us. There wasn’t any chance of escaping; they were older and bigger than me, already with hair on their chins, and more importantly they were blocking the only way back. I had no idea how Harailt had got the keys to this room and disabled the wards – the lower levels of the Collegiate were forbidden to initiates and usually heavily guarded, but the corridors had been strangely empty today as they marched us down here. I supposed that Harailt was Archmagus Byzant’s favoured student…
“No,” the fat boy beside me pleaded. “I… I don’t want to go.”
The chorus of older boys kept up the chant: “Boneyards, Boneyards, Boneyards, Boneyards, Boneyards.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” Harailt said. “We have all taken this challenge. Do you not want to be one of us?” I could see the dangerous twitch start at the corner of his mouth. The fat boy was in far more trouble than he realized. “Are you really going to let poor little Edrin here go into the tunnels all on his own?” His half-dozen idiot cronies kept up the heckling chant.
The fat boy looked back at me, swallowed, and lowered his eyes. He edged away from the steps leading down past the huge steel gate that yawned open into unknown depths below the Old Town. The darkness loomed behind me like a living, breathing thing, and I clutched the lantern they had given me even tighter.
The group of seniors pushed forward, herding the fat boy towards me, and towards the entrance to the catacombs. “Boneyards, Boneyards, Boneyards, Boneyards.”
Harailt glowered at me and jerked his head towards the darkness.
I took the hint, and began to descend the steps, taking my own good time about it as some sort of lame protest. Heir to a High House or not, if Harailt had been alone I might have smacked him one and burst his nose, but I wasn’t about to try to fight seven initiates whose Gifts had already begun to mature. Instead I satisfied myself by imagining my fists beating his face to a pulp and his silver-threaded tunic stained with his own blood. Lately it seemed like he found an opportunity to harass me every other day. If things got much worse I’d have to revert to my old Docklands ways and stick a knife in his back when he wasn’t looking. I didn’t want to have to do that. I’d tried so hard to fit in and I was every bit as good as they were! It wasn’t my fault I’d been born in a Docklands tenement and them in lofty palaces.
I reached the gate and looked back, happened to catch the fat boy’s eyes. I flicked a look at Harailt and back again, gave him a curt shake of my head. The boy finally seemed to realize that he didn’t have a choice. He took a great shuddering breath, held up his lantern like a shield, and followed me through the gate.
Harailt gave a sarcastic cheer. “Finally! Go on then, find a relic from the Boneyards to prove your bravery.”
We slowly edged forward into the darkness, batting cobwebs away from our faces. The light from the lanterns went nowhere near far enough down the tunnel. The air was dank and stale, leaving a foul taste in my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to show a confidence I didn’t feel. “We won’t be in here long. We’ll just grab something and run straight back out.” I almost dropped the lantern as the gate clanged shut behind us with an eruption of laughter and jeering.
“What are you doing?” I shouted. “Let us out!” We ran back but it was much too late. The gate was locked and they were running away, laughing and patting themselves on the back.
Harailt was the last to leave the room. He turned, silhouetted in the doorway. “Perhaps if you beg I will come back to free you both.” His lips twitched with derision. “Beg.”
To my surprise the fat boy didn’t immediately fall to his knees offering to lick Harailt’s boots. He was made of sterner stuff than I’d thought. I hocked up a blob of phlegm and spat it in Harailt’s direction.
His face reddened at the insult. “Find your own way out then, you grubby little drudges. You poor excuses for magi do not belong in these hallowed halls. Better get moving before your oil runs out.” Then he was gone. The heavy door thumped closed behind him, cutting off the sound of their mirth.
“I hope your cocks rot and fall off,” I shouted after him, booting the gate and succeeding only in causing pain to shoot up my leg. The fat boy grabbed the spars and tried to wrench them apart, but the gate was completely and utterly immovable.
“Hello?” he shouted. “Hello! Is anybody there?” He kept up the shouting for a few minutes until it finally got on my nerves.
I prodded him in the side. He turned, and it was only then that I realized he was on the verge of tears. “I think we’re on our own, pal,” I said. “Those gangrenous scrotes ain’t coming back for us.” His tears started to well up. Great. Why did I have to be stuck here with the likes of him? “Well, I’m going to prove that those bawbags aren’t better than me. I’m finding my own way out and I’m going to bring back something awesome to rub in their stupid faces.” I backed away from the gate. “You coming?”
He stared at me for a few seconds, sniffling, then looked back out into the darkened cellar. He scrubbed his face with a sleeve. When he looked back the tears had dried up. I was surprised at his fortitude. He stuck his hand out. “Um, hello. I am Lynas Granton. Sorry about…” He waved a hand indicating the whole of himself. “I… I guess we do have to go down there.”
We clasped wrists. “Edrin Walker,” I said. “Call me Walker. I hate Edrin. Bloody parents, eh.”
He frowned. “I haven’t heard of a House Walker before.”
“Ain’t no house at all,” I said, preparing to judge him by his response. “My father is a dock worker. Walker comes down from my mother’s side. It’s a clan-name.” It was how I chose to honour her, that and I preferred it to dreary old “Edrin of Hobbs Lane”.
Lynas looked embarrassed, but showed no sign of the derision I’d learned to expect from high-born magi and initiates. “Oh. Sorry.” He took a few deep calming breaths and seemed to relax a bit. “So they pick on you as well?” he ventured.
I shrugged. “No more than anybody else who isn’t from a High House. What about you, pal, are you…?”
He shook his head. “I’m not one of them. I’m the
heir to House Granton, but we are just a Low House. Grandfather distinguished himself during the last big war in the colonies and bought his way up into the Old Town. My family have…” He seemed to search for the correct words, but gave up. “We’ve lost almost all our money, to be honest.” He looked at his feet, face reddening. “It’s my father. He gambles.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. That particular curse hit high and low alike. He may have been low nobility but he didn’t seem the same as those arrogant, self-entitled pricks who thought that locking us down here was a bit of a lark and a jolly old jape. Their families probably had enough money and power to let them get away with anything they liked – especially when it concerned little first-year initiates like us without any connections, and whose Gifts hadn’t matured yet, and might never.
I uncorked the oil reservoir of my lantern and peered in. “Stinking book-lickers have left me hardly any.”
Lynas frowned. “Book-lickers?” He checked his own and cursed.
I sneered. “You think those boil-brained buffoons have any idea what to do with a book?”
The tunnel ahead sloped away into the yawning darkness like we were sliding down the gullet of some huge beast. We shivered and clutched our lanterns tight. “I’d better turn this down low,” Lynas said. “We need to ration the oil.”
I blinked. He was right. To my chagrin I hadn’t thought of that; instead I’d been wanting both lanterns up full for as much light as we could get. I turned mine down as well, the darkness creeping closer as the light dwindled.
At first the tunnel was square and formed from blocks of cut stone, but as we trudged on into the depths it changed, becoming a cruder passage hacked though the black basalt rock below Setharis. Yellowed skulls grinned at us from niches cut into the walls. They might have sat there for unfathomable eons for all we knew.
We paused to scrape an arrow into the wall with a shard of stone, joining a collection of other symbols that valiant adventurers like us had left in past years, decades, or even centuries. We took the right-hand passage and walked for a good half an hour, carefully marking each new turn and split until we came to a circular chamber with five stone archways leading off into the depths. Human bones carpeted every wall and each block of stone in the arches was inlaid with grinning skulls. Lynas shuffled closer to me.
The Traitor God Page 14