The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Very good, your grace.” Catherine bobbed a curtsy and left.

  The man Sanderson escorted in was nondescript. He was average in every sense of the word. So normal that the eyes slipped off him in search of something more interesting. He stood still as Sanderson introduced him but his gaze darted around the room like a minnow startled from the shallows and seeking a place to hide.

  “Sturgeon?” Selena asked. “That's an odd name. Isn’t that a kind of fish?”

  Sturgeon’s eyes flashed back to her. “Might be.” He shrugged. “What’s a Freyton?”

  “A drunk,” Selena said with a twitch of her lips.

  The man grunted, eyes narrowing as he looked for the joke and apparently decided it wasn’t worth finding. “Your boy said you have a job you want doing?” he said, jerking his head towards Sanderson.

  “Would you like a drink before we get started?” Selena asked. “Perhaps some tea?”

  “No,” the man said flatly. “Let’s not pretend we’re friends or that we're making friends. This is business.”

  “Indeed.” She glanced at the servant who fought to conceal a mildly outraged expression. “I believe that will be all for now, Sanderson.”

  He bowed and looked back and forth between the two of them, discomfort clear on his face.

  “It’s fine, Sanderson,” Selena told the man. “I’m sure Sturgeon will be a perfect gentleman and, let’s face it, I’m far too heavy to steal.” She looked down at her swelling waist.

  “Very good, your grace.” Sanderson’s bow was ignored as she turned back to the thief.

  “I have a somewhat delicate problem, Sturgeon,” Selena began. “Something I value rather highly has gone missing and I’d like you to locate it and return it to me.

  Sturgeon made his way over to a divan and fell into it. “Why me? Why not just send some of your men to get it back?”

  She paused, re-evaluating the man. He’d not bothered wasting time asking if she knew where the item was. He knew he wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

  “I could do that,” she admitted, “but that would create some complications I'd rather not deal with right now. I was rather hoping for something a little more discrete.”

  Sturgeon sat up, clasping his hands between his knees as he leant towards her. “Tell you what? Why don’t we stop dancing around it and you just tell me what you want done?”

  “Direct, aren’t you?” Selena murmured.

  “I’ve not often found much benefit in beating around the bush.” Sturgeon grinned.

  She leant forward, unconsciously mimicking his posture. “Fine then. The king has abducted a friend of mine. A man named Raysh. I want you to locate him and return him to me.”

  That caught him. She suppressed a smile as he sat back and gave a low whistle. “When you say…abducted?” he said.

  “I mean taken by force from his home in the middle of the night. Do you have another definition I’m not aware of?” Selena asked, raising her eyebrows to give him a pointed look.

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to be clear. And you want me to get him out of the palace for you?”

  “No.” She stood, kneading the small of her back. “No I don’t think he’s in the palace or any official cell. The king would never be so foolish as to try and arrest a lord like that. No, I think he’s being held somewhere in the Warrens.”

  He glanced up at her at the last word, his own eyes narrowing as he adjusted his own assessment of her. “There’s not many gentry use that word for the slums.”

  “I make it a habit to know something of what I am speaking, Sturgeon. Now do you think you can find him?”

  “Find him, yes. Get him out alive and back to you…” he left it hanging.

  “Well that’s the trick isn’t it?” She said as she smiled. “Now, shall we discuss your fee?”

  ***

  Raysh sat in the darkness of the cellar. His arms hung limp, bound in manacles that stretched up above his head to where the chains were fixed to the walls. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but at least they hadn’t had his whole body hanging. He shifted, kicking feet out spasmodically into the damp straw as he tried to scratch his back on the stones of the wall behind him. It was a futile effort. The stone was slick with moisture and covered with a slimy mould that robbed him of any rough surface to grind against.

  He coughed into the blackness. A tearing, hacking cough that brought up something vile. He shuddered at the feel of it on his tongue and spat it out into the unseen straw.

  They didn’t need to bother killing him. Leaving him here would do the job soon enough. The air was thick with the smell of rotting straw and mould. Who could say how much of it he’d already breathed in. He could feel the fluid rattling in his chest with every breath he took.

  A muffled creak was followed by the clump of boots on stone steps. It would be the bald one. The one with the smiles had a lighter step. The bald one was mean but his cruelty lay on the surface. It was as wide and deep as a street puddle, easy to spot and not so terrible to endure. His was a cruelty that grew out of a love of holding power over others. He was simply a bully in the perfect job.

  The Smiler was something else entirely. His cruelty lay concealed, hidden beneath a gentile manner and a veneer of regret at what he must do. His smile told another story however, the truth gleamed between the cracks, a horror that was glimpsed before it was felt. It was like the frigid depths that lay beneath the thin surface of an icy lake. At any moment his smiles might crack, the veneer shatter, and then there was nothing but the fall, down into the cold darkness. His was a cruelty that had yet to find its limits and he terrified Raysh beyond all measure.

  The flicker of lantern light reached underneath the wooden door and metal scraped in the lock before they entered.

  “And how are we this morning, my lord?” The thin-faced man asked with a sad smile as Baldy stumped into the cell and fiddled with the chains behind him. Raysh had been wrong, it had been both of them. Baldy’s heavy feet had covered the sound of the other’s passage.

  Raysh whispered and croaked something in response but the sound barely made it past his lips.

  “He asked you a fuckin’ question!” Baldy snapped, planting a boot into Raysh’s side that threw him sideways. The chains snapped taught, manacles biting into his wrists as they stopped him short of pitching into the straw.

  “Now, now!” the Smiler chided gently. “There’s really no need for anyone to get uncivil, now is there?”

  Baldy glowered, though he was careful to keep it fleeting and with his face turned away from the Smiler.

  “Now then, my lord, shall we continue the little chat we began yesterday?” The smile was the same as always: small, sad, and self-mocking beneath the icy eyes. Pale blue, as untouched by warmth as the harshest winter frost.

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know anything!” Raysh managed to croak. His voice gave at the end, breaking into something like the pitiful sound of a beaten child.

  “Now that’s simply not true, is it?” the Smiler said, pursing his lips in reproach. “You’ve told us so much already. You know so many things. Surely you can think of some more, hmm?”

  “I don’t!” Raysh shouted, and then in a softer voice wearing tears on the edges. “I don’t.”

  “That is a great pity, my lord.” That same sad smile again.

  Raysh’s anger fought through, burning past the threat of tears. “Why? You’re never going to let me go anyway. Pieter can go and fuck himself!”

  “Now that’s just rude.” The Smiler tutted and shook his head in disapproval. Baldy just looked on, silent and grinning. “You are probably correct, however. You’re an intelligent man, Lord Raysh, I won’t insult you by telling you we’re going to let you go. I don’t know for certain, of course. That decision will be made by someone else so there is always the chance, I suppose, if you prove useful.” He shrugged, indifferent. “Otherwise, as I expect you realise, there are only two ways out of here and both
of them involve a blade. It could be my good friend here,” he gestured and Baldy pulled out his rusted dagger. “Or it could be my little toys.” That smile again. “There are so many that I’ve never even had opportunity to try.”

  He nodded to Baldy. “Bring him.”

  The thick-set man moved forward and grabbed his arm, working the key in the manacle until it came free of Raysh’s wrist, and then rattled the chain through the iron ring set in the wall. Raysh struggled but it was a weak flailing, the final struggles of a landed fish.

  Baldy bundled him through the door and down a short corridor to the other room. The one with the chair. Raysh screamed as they drew closer, struggling more violently but he might as well have been raging against the wind for all the good it did him.

  He was shoved down into the chair and held down whilst the wide leather straps were made fast around his chest and legs. Through it all the Smiler looked on, pacing idly around the room. “It’s a strange thing this art of persuasion,” he remarked. “In many ways it’s so much more about what you think than what you feel. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “where were we up to? Let’s have that left boot off shall we?”

  Raysh screamed as it came off, leather pulling against half-healed wounds. The Smiler went to the table in the corner, selecting something that shone brightly from his velvet-lined case before coming over to crouch by Raysh’s bare feet.

  “They’ve healed quite nicely, all things considered.” His fingertips brushed against the cauterised and blackened flesh in a sick parody of a lover’s caress and Raysh jerked away spasmodically.

  The Smiler crouched down, holding Raysh’s ankle lightly as he stroked the healthy skin on the top of his foot. “As I was saying, My Lord. This art is so much more about you than it is me. It’s about expectation. It’s about hope. Deep down you hold a secret hope that you will be freed. It doesn’t matter that you’re far too intelligent a man to really believe that to be true, the hope remains.” He stood with a shrug and tapped the flat of the blade against his lips. “If I’m honest I don’t know if you will ever be freed. The order could come to kill you tomorrow, or not. It is hope that this art deals in. Hope that you might know enough to make me stop, or at least give me pause. Hope is stronger than faith, more powerful than love. Hope is the lever that can move worlds.”

  He’d begun pacing again as he spoke and he turned to meet Raysh’s eyes as his head lolled back against the chair.

  “Your toes, whilst they proved educational for you, can always be covered, can they not? I could remove two, three, perhaps all of them, and it would affect you little.” He allowed a small smile at his captive’s blank expression. “The right pair of boots, perhaps with something wadded into the toes, and none would be the wiser would they, hmm? Fingers though, that’s something different entirely.”

  The knife was small, closer to a surgeon's implement than a knife really. A tiny sliver of blade held fast in a curving ivory handle. It was closer to a pen than a weapon but still Raysh began to scream as the Smiler drew closer.

  “Now that won’t do at all,” the man said, almost to himself. “Let’s do something about the noise, shall we?”

  “I’ll stop, I promise,” Raysh blurted. “Let me talk, please?”

  Baldy grunted and worked a knotted cloth into Raysh’s mouth. Dragging it roughly back and forth over his lips until he forced it in.

  “You still don’t understand, do you?” the Smiler said, for once his face looking genuinely sad. “This isn’t about you talking right now, this is about education. The talking, if there is anything you know which might interest me, that will come later.” He nodded at Baldy who took Raysh’s hand, forcing the fingers out of the protection of their fist as he held the hand down on the arm of the chair. It was wider and longer than on a normal chair, providing a small table on which to work.

  “Let’s start with the smallest one. I don’t think it really works with the rhyme, I'm afraid. For some reason I've always imagined it starting with the thumb,” he admitted. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if we work backwards though, won’t you?” The smile was encouraging, the look you’d give a small child. He looked down at the outstretched hand, held palm-up by Baldy, and began to slice into the pad of the finger. “This little piggy went to market…”

  ***

  It was barely a scuff, lighter than the sound of cloth brushing stone, but Raysh had come to fear sound. Sound meant smiles, and smiles led to pain. He leant forward against the reach of the chains, straining his ears to catch the sound again. Pain uncurled from the corner he had forced it into and throbbed through his fingers and hands in time with his pulse.

  A whisper came at the door. A breath of something metallic and wet that grew into clicks followed by a gentle grinding. The door was silent as it swung open. Raysh knew the creaks of the doors and grates as well as he knew his own voice and the silent movement was enough to make him wonder if he was dreaming again.

  A spot of light bloomed on the straw and shifted around the cell to find his face. Raysh blinked against the sudden brightness, pressing his face into his shoulder and squinting away from the light. “Go away.” The whisper was more plea than order.

  The light vanished and a hand found his mouth in the darkness. “Stay quiet and I might be able to help you. Is your name Jonas?”

  Raysh froze, wondering if he could get away with lying.

  “Is it Raysh?”

  He nodded against the hand, glad he hadn’t bitten down when the urge came to him.

  “You’ve some interesting friends who seem to think you’ve wandered astray long enough. My name’s Sturgeon. I’ve been sent to retrieve you.”

  The voice fell silent as its owner busied himself with the locks on Raysh’s manacles, laying them gently in the straw as they came loose.

  “How many guards have you seen?” it asked.

  Raysh looked at the man’s face in the dim light. “No guards. There are two men that…” his voice faltered. “…That question me but no, no guards.”

  “Can you stand?” the man breathed, close enough for Raysh to feel the words on his cheek.

  “I think I kind of have to.” Raysh whispered. “Just don’t expect me to run.” He accepted the hand gratefully and without thinking. Pain flooded through him as the man heaved him upwards. He made it halfway to his feet before his knee buckled, pitching him sideways and pulling them both down to the filthy straw.

  The darkness hid the expression but Raysh could feel the anger in the look anyway. “Don’t feed me shit. If you can’t stand then say so. Lying will only get us both killed.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Raysh gasped. “It’s my hands and feet, not my legs. Just help me up.”

  Strong hands pulled him to his feet and a head ducked under his arm, supporting him as they headed for the door. A sliding grate on the side of the lantern allowed for a tiny beam of light to shine out onto the stone floor, transforming the utter blackness into mere gloom as they followed a narrow stone passage.

  The ladder was iron and rusted. Raysh glanced back at the shadowy figure behind him but said nothing. His feet were less of a problem than his hands, he could set his feet with the rungs far back, close to his heel. Gripping the rungs, however, was an excursion through pain. He gave up on his right hand almost immediately, reaching through the rungs awkwardly with his arm and using the inside of his elbow to pull himself upwards. His left hand was little better, with only a three fingered loose grip to draw on. The result was a slow, lurching climb and, though he couldn’t hear the sighs behind him, he knew they were there.

  A wooden trapdoor gave way to a darkness that smelled familiar though Raysh couldn’t place it. He slumped onto the floor, rolling to the side to make room for Sturgeon. The thin shaft of light exposed tall wooden shelves lined with curved wooden slots.

  “A wine cellar?” Raysh wondered. “Where in the hells are we?”

  “A rundown villa on the edge of the Warrens, near the river,” the fig
ure whispered. “And keep your voice down.” He pushed past Raysh, taking the lead.

  Sturgeon moved slowly, walking in an odd half-crouched position and never really letting his heels touch the floor. For the first time Raysh allowed himself to wonder just who this man was and where he was taking him. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Anywhere that was not here would be just fine.

  Stone steps led up to a simple wooden door. Raysh watched as Sturgeon pressed an ear to the panels for the length of five ragged breaths, and then eased the door open. Pain was making his heart pound. When he was in his cell he could curl up as much as the chains would allow and hide away from it. Now though, pain had found him and the claws of it raked through him every time he stubbed his boot on the uneven floor or had to use his arms.

  Misery fought with reason as he shied away from the thoughts of what kind of ruin his body might be. Darkness had denied him the ability to tell with any certainty, and as they moved closer to the street a small part of him clung to the shadows. There was a comfort in ignorance.

  The door led through to kitchens, with just one small corner showing any signs of recent use, and out into once-grand hallways. Footprints had carved a channel through the dust, forcing it to the sides where it mingled with walked-in leaves and the ruins of long-dead spider civilizations.

  A lantern sat burning in the middle of what had once probably been a lavish parlour. Its owner lay on the floor beside it, blood pooled out from the savage cut to his neck.

  “Baldy,” Raysh breathed as he looked in through the doorway. The man looked smaller now, somehow less than he had been. He looked to Sturgeon, “Did you find the other one?”

  A small shake of the head. “No, this one was the only person here. I kept expecting to find more but…” he shrugged. “I suppose it’s easier to hide with a small operation.”