Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  My stomached lurched and I brought up my hands. The intensity in his eyes repelled me. Though I’d never noticed just how deeply green they were. Either that, or the scent of blood, made me hesitate.

  Cold, thin lips closed over my own. His hands clamped onto the sides of my face, and his mouth opened.

  I tried to yank away, but my body was still stiff and his grip unnaturally strong. He made a sound like a belch, blowing air that wasn’t breath. Even through sealed lips I gagged.

  Then came a wash of lukewarm blood.

  I felt the warmth, smelled it, anticipated the taste in a single intoxicating instant. Not entirely unbidden, my lips parted.

  Even secondhand, it was so much better than water, and it had been so long. The vessel didn’t matter.

  Pressing back, I drank.

  24

  THE UNINVITED

  JADAIN

  The sun rose across a green desert of rye. Oasis-clusters of small farmhouses sat far back from the road, purposefully discouraging visitors.

  The hills of Kavapesta had leveled, leaving the horizon broken only by the Hungry Mountains behind and occasional marches of tangled trees—old growth left to divide the vast properties of local lords. Dual paths sped our travel, the hard-packed earth of the New Surdina’s final furlongs, and—never more than a few dozen yards away—the steep banks of the Vhatsuntide River. The chilly water dashed in reckless white bursts over rocks and fallen branches, obviously just as eager to escape Amaans county as we were.

  As the sun rose, the morning mists lifted. Gradually, a singular tower formed on the horizon, a lofty thing like a lance driven into the ground by its grip. I’d never laid eyes on it before, but I knew it immediately.

  “The Palace Tower.” I pointed ahead.

  On the driver’s bench next to me, Tashan raised his eyes and nodded.

  He seemed underwhelmed, but he hadn’t spent his entire life seeing it on nearly every pennant, crest, gate, and courthouse. The tower adorned the royal seal, being the pinnacle of Stagcrown Palace, the original home of Ustalav’s royal court. Something between history and legend said that Soividia Ustav, the nation’s first king, raised the tower so he could see across the lands he’d conquered and personally keep watch against the barbarians he’d driven out. The tower was a symbol of the king’s protection, the light in its highest window reminding the people of their lord’s endless vigil.

  At least, that’s how it was on all the royal crests.

  In truth, the Palace Tower was much shorter than I’d imagined. Although still easily the tallest structure in the city taking shape below it, the tower probably didn’t afford a view of more than a few dozen miles even at its highest point. Beyond the unrealistic physical possibilities, modern politics made the tower the symbol of a lost legend. Stagcrown Palace hadn’t served as the capitol since the royal court moved to Caliphas more than forty years ago. Since then, the palace was maintained as a royal holding, but it didn’t have any function I knew of. Certainly no light shone from the tower’s height this morning.

  The tower wasn’t the only vacant structure. In the surrounding fields the homes of peasants gave way to manors surrounded by sprawling gardens and wrought-iron fences. I recognized these from the Caliphas countryside, the homes of nobles cleaving to the royal court. But even as grand homes clustered close, the countryside was no less empty.

  We passed empty gatehouses and quiet fields. Gardens sought to escape over crumbling walls, often crawling to the very edge of the road. Many of the manors looked like they were sleeping—or worse—no glass reflecting from their window-eyes and ivy growing like the beards of vagabonds.

  That’s not to say nothing moved in those sad little empires. Armies of crows and pigeons bivouacked on roofs and between hedgerows, frequently skirmishing in both sky and field. Once a fox dashed in front of us—the pudgy thing certainly never having been chased by hounds or hunters. Saddest, though, were the houses half-collapsed on the muddy banks of the Vhatsuntide, but that nevertheless still puffed chimney smoke into the sky.

  Obviously, the prestige of the old capital had departed, but not all had been able to follow.

  Wind-shredded banners fluttered from the heights of Ardis’s walls, their tatters faded from royal purple to shades of delicate lavender lace. Soot and crumbling gaps marred the battlements’ sculpted antler patterns, while below an equally neglected bridge spanned a green-brown stream of mostly sewage. We slowed, but listless guards waved us across. Even at the gate, the soldier ignored our carriage in favor of interrogating a farmer hauling gourds to market.

  Within the walls, drab people in patched woolen clothes went about the day’s business. Shouts, coughs, and curses ricocheted from tightly packed statues and boarded-up civil buildings. Wagons clattered across loose cobbles, competing to be noisier than vendors barking impossible claims from cracked marble steps. Children summited stacks of crates spilling from alleyways. The capped and hooded people went about their business with downcast eyes, ignoring the neglected architecture and once-bold artistry towering above. Those pigeon-lined edifices seemed constructed by a different people—though from all the boxes and bundles weighing upon carts and backs, it seemed this crowd was only passing through.

  “Which way?” Tashan asked as we came to an intersection with a nearly identical thoroughfare. In both directions friezes spattered by roosting birds stared from the pediments of empty-looking structures. To the west, the Palace Tower observed from over crowded rooftops—the statuary above outnumbering people on the street. Yet the unignorable structure offered no opinion.

  “I’m …” I looked a second time, “not sure.”

  Tashan pulled on the reins, bringing the carriage to a halt mid-street.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” I asked, leaning down toward a woman herding a gaggle of youngsters. “Do you know—”

  She waved me off without even looking up, not even giving me the opportunity to finish. Not that I knew how I would have finished.

  I turned back to Tashan, who was watching the crowd suspiciously. “Did Doctor Trice tell you where Miss Kindler lived?”

  He looked at me flatly.

  No help there.

  I hesitated in reaching for the carriage door. Larsa had spent the entire morning with the curtains drawn, not making a sound. Not that she’d said a word since I refused to channel the goddess’s killing touch. While, academically, I understood that Larsa’s life ran a course unlike most, I couldn’t bring myself to pray for death. The taker, the harvester, the cold mother—that wasn’t what Pharasma was to me. We—her servants—killed to protect, killed as a mercy, but still, calling on death to spread death, to make it flourish, felt terribly wrong. Blasphemous.

  Part of me resented her frustration. Was she actually angry that I wouldn’t curse her?

  I shook the thought away. I could empathize even if I couldn’t entirely understand.

  I made the first gesture, knocking lightly.

  After a moment, a dark crack opened between the door and its frame.

  “We’re in Ardis. Do you know where Kindler’s home is?”

  Nothing changed in the dark. Then it sealed itself with a click.

  I sighed—so much for the first gesture.

  Tashan was looking at me expectantly.

  “She doesn’t know either.”

  Already we’d sat here too long. Every moment made us seem more like easy marks for shysters and pickpockets. Telling Tashan to wait, I hopped down from the carriage.

  A pile of rags lay heaped in the shadows of a grimy alley. Only a chipped wooden bowl marked it as more than cast-off clothing. Well, the bowl, and a beard long and stained enough to look like a patchwork quilt.

  I knelt, placing a silver piece delicately in the bowl. “Sir,” I spoke softly. “I’d like to buy your next meal.”

  The mound rustled, revealing old eyes beneath gray brows. He had a glassy, suspicious look. I knew from my time working with Caliphas’s poor that he had ev
ery reason to be suspicious. Who knew who I was or what I might want? The lives of commoners were already cheap things to nobles and those tasked with entertaining them. The lives of those who wouldn’t be missed, even cheaper.

  “All I need are directions from someone who knows the city.” I held up a second silver. It reflected in his dark eyes. “You don’t need to take me there or do anything more. Can you help?”

  He nodded, mostly a bobbing of his beard.

  “I’m trying to find the home of Miss Ailson Kindler. I believe she’s quite famous here as—”

  “The writer,” came a rich baritone from amid the bristles.

  I tried not to sound surprised, but had to repeat myself when I told him yes.

  He pointed toward the avenue heading east. “You want Bronzewing Row. Look for walls twice as tall as any others.”

  Thanking him, I deposited my second coin in the bowl. I crossed back to the carriage, where a street vendor was haranguing Tashan for blocking his place on the corner. The Osirian was looking at him blankly, as if he didn’t speak the language.

  “Bronzewing Row,” I said, swinging back onto the bench. “Turn right here.”

  “What was that?” he asked, looking back at the man huddled in the alley.

  “Nothing. I just asked a friend for directions.” I smiled.

  “You northerners.” Tashan shook his head. “So fast to show your money.”

  “What?”

  “You paid him. I could see it from here—as could anyone with eyes to see.”

  “So?” I frowned, not appreciating him raining on my charity.

  He shook his head. “Just mind your purse.”

  I gave a dismissive sniff. “Not everyone’s a criminal.”

  “That’s exactly what criminals want you to think.”

  There were still some leaves on the trees lining Bronzewing Row. Most had fallen, heaping in gutters or piling against wrought-iron fences. Hedges circled the lots of small, smart houses, miniature manors with wide windows and bright curtains. Many had seen better days, stately appearances undermined by columned porches scabbed over with peeling whitewash.

  One lot was a complete mystery. Its fence rose over eight feet high, its bars and sunburst finials embedding themselves in a dense hedgerow that grew even taller. A pine gate, just tall enough to admit a carriage like ours, interrupted the wall. Rivets and sturdy strap hinges made it look more like the entry to a fortress than to someone’s home, an impression reinforced by a wicket set with a closed iron window. Upon the inset door hung a tiny placard carved with elegant letters: “No Readers.”

  “This place?” Tashan looked up at the peaks of several sharp gables staring from over the hedges. Their narrow windows were tightly curtained.

  “I … suppose.” It certainly wasn’t welcoming.

  I slipped down from the carriage, reading the dismissive sign a dozen times in the short walk to the door. Not seeing a bellpull, I rapped firmly and waited.

  After a minute I repeated my knock. Then again.

  On my seventh rap, the tiny metal window squealed open.

  “What!” the man snapped.

  My surprise carried me back a step.

  “Sir!” My voice came louder and sterner than usual, but then, he’d set the tone. “We’re looking for Miss Ailson Kindler. We’re on important business.”

  Eyes rolled behind the grating. “Miss Kindler doesn’t take visitors.”

  The tiny window squealed. Before it closed, I jammed my fingers through the narrow bars.

  “Sir! Please. We’ve come all the way from Caliphas.”

  The gate hardly muffed his snort. “I’ll save you some time, lady. We don’t care how far you’ve traveled, how much money you have, or how many of her books you’ve read.”

  Tashan came up behind me. “Sir, we’re here on the business of the Pathfinder Society. Our message comes from Venture-Captain Trice of Caliphas and is of pressing concern. Please admit us.”

  “Ooh.” He drew the sound out mockingly. “The Pathfinder Society. You’re the ones Miss Kindler said I could shoot if you showed up. Stay right here, I left my bow in the carriage house.”

  This wasn’t the greeting I’d expected. If invoking the Society’s name didn’t help, then maybe Pharasma’s would. I reached for my amulet, but immediately felt queasy.

  “If only you’d let us speak to Miss Kindler for a moment. We’re not admirers. We have serious business with her. Her life could be in jeopardy!”

  The man beyond the gate didn’t answer.

  “Sir?”

  I looked back at Tashan, not removing my fingers from the grated window. “Do you think he’s still there?”

  He took a step back. “I think he went to get his bow.”

  I hardly heard, looking past him. The carriage stood where we’d left it in the street. Only now, one of the doors hung open.

  25

  OLD LACE

  LARSA

  I landed amid a weedy garden of drooping pansies, clutching under my arm the thin parcel I took from Tashan’s pack. From the look of the flowerbed, I wasn’t the first to trample it, so I doubted my trespass would be noticed anytime soon. I checked the packet, trying not to further torture the letter from Doctor Trice or the records from Maiden’s Choir. The trip hadn’t been easy on the paper bundle, but the presentation didn’t truly matter.

  A drive of loose white stones and a yard dotted by decorative shrubs separated me from a miniature farmhouse. The building’s flat-roofed porch gave it the look of a fat woman in a pistachio dress, her arms outstretched to steady herself. Not that the building looked unstable, just cautious. Windows peered from beneath severe gables and from beneath the porch’s shade. Nothing moved inside, though. If anyone noticed me, they didn’t appear to care.

  A fit man with unkempt hair, dirty trousers, and his back to me disappeared into a small carriage house at the drive’s end.

  Not interested in meeting Kindler’s servants, I hiked up the brown paper sheaf and didn’t dawdle crossing the yard or climbing the stairs to the splintery porch. The wood smelled damp and more than one earwig lay dead between those floorboards paint didn’t cake closed.

  I didn’t bother to knock. The door sagged in its frame, feeling slightly soggy, as though it were rotting beneath the white paint. I shouldered it open as delicately as I could. It grunted as it gave, but fortunately the soft sound didn’t echo. I shoved inside, rumpling a faded mat.

  Dust motes sparkled in the light from the door and several uncurtained windows off the entry hall. One beam illuminated a sideboard where the empty eyes of a basilisk’s skull stared from between two pieces of wintery flatware.

  I hesitated. Miss Kindler’s sitting room was not what I expected from a woman in her seventies. Lace and cobwebs hung in near equal quantities amid delicate baubles and faded portraits. The memories on display were certainly not from a life lived delicately. A heavily framed picture of a grim palace loomed over the mantelpiece, four proud young men and women posing boldly amid its rose garden. An assortment of curios on the crackled marble mantel—slender crystals, a jade figurine of a Tian noblewoman, a brass Katapeshi lamp—partially obscured the painting, and that was just upon the room’s most prominent shelf. If a wall wasn’t covered by shelves, it bore some other display: a mounted bit of armor, piece of horn, scrap of skin, framed map piece, bit of woven tapestry, or less identifiable curiosity. Between a couch and chairs bearing the same faded floral pattern sat a delicate coffee table. All it held was a cup and pair of worn gambler’s dice.

  A creak from above interrupted my curiosity. It wasn’t just the old house settling. I knew the sound of someone trying not to be heard.

  The stairway rising from the entryway was a squeaky wooden affair. I climbed swiftly, but was hardly soundless. The short hall at its summit ran the length of the upper floor, its walls buried beneath more frames and small display tables. More dust stirred in the air. The soft wood of the walls and floors muffled every
move. Together they created the eerie sense of being underwater, everything taking on a slow, weightless quality.

  Eyes followed me down the hall, not just from portraits but from strange masks, mounted taxidermies, and the pale busts of somber strangers. One fishlike helmet of reeds and fronds only added to the hall’s drowned aesthetic, its goggle eyes split between eyeing me and a more grotesque mask of cracked leather. I halted at the sight of that second mask, a jagged spiral slit stitched in ragged skin, just like we saw in the monk in mountains. There were differences, but it was definitely of the same revolting design. In the light it seemed a touch less monstrous, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t some retiree’s trophy. Trice had mentioned Kindler’s adventuring days, but I hadn’t expected to be touring a museum of her travels.

  My list of questions about this woman grew longer with every step.

  There was a fire beyond the door at the hall’s end, obvious from the fingers of light slipping beneath. I tested the latch. It gave reluctantly and with an obvious clack.

  Well, probably best not to seem too much like a housebreaker. I opened the door wider than I needed to creep through.

  The musty smell of smoke and paper filled the miniature library. Books buried the walls. They even arched over the fireplace, where the largest or otherwise strangely sized tomes held places of curious prestige. Heaps of stray pages and unfiled volumes buried a rosewood desk, its slender legs carved with spritely figures hiding amid acanthus leaves.

  Three chairs clustered around the fire, defended by a claw-footed tea table. Two were overstuffed affairs in smoky leather. The third was a lean, uncomfortable-looking contraption, wooden slats and wicker panels riding precariously upon narrow metal wheels. Of the three, it was the only one occupied.

  The woman seemed held together entirely by her blouse’s stiff collar and a tight bun that pulled equally upon silver locks and narrow wrinkles. Slim spectacles caught upon a upturned nose, threatening to dash themselves upon either the throw covering her legs or the tome of near equal size sprawled upon her lap. She nodded slowly, dozing in her reading.