Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  “Please try.”

  The surf gave several calming whispers.

  “There were visitors. They came late—unannounced. An argument of some sort. Blake—Lord Thorenly—and I were already abed. There was shouting, and he went to see to the problem. Something shattered, thuds on the stairs, and more shouting … screaming. I went to the top of the steps to see about the commotion, to see if someone had fallen. And they were there. They were smiling, smiling like wolves. Fangs …” She looked at me, eyes as clear and sharp as I’d seen them yet. “It’s all happening again, but it wasn’t in the dark this time. I wasn’t alone. They came back for me.”

  The priestess was quick with comforting platitudes, but I edged past her. “Who?”

  Already, though, her expression was glazing over. I leaned in closer, speaking firmly. “Who came for you? Why is there a picture of me in your home?”

  The dull confusion drained from her face, along with what little color clung to her cheeks. “You’re not …” She rose up farther, palms slipping on the bedsheets as she struggled to push herself away. “You’re not Ailson. You’re one of—”

  The priestess reached out a hand to calm her. “Lady Thorenly, please. It’s all right. We’re here to—”

  A shallow gasp, then a scream as she slammed her pigeonlike back against the wall. Thin and painful to hear, it sounded like she was about to shatter. She thrashed, tangling herself hopelessly in the sheets, white hair whipping to keep us at bay.

  Doctor Linas was there immediately. “Out.”

  The Pharasmin was already obeying, but I hadn’t learned what I’d come for. I leaned in, pursuing. “Why?”

  The shrill noises rose a panicked pitch.

  “Out!” Linas demanded, her voice finally taking on some fire. She thrust a tiny envelope smelling of lemon toward the woman, weathering a lashing of hair and bony palms.

  I was prepared to ignore her again, but something touched my shoulder. I jerked away and spun on the priestess. “Don’t you—”

  She cut me off. “I know who she thinks you are.”

  I pointed at the hysterical woman, eliciting a new round of pitiful sounds. “She’s mad. Who cares who she thinks I am? She knows something, and I’ll rip it out of her if I have to.”

  “There’s another way, if you’ll just come with me.” The priestess was begging.

  I looked back at the flailing old woman. Even with my back turned, Ellishan Thorenly was struggling to get farther away from me. I’d seen men and women terrified of me before, but every other time I’d purposefully put that terror there. Who or what did she think I was?

  Doctor Linas tried to force me from the room with her expression alone. The noise was bothersome anyway. I followed the priestess into the hall, stepping out just in time to avoid being shouldered aside by two matronly orderlies rushing in. They closed the door behind them, muffling the whining within.

  The Pharasmin watched me warily. I spread my palms to urge her on.

  “You scared her.”

  “Good. I meant to. It’s the second-fastest way I know to get someone to talk.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “What?” I wasn’t growing less annoyed. First she presumed to put a hand on me, then claimed to know my mind. I was tempted to go back into that room and show her the fastest way I knew how to get the information I wanted.

  “What you said didn’t scare her. It wasn’t until you got closer.” She pointed. “She saw your teeth.”

  “So what? Plenty of you get scared when you see them. Even your cold-blooded doctor in there was scared. That’s why she dragged you along.”

  “She thought you were her sister. Her sister turned into … something else.

  I narrowed my gaze on her. “So she thought I was her sister. What of it?”

  “I don’t know what your business is with Lady Thorenly, but it sounds like you were investigating a crime at her home and found something strange?”

  “Yeah.” I almost left it at that, but she seemed headed somewhere. “A painting. One with someone who looked too much like me.”

  “So then it wasn’t just poor eyesight or dementia, you actually do look like Lady Thorenly’s sister. Ailson.” Both voice and gaze drifted away.

  “What?” I snapped.

  Her eyes widened as she turned and started back down the row of cells. “Just follow me.”

  I didn’t budge. She’d gone five or six steps before noticing and turning to look back. “There must be a records room. If they know anything about Lady Thorenly, it should list her immediate kin. It might say something about this Ailson.” Her eyes urged me on as she edged farther down the hall. “Don’t you want to know who you look so much like?”

  I looked back at the cell, dismissing the fleeting idea of returning to the room. If I needed to I could always do so later … unattended.

  Grimacing, I followed the priestess—the asylum’s records surely couldn’t be less lucid than its patients.

  Nurses eyed us disapprovingly as we passed from the wing, Lady Thorenly’s cries having broken down into the echoes of hacking sobs.

  While the woman in the portrait unsettled me personally, my orders were to find out about the attackers—the vampires who seemed to be purposefully jeopardizing the truce between Caliphas’s living and unliving populace. On that front, this diversion had been a pitiful waste.

  Or maybe not. Something the old woman had said rang within her dwindling sobs. Something that, as I thought on it, began to feel like a stolen confession, a warning she thought she was giving someone else—her own blood.

  “It’s all happening again …”

  8

  MASTER OF KEYS

  JADAIN

  Gods be damned.” Doctor Trice, the asylum’s administrator, gaped as he fell into his tall desk chair.

  I’d guessed that the doors in the asylum’s wood-paneled upper hall had been record rooms and offices for overseers. I was right, but more so than I’d expected. When I’d knocked on the plain door at the hall’s end, I was surprised that a firm voice bade us enter—perhaps just as surprised as the head of the asylum was upon finding two curious strangers trespassing into his office. I was only halfway through introductions, apologies, and explanations when I realized he was ignoring me, intently studying Larsa.

  In a crowd, she’d be easy not to notice, just a traveling cloak beneath a hat that almost matched. Where the cloak parted, steel traced dark leather. The armor was easy to hide, but its repeating bands and long gloves hid her as well. Only her V-shaped face was exposed, just a narrow band between hat brim and high collar. Long, brick-colored hair fell aimlessly, drawing eyes up to a deep-set glare that made it clear looks weren’t welcome. In different framing, I could have envied her strong features. As they were, though, she looked like a raven, and one large enough to decide what passed for prey.

  “Doctor Trice?” I followed his look back across the crowded mahogany desk.

  Trice wasn’t an old man—though more than a little gray accented his untrimmed chestnut hair—but for a moment he wasn’t there, his look blank, his thoughts astray. Hearing his name, he gestured to the chairs. “Please, take a seat.”

  Both Larsa and I accepted, though the big chairs were certainly not as comfortable as they appeared, their padding stiff and unyielding.

  “I apologize for my rudeness, but I’m usually better informed of my appointments—and it’s already been a trying day with the knife.” He rolled his wrists in rough circles, popping them audibly. I tried not to wince. “What did you say your names were, again?”

  “Jadain Losritter, and—”

  “Larsa,” she said curtly, busy examining the crowded, ceiling-high bookshelves. Trice raised thick eyebrows expectantly. It took a moment for her to notice. “Accuser Larsa.”

  “Hum.” He sounded unsatisfied. “And you were looking for something?”

  “My apologies, Doctor. That’s my fault.” Doctor Linas only entered the room far enough to
close the door behind her. She was obviously ready to escort us out. “The accuser had business with one of our patients: Lady Ellishan Thorenly, a noblewoman committed only this morning. The accuser is a—”

  “Quite,” Trice interrupted, noticing Larsa’s darkening expression. “Which is where a servant of the Lady of Graves might come into the picture. Good of you to come on such short notice.”

  “No trouble at all.” I tried to be gracious. If I was going to be a trespasser I could at least be a polite one. “I was already here.”

  “Indeed?” he raised a curious eyebrow to Doctor Linas. “Are all our Wealdays so busy, Cereis?”

  “I keep nothing from you, Doctor,” her response came like clockwork. Admittedly, I was surprised to hear a given name—the “tick-tock” sound of “doctor” just fit her so well. “Miss Losritter has been here since last night. She was the exorcist’s assistant.”

  He frowned. “I thought that nastiness dealt with.”

  I took it on myself to clarify: “It is, Doctor Trice. Elistair Wintersun is at rest.”

  “So …” he led.

  I began carefully. “I … stayed … to assure that your chapel was appropriately consecrated and open to the goddess’s attention. Since then I’d been praying for all who work and reside here.”

  “There was a falling out,” Linas cut in. “She did not perform to the High Exorcist’s expectations.”

  My stomach knotted as if I were once again a girl in seminary, caught in a lie before the Holy Mother. Doctor Trice nodded thoughtfully, fingers steepling over his mouth. The accuser was also looking at me, but I didn’t turn enough to see her expression.

  Trice turned to Larsa. “As the head of this institution, would I be permitted to know your interest in Lady Thorenly?”

  “No,” she replied, blunt as ever. The unshaven head doctor obviously didn’t intimidate her. She cast a look back to Doctor Linas. “But, since your doorwoman will tell you everything she’s overheard: I’m investigating the attack that drove Lady Thorenly into the night and ultimately here. Those involved could be enemies of the throne.”

  “There’s a personal reason, as well,” Linas started. “Something about a—”

  “Yes, yes.” Larsa raised her voice, drowning out the assistant’s explanation. Trice’s attention didn’t waver from her. “I’ve investigated Thorenly Glen, Lady Ellishan’s home, and found a portrait of someone I recognized.”

  When she didn’t continue, Trice did for her, speaking through the cage of his fingers. “You.”

  Larsa straightened. “Excuse me?”

  “The portrait in the Thorenly house. It was of or included someone who looked like you.” He spoke as if pointing out the obvious.

  “How—” Larsa started to rise, but snapped her mouth and body almost immediately back into place. “Explain.”

  The doctor pushed back from his desk, stepping to retrieve something from a cabinet of drawers. At the turn of a small key a long file clattered open, its length bulging with pages crammed into identical folders. He riffled through, tugged one loose, and frowned. The folder was old, bent and yellowed beyond the others, but thin—empty.

  Trice gave a bemused snort. Heaving the drawer closed, he spun the folder onto the desk, letting it slide to Larsa’s corner.

  The accuser flipped the folder open. It was absolutely empty. She didn’t look amused.

  I leaned over. KINDLER, A., 4657 was written in even, capital letters upon the reference tab. There was also something longer scrawled in a corner. I read the leaning, almost unintelligible cursive aloud as I deciphered: “You know more than enough. Anyone else can buy the book. —A.”

  “What’s this supposed to be?” Larsa flipped the folder shut.

  Doctor Trice reclaimed his seat, his fingertips lightly drumming his spotless desk blotter. “It’s the treatment history of one of my patients. As you can see, our record-keeping has been somewhat lax in this case.”

  Larsa shrugged. “One of your lunatics? An escapee?”

  “Ailson,” I said. “Ailson Kindler.”

  Trice gave a disbelieving smile. “You know the lady?”

  “Only by reputation. Almost everyone’s at least heard of her stories.”

  Larsa arched an eyebrow at me. “I haven’t.”

  “She’s an author of mysteries and frightening tales. She’s quite good, and very popular among those who read.” I nodded my personal recommendation.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I read fine.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply …” I trailed off as she waved her hand.

  “In any case.” I turned back to Doctor Trice and gestured at Larsa. “Lady Thorenly called her ‘Ailson,’ and seemed to think the accuser was her sister. Is Lady Thorenly really Ailson Kindler’s sister?”

  “She is,” Trice confirmed. “Miss Kindler is also an old colleague of mine.”

  Larsa acknowledged the folder. “Looks more like she was a patient.”

  “Among other things. But most of her records predate my practice. Be that as it may, I would like them returned.”

  “That sounds like a problem for your bookkeeper.” Larsa slid the folder away from her side of the desk.

  “Maybe. But, at present, my bookkeeper isn’t the one looking for facts about the Thorenlys and their relations.”

  Larsa frowned. “I’m not interested in the history of a stranger’s chills and sprains. If you suspect your records contained something relevant, just tell me.”

  He gave the barest shrug. “I can’t say for sure.”

  “You understand that my investigation is backed by the Royal Advisor? Withholding information from an accuser has penalties somewhat steeper than ducking some dockyard constable.”

  “I certainly do,” Trice replied coolly. “But I’d be remiss in my civic duties were I to provide you only with memories and hearsay when verifiably records lie within reach. I also don’t suspect your Mr. Diauden would appreciate seeing his most trusted medical consultant thrown in a Whiteshaw cell.”

  I only faintly recognized the name “Diauden”—some member of court. For a moment it looked as though Larsa might storm from the room, but a gradual sigh marked her concession. “So you keep copies of your files? Or do you think your Miss Kindler still has it?”

  “Sadly, Ailson retired to Ardis many years ago—that’s probably when she collected her records. But I suspect she only pilfered my files, not the originals.” His attention settled back on me. “Before Havenguard opened its doors, those with disorders of the mind—afflicted spirits, as they used to be called—were either put into the streets or taken to Maiden’s Choir.” His fingernails absently traced the salt-and-pepper stubble across his cheek. “That only made sense, as the clergy’s power to perform healing miracles is well known—even if it is frugally used.”

  I didn’t think he was deliberately baiting me, but he obviously knew something of my order’s philosophies. Pharasma’s mandates might not be as popular as those of deities who openly coddled their worshipers, but I wasn’t ashamed. “My order certainly can call upon the Lady to perform wonders, but as the weaver of fate she has reasons we will never understand. She teaches us to accept our lots and find our own solutions to life’s challenges, especially the painful ones. Therefore, we see her plan in even our hardships, and don’t call upon her wonders as frivolous charity. Even so, for a time Maiden’s Choir did maintain a shelter where the afflicted could pray, reflect, and beg for the money to pay for costly rituals. They’re called ‘lamentations’—many of the Lady’s houses have them. The cathedral’s was closed before I came to the city, though.”

  The doctor didn’t seem impressed. But after all, part of faith is being willing to believe, and he seemed like someone who relied overly much on his own senses.

  “So as a mercy, they let them suffer.” He ignored my frown and I didn’t bother trying to further enlighten him in his own office. “Maiden’s Choir closed its shelter about fifteen years ago, after some ridicu
lous court ruling. The Pharasmins turned more than a hundred patients out onto the streets. Some found places with charitable families, others found jail cells, many didn’t last through the winter. I made a place for about a third of them here—we were much smaller then than we are now.”

  “In the transition, I discovered that Pharasmins make excellent bookkeepers.” He waved an open palm toward Larsa. “Although their records dealt mostly with births and deaths, their shelter maintained detailed admittance and observation reports. For bureaucratic reasons I’ve given up trying to understand, they refused to turn those records over to me, but they did allow us to make copies.” He picked up the folder. “This, along with years of irreplaceable notes, was one of those copies. It could be that Miss Kindler was part of the reason for the problem at Thorenly House.” Trice pointed at Larsa with one of the folder’s wrinkled corners. “This might have confirmed or dismissed my suspicion.”

  “What’s your suspicion?” Larsa pressured.

  “I work in evidence, not feelings. And I want my file back. I suspect Maiden’s Choir still has the original copy.”

  That last part had been a question for me. “Our library’s records date back centuries. If it happened under our steeples, I suspect documents about it are still there.” I eyed him warily, knowing how preciously our librarians guarded the cathedral’s holdings. “But fifteen years doesn’t mean much to our order. If they didn’t grant you the records when they were most necessary, I can’t imagine them parting with them now.”

  “But it’s not me asking.” Trice flung the folder toward Larsa’s lap. “One of His Majesty’s accusers is requisitioning them on national business.”

  Larsa’s hand snatched the file, stopping its spin midair. “This better be worth my time.”

  “Well.” Trice grinned. “We won’t know until you get it for me.”

  An unusually bold sun lit colorful leaves and weedy flowers across the asylum grounds. If it weren’t for Havenguard’s grasping shape dominating the field, it would have been pleasant—especially with the endless thrum of churning surf. We were higher than the city here, and through distant branches slipped the somber sails of ships in Caliphas’s Outer Harbor.