Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  Considine blew out a lazy breath. “I get the feeling they’re not overly interested in your truce.”

  “It’s a truce that’s given Grandfather a reason not to add your head to his collection. If I was in your position, I’d take the situation far more seriously.”

  “Oh. Thank you for the sisterly advice,” he said as though I were a horse-kicked child. “I see how seriously you take it—you do fantastic work out in the gutters hunting wild spawn every night. Sometimes it makes me jealous. But, alas, orders. I’ll just keep dealing with any humans who get the notion they’re not the only ones living in this city. And those who do and want to do something about it can find me right here.”

  I looked to the three humans only a step away. None of them seemed to be following the conversation. “How many of them have you protected your family from so far? One? Three? In all these years.”

  He gave an exaggerated shrug. “It’s not a contest, dear.”

  I rolled my head, my neck muscles suddenly tired. Hopeless. “So, you got your message. What’s it tell you?”

  “The parcel? Well, I’d say a severed head sends a pretty clear message, wouldn’t you? Especially when that head used to sit upon the body that controlled Ardis’s underworld.” He crossed his arms, posing with a finger upon his lips. “It’s hardly the most interesting part.”

  “Something has you interested?” I honestly marveled.

  “I know. The world surprises me still.” Both his voice and eyes were flat. “Far be it from me to presume to know our illustrious grandsire’s mind, but you know my relationship with Grandfather is … strained.”

  That was beyond an understatement. Considine held his position because he’d displeased Grandfather some years ago.

  “As much as I’ve enjoyed the last three years of dangling myself close to the light, waiting for whatever would-be avengers the rabble works up, I don’t think Grandfather’s reconsidered banishing me to the surface.” He tapped his lips. “So then I’m sure you were only slightly less surprised than I was to learn that he chose me to accept a message on his behalf.”

  I hadn’t considered it when he mentioned it earlier, but he was right. “That doesn’t—”

  “Precisely. He has favorites for that.” He cast me a look, but seemed far from jealous. “Grandfather’s not exactly the changeable sort. So, of course, I expected that I was finally being sent off for my much-delayed murder. Since that sounded far more interesting than my usual routine, I took Grandfather’s errand in the country. Disappointingly, though, I found what I found.” His knuckle struck a tinny note on the serving dome.

  “He’s not giving you a second chance.” I was mostly thinking out loud. Both of us knew Grandfather wasn’t the merciful sort, either.

  “Certainly not,” he snorted. “I had my whole unmurdered trek back to think on that little riddle. You’re going to love the answer I came up with.”

  “What?”

  He looked proud of himself. “Now I’m no expert on how ancient lunatics amuse themselves …”

  I hurried him on with a wave.

  “It’s simple. Who’s the last person I’d want to collect a message from? You as well, for that matter—I might have done you a favor.”

  It wasn’t a philosophical question. I bit the inside of my cheek, a bitter heat welling up. “Have any proof?”

  “Not a jot, but can you think of anyone else who’d be so bold and who Grandfather would want to flaunt me in front of? Makes me glad the messengers never even saw me—not that it sounds like they’ll be reporting back after your meeting.”

  This wasn’t real evidence. I wanted to smack Considine’s simpering face for even bringing the idea up. It did make a sort of sense, though. “Last I knew, Grandfather’s hunters were tracking him in the mountains, but there were rumors from as far away as Lepidstadt and Vigil. That he’d show up in Ardis, that’s … unexpected.”

  “Unexpected, and bold, and poignant, all traits of a fine rebel. Revealing himself and challenging his father from the Old Capital, there’s more than a little poetry to that. Add to it that he’s making things a pain for me and it sounds exactly like Rivascis.”

  I strained to keep my teeth from grinding together at hearing his name. Even then, I was suddenly aware of the hundreds of old scars—old blames—hidden beneath my clothes. Rivascis.

  Considine’s lips pursed as if he fought back a smile—as if he knew everything going on in my mind.

  I pretended not to notice. “You, of all people, should know to be careful about that kind of talk.” Grandfather had forbidden anyone from so much as mentioning his wayward son, and that went doubly so for Considine. Rivascis had turned Considine into a vampire, after all. That fact alone went far in winning Considine his current outcast status.

  “My dear, I assure you, I am the picture of restraint.” His right hand fell upon the head of one of his guests, massaging the addict’s hair like a dozing cat. “But you …”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound pained … maybe even a little eager. I’ve heard addicts with that tone.” This smile wasn’t wide enough to show his fangs, but somehow he still looked like a snake. “What’s it like, after all these years, to have—”

  I half drew my blade, enough to let the silver glint in the flickering light.

  “Fine, fine—always so dramatic.” He rolled his head along with his eyes. “Put it away. We both know it’s not good for anything more than slicing up spawn.”

  He was obnoxiously right. The blade didn’t bear the magic necessary to do lasting damage to a true vampire like him. Just another reminder of the leash Grandfather kept me on.

  “It’s still sharp enough to take your tongue—even if only for a moment or two. Is that the only way to convince you that I’m not discussing this?”

  He raised palms shaking in mock fear.

  I wasn’t going to get anything better. My sword clicked back into its scabbard.

  “Still, I have to wonder,” he couldn’t help himself, “does Grandfather still make it a point to remind you how he left you?”

  “Enough!” I’d obviously have to change the topic myself. “There wasn’t anything else with the … with Yismilla, was there?”

  “Her?” He looked over at himself, reflected in the silver dome. “No, nothing. They were lugging her around in a common chest. I tried to give her slightly more tasteful accommodations and a bit of privacy.”

  I imagined Yismilla Col’s dead gaze—now truly dead—piercing the serving dome, burning into Considine. “What’s next for her?”

  “I’m expecting one of Grandfather’s couriers promptly at dusk. It’s for him to deal with.”

  “That’s all?”

  He looked about. “Should there be something more? I’ve done my part, and—most importantly—I’ve done it in a manner that I don’t believe will give our grandsire a reason to collect my own head. I’ve had more than my fair share of dealings with our stray prince as it is. I think I’ve earned a bit of a reward.” He plucked a straw-colored hair between strokes. If the youth noticed, he didn’t complain.

  I rolled my eyes. “Then you’re washing your hands of the matter?”

  “Just another errand well done in the name of our honorable ancestor.” He nodded sharply.

  “Then why Havenguard?”

  He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn’t hold back the crack of smile for long. “Like I said, just checking in on a loose end.”

  “Horseshit,” I said plainly. “Diauden told me Ellishan Thorenly survived the attack. What’s your interest in her?”

  “Ooh, quite the detective you’re turning into. I bet you could find work with the Sleepless Agency if this whole Royal Accuser thing ever goes sour.”

  I waited.

  “You know me, endlessly curious. Grandfather was quite particular about when and where to be. A random noble’s home seemed like a strange—and unusually messy—meeting place. Unless, that i
s, it wasn’t at all random.”

  “Grandfather chose the meeting place?”

  “Well, if he didn’t, our—”

  “Don’t.”

  The beardless trio looked to Considine. He smiled, gesturing with a finger that he’d need only a minute more. That finger then tapped the nose of the concerned blond head looking up at him.

  The vampire’s attention drifted back to me. “One of them did.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Certainly not for the decor. You saw the place.”

  I nodded. Thorenly Glen wasn’t the site of a random vampire attack, then. It had been deliberately chosen, either by Grandfather or his damnable son. I almost asked Considine about the painting there, but there was no way he’d seen it. I also wasn’t eager to confide in him about something so unusual. Not while I might get answers from Doctor Trice, at least.

  “Are you planning on visiting Ellishan Thorenly again?”

  “I heard the gist of your interrogation.” He nodded toward the birdcage. “I trust that if there was anything useful to learn you would have coaxed it loose.”

  Vris’s reporting must not have been terribly thorough—a relief to hear. I’m sure Considine would have been eager to needle me over the old woman’s misidentification and my futile questioning if he knew the details.

  “So that’s it? What happened to your curious streak?”

  “There’s lots I’m curious about.” His fingers wound through the blond’s hair one last time as he stepped away. “Bad memories and old women aren’t high among them.”

  I sniffed. “Living among humans hasn’t diminished your aristocratic streak one bit.”

  “Thank you, dear. In celebration of a job well done, I think I’ll have something to drink, see what distractions flit by, and continue to enjoy my exile as a prince among sheep.” He flopped into an empty wicker chair and crossed his bare feet on the table. His hollow smile beamed up at me. “After all, chasing bogeymen, that’s your job. I’m just a lonely shepherd, making sure my flock doesn’t wander too near the wolf den.”

  “You know what they say about sheep and lonely shepherds.”

  “We all have our vices.” He grinned around him.

  “I thought I knew yours, but every time I come here I’m more convinced that it’s actually self-pity.”

  “I keep a diverse portfolio.” He saluted with the hookah pipe he’d collected. “What you call pity, though, I call patience.”

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors by just rotting here. You’re letting him forget about you.”

  “At the moment, I’m perfectly happy to be forgotten.” He refilled the bowl of the hookah from a small pouch.

  I almost felt sorry for him—as much as I might for some wolf pup kept in a prince’s kennel. “Does that even work on you?”

  He puffed, then released. The smoke split into two streams around his canines. “No. I just enjoy the sensation.”

  I moved toward the door, flattening the brim of my hat. “I’ll give Grandfather your regards.”

  “Rather you didn’t.” His voice slipped from around the ridiculously tall wicker chair.

  I didn’t close the door behind me as I left.

  In the lobby, a gesture attracted a valet’s attention and a word sent him off to bring around our wagon.

  I found the priestess leaning over the side of an overstuffed lounge chair, pointing at a page of sheet music as one of the house musicians nodded. “… it’s really just the hymn “In Her Voice,” with a faster tempo. You’d be surprised how many songs start as devotionals—especially bawdy ones.”

  “We’re going,” I interrupted, immediately turning for the door.

  Jadain caught up to me outside, just in time to watch two resentful hotel footmen slow the rickety asylum cart. “So, who did you have to visit?”

  “A dead man.” I accepted the reins from one of the servants, ignoring his outstretched palm. “What’s the fastest way to Maiden’s Choir?”

  She gave simple directions as she circled to the passenger’s seat and climbed up. “Your dead man have anything interesting to say?”

  “More than I expected. Now I know who sent Ellishan Thorenly to Havenguard.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  I whipped the reins, bound for the cathedral of Pharasma. “My father.”

  10

  DEATH’S RECORDS

  JADAIN

  I usually imagined Maiden Choir’s gigantic blue-and-purple dome as some great eye, staring through the clouds, watchful for signs from the goddess—a towering emblem of the vigil the faithful kept through our prayers and meditations. Today, the Grand Cathedral looked like a blister, a swollen thing due a terrible diagnosis.

  Maiden’s Choir numbered among the oldest and largest buildings in Caliphas. I remember being awed upon first laying eyes upon it, almost falling backward in an attempt to take it all in. Before it stretched the Waiting Yard, a plaza of black and gray flagstones circling lethargic fountains. Polishing the stones was a common punishment for the seminary’s inattentive acolytes, but fortunately only the darker stones required cleaning. While the gigantic mosaic’s inky surfaces were kept polished to a glossy sheen, the gray stones were left with all but the most offensive stains of everyday life. The tiles of familiar grit lay alongside the lustrous black ones, together reflecting a distorted view of the cathedral in a gigantic, embellished interpretation of Pharasma’s holy spiral.

  Maiden’s Choir itself grew from amid a forest of shadowy buttresses, a monument not just to the goddess, but also to ages of her devout. Generations of faithful had created countless whippoorwill-haunted gargoyles of saints and psychopomps. Hidden spouts channeled mist and rain through the eyes of sculpted mourners, while an endless stone pilgrimage wound its way into the Great Beyond. It was breathtaking and impossible to ignore, but I understood why most passersby didn’t linger.

  I pointed out a series of posts hidden between two buttresses and Larsa steered the wagon into their shadows. Once the cart had stopped, we dropped from the bench and set to tying the horse’s reins to a convenient hitching post.

  “Bitch!” Larsa shouted, jerking her hand away from the horse’s bit. Her curse repeated off the cathedral’s walls.

  I shushed her firmly, imagining the word passing through the stained glass, its echoes scandalizing some senior priestess at her prayers.

  “What? The bloody thing bit me.” She punched the mare in the neck. It snorted dismissively.

  “I’ll do it, I’ll do it. Just keep your voice down—and civil.”

  Larsa repeated the mare’s snort.

  By the time I tended to the horse and turned to lead Larsa inside she was already headed toward the Waiting Yard. Strangely delayed, her curse echoed inside my head one more time. I had to run to catch up to her and clapped her arm as I came up from behind.

  I might have grown up tugging at stubborn vines, but most of the muscle I earned on my father’s vineyard stayed back in Barstoi. So when Larsa whipped away, then turned on me with a look like hot steel, I immediately shrank.

  “Sorry! Sorry,” I apologized before she even opened her mouth. That seemed to placate her for the moment, and while it didn’t extinguish her look, I had gotten her attention.

  This wasn’t how I wanted to broach this topic. I hadn’t come up with a polite segue all day, and only a few dozen steps from the cathedral’s doors seemed like the last opportunity.

  “I need to ask …” I tried to choose my words carefully. “Are you particularly religious?”

  Her brow tightened as she searched for my intention. “I don’t need a sermon.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” I didn’t know how to put this delicately. “But, have you ever … actually been inside a temple?”

  She looked puzzled, an expression bordering on annoyed.

  I blurted it out. “Holy ground. The cathedral is holy ground. Can you even go inside?”

  She sighed. “I’ve been in temples before
. All the singing and wishing in the world doesn’t make a stack of stones any more than a stack of stones. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not.” In truth, she was only the first of my concerns. “My goddess’s faithful, however …”

  “You expect me to hurt someone?”

  “No! Not at all.” I hoped my honesty showed in my shock.

  “Then what?”

  “The goddess’s word on …” Again, I searched for the tactful turn of phrase, “your condition.” I immediately winced.

  Her litany of curses was blessedly far enough under her breath that the particulars didn’t echo this time. “My ‘condition’?” she finally asked. “What, exactly, is my ‘condition’?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “An extraordinarily poor choice of words. I am so sorry.”

  She made an indignant noise and was halfway up the stairs to the cathedral’s doors before I caught up to her again. Panels depicting veiled, motherly figures covered the entryway, half holding quiet children, half swaddling raucous corpses, all with their eyes cast in reverence toward the spiral of stained glass above. Like the gate of a fortress, the doors were large and sturdy enough to either admit or deter an angry giant. Hinged panels created a smaller door within the towering gate. To either side, priests in deep purple robes stood in mock meditation, their hoods pulled low. Voluminous sleeves hid their folded arms and hands near long silver daggers, weapons that all the goddess’s servants were trained in wielding.

  My stomached tightened as Larsa approached, still a stride or two ahead of me, her scabbard plain upon her hip. I almost called out to alleviate the concerns I imagined the guards having, but she was already doffing her hat and passing between them. The priests didn’t budge. There were those who would certainly reprimand the sentries if they discovered the half-dead had been admitted into the cathedral, but I surely wasn’t one of them. Just one more reason to keep our visit brief and quiet, lest I draw others into a debate I wanted no part of.