Corran looked up. For an instant, Rigan saw guilt in his brother’s eyes before his face became impassive. “Boring. A total waste of time.”
“They’ve been meeting more often lately.”
“You know how the Guild is. Too much politics.”
He’s hiding something. Rigan clearly remembered Papa telling stories about the Guild meetings he attended. He’d vent over the arrogance of the Guild Master, or recount a ridiculous new rule to be implemented, or repeat something amusing that had occurred. The meetings had never been secret until just a few months ago, when Corran began attending more often.
Now that Rigan got a good look at his brother, he saw that a fresh bruise marked his cheek, and he walked with a slight limp. They weren’t the first new injuries Corran had returned with after his evening meetings, but every time Rigan or Kell expressed concern, he either cut them off or tried to explain the damage away. A new, and frightening, possibility occurred to Rigan.
He took the gibbetings hard. Corran knew the men, but I didn’t think he was close to them. Not close enough for the reaction he had when they died. He only gets that angry when he’s afraid. Oh, gods. Is he a hunter? As soon as the thought came to him, he knew it to be true. All these nights he goes out; he’s been hunting monsters.
“You’d best get going to the herbalist if you want to get that tea. We’re done here, for now,” Corran said. “I’ll have a boy go tell the priest we’ll need him. The quicklime will keep the rats off the bodies while they wait. Don’t take too long—we need to have them buried by curfew.”
Rigan grabbed his cloak from a peg near the door and stepped outside, hoping a walk would help to clear his head. He turned down the street to the herbalist’s shop and ducked into the store. The air was fragrant with spices, dried flowers and the leaves and nuts of more plants that Rigan could count. Bunches of brittle, desiccated plants hung from the rafters. Two lanterns barely lit the shop, leaving the corners in shadow. Bins and bowls nearly overflowed with powdered and crumbled ingredients for potions, poultices, and elixirs. Rigan had heard whispers that a clever— and desperate—person might even use the plants for small magics: causing a person to fall in love, or warding off evil.
“I wondered when you would come to see me,” Mamme Solan rasped. She slipped off a stool and limped around the counter to fetch his order. Silvered hair framed a lined face, her eyes sharp and bright as silver coins. She chuckled. “It was bound to happen. You take after your mother.” The herbalist moved around the store, pulling ingredients from shelves and bringing them to her worktable, where she added them to her large stone mortar.
“What do you mean?”
Mamme did not look up from her work, grinding the mixture with a smooth granite pestle. “You’ve been having headaches lately that don’t quite go away,” she said, sprinkling a few more powders into the mix. “Your dreams are dark, and you aren’t sleeping well. And you’re tired. Much more than usual.”
Rigan stared at her. He had not mentioned the symptoms to anyone, not even Kell. “Yes, all of that. Am I sick?”
Mamme glanced at him, and her lips twisted in a half smile. “It’s not sickness, it’s your gift. It takes a while to come to the fore, but it breeds true. Your Mama thought it might be you, of the three brothers. Told me to keep an eye out.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Rigan said cautiously, though he was almost certain that he did. His stomach tightened in fear.
Mamme seemed to guess his thoughts. “Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to tell anyone. Didn’t betray your mother, now did I? No. We have to stick together,” she added, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially.
Perhaps there’s more to her potions and poultices than good medicine. But how does she hide her magic from the guards?
“Have you ever put a kettle on the hearth to boil?” Mamme’s question seemed to come out of nowhere. Startled, Rigan nodded.
“The steam can lift the lid right off, if you’re not careful.” Mamme’s gnarled hands moved confidently. “That’s what happens when power builds and isn’t let out. This tea will help. It quenches the fire, so to speak, keeps the ‘steam’ from building.” She looked up and her gaze lingered for a moment on the pendant around his neck. “Still no substitute for taking off the lid from time to time, of course. That’s something you’ll need to learn, and fast, or it will get worse for you.”
“Mama... needed your help for this also?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, she blamed it on her moontimes, but I knew. I suspect your father did, too. She was part Wanderer.”
“She didn’t teach me much...”
Mamme scooped the mixture into a tin, and added several cheesecloth bags on top. “Of course she didn’t. There was plenty of time—she thought.” She shook her head. “I’m sure she meant to train you more, when the time was right. But it didn’t work out that way.”
“You knew, and you protected her.”
“I was her friend. Now that she’s gone, I’ll look after you the same.” Mamme leaned closer. “And you’d best be careful. Don’t give anyone reason to talk. It’s dangerous out there.”
“Thank you,” Rigan said, digging into his coin purse. “What happens, if the tea doesn’t work?”
Mamme’s wrinkled face creased in a grin that showed her mottled teeth. “Then you tell me, and I mix you up something special.” She looked at him appraisingly. “I have the feeling that you’re all your Mama was, and more.”
Rigan thanked the herbalist. He was about to head back to the workshop when he decided instead to swing past the dyer’s and see Elinor. I’m too much on edge to face Corran in one of his moods right now. By the time he reached Parah’s shop, his head throbbed. Rigan ducked inside, glancing around in vain for Elinor. Parah came out of the back room at the sound of the door opening, haggard and red-eyed.
“She’s not here,” Parah said, answering his unspoken question. Something in her voice frightened Rigan.
“Is she sick?”
Parah looked like she had aged years since his last visit. “No, lad.” She swallowed, and blinked back tears. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
Parah nodded, watching the door. “She’s very good with the pigments. The ones she makes never turn strange colors, and they don’t fade. Her dyes stay in the cloth, and some people said that they felt better when they wore clothing made from cloth she dyed.”
A cold knot was forming in Rigan’s stomach. The seamstress near the harbor. The one they burned—
“You’ve heard about the fevers?” Parah went on. Rigan heard anger in her tone, and loss. “There’s been talk of witches. People making accusations. Names came up. Elinor’s name was one of them. She ran away.”
Rigan steadied himself against the table; suddenly he did not trust his legs to hold him up. “You’re sure she ran? They didn’t—”
“I warned her. Helped her.”
“Thank you. Do you know—”
Parah shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to. Can’t tell what I don’t know, and neither can you.” She dropped her voice. “I know you cared for her, or I wouldn’t have told you.”
“If you hear—”
“I won’t. I told her to run and keep on running. This witch business will die down. It always does—after a few innocents have been killed. But that kind of talk never gets forgotten.” She took his hand. “I’m sorry.”
By the time Rigan got back to their shop, Kell had dinner ready. Corran said nothing throughout the meal. Rigan was too deep in his own thoughts to care. Kell kept up the conversation single-handedly, filling Rigan and Corran in on the gossip from the marketplace.
Finally, he looked from one of them to the other. “You two are never this quiet. What’s going on?”
“We’ve got bodies still to bury, and the day’s mostly gone, that’s all.” Corran said in a gruff voice. He pushed his chair away from the table, but froze when Rigan spoke.
“Elinor’s missing.�
��
“The dyer’s apprentice?” Kell asked.
“That talk in the city, about witches? They burned a girl last night. Someone said Elinor might be a witch, too. So she ran.” It wasn’t the whole truth of why Rigan’s stomach was a tight knot, but it was enough to explain away his mood.
“I’m sorry,” Kell said.
Corran looked like he was going to say something, but seemed to reconsider. “Come on,” he said, putting a hand on Rigan’s shoulder. “We’ve got bodies to bury.”
It took Corran and Rigan nearly until curfew to finish the burials. The empty cart clattered behind them as they made their way through the quiet streets. “I have another Guild meeting tonight,” Corran said when they reached the workshop. “I’ll get cleaned up and go. Maybe it won’t run so late this time.”
“Be careful.”
Corran stopped for a moment, before he thought to manage a smile. “It’s just a meeting. What could happen? I might be bored to death?”
He’s lying. Rigan’s answering smile was just as insincere. “The streets are dangerous. Just… watch yourself.”
“Sure,” Corran said, looking away. “I’m always careful.”
It was quiet after Corran left. Kell was upstairs; Rigan wanted neither silence nor conversation, but of the two, he feared conversation more. Especially with Kell. He’s smart. He’s probably already figured out what Corran’s been up to. That’s dangerous enough. I can’t let him catch on about me.
By eleventh bells, Kell called down that he was going to bed. Corran had not returned and Rigan doubted he would until close to dawn. The solitude gave him the chance to do something he had not wanted to risk with his brothers around.
Rigan moved quickly, gathering the pigments and salt. The past few weeks had been quiet; no one had requested their help with restless ghosts. He worked steadily, adapting the sigils and spreading lines of salt between them. Usually, he drew a banishing circle to rid a home of vengeful spirits. Tonight, using what he had learned from his father’s books, he drew a summoning circle.
I’ll have to scrub the floor to be rid of the marks before Corran gets back. There’s no way I can explain this. He sat in the center of the circle and lit the candles. He grounded his magic as Damian had taught him. Unlike the power he had practiced Below, grave magic was familiar, almost comforting. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, encouraging him as she taught him the complicated wardings. The sigils and salt lines took on a warm glow, and Rigan sat back on his haunches.
“I know you’re out there,” he said quietly, looking out over the empty room. “I know you can show yourselves if you want to. I need to know—is someone controlling the monsters?”
For several minutes, nothing happened. Rigan glanced around the workroom, impatient for an answer. The undertakers’ shop was not exactly haunted, but so many corpses came through their door that he took for granted the idea that some of their spirits lingered. Just in case, Rigan and Corran worked a banishment spell at least once a month, when the moon was high.
But Rigan had never tried to call the spirits to him.
The candle flames flickered in a sudden cold draft. Rigan looked up and saw a middle-aged man standing on the other side of the salt line, watching him sadly.
“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll hear your confession,” Rigan said.
The man nodded, and Rigan recognised the tailor who’d turned up beaten to death; the one the family swore had been set on by robbers.
’Twas guards, not robbers, that killed me, the ghost said. The same whore-spawned guards that told my kin I’d been done in by cutpurses, when they’d done all the cutting themselves.
“I’m sorry.”
I heard the guards talking, while I was dying. Talking about the people who disappear. One of them says, ‘Not until we hear from the captain. He’ll tell us where to grab them from this week, and how many.’ And then other one says, ‘I wouldn’t mind taking a few extra, just to see those blighters run.’
“You’re sure he meant the people who go missing?”
The ghost shrugged. What else could it be? Snatching people off the street when they’re going about their business, taking them away to die—that’s murder, sure as puttin’ a knife in someone’s back.
“What about the monsters?”
Heard one of the guards say, ‘Guess the blood hocuses are angry with the potters and the skinners. Sent some ugly-assed sumbitches over there. Figure it’s paybacks,’ he said.
“Thank you,” Rigan told the spirit. “Did you have a confession to make, to help you rest?”
Maybe that was my confession. Won’t do you much good, but at least it’s been said.
“Then rest,” Rigan replied. “And the blessings of the gods go with you.” He raised his voice in the ritual song, melodic and deep, and as he sang, the spirit faded until nothing remained.
Chapter Nineteen
IN THE DISTANCE, Corran heard the sound of boots on pavement. “We’ve got to get out of here!” Ross yelled.
“Not without all of us,” Corran growled.
Calfon grabbed one of Allery’s arms and threw him over one shoulder.
“Run!”
To Corran’s relief, no monsters appeared to slow their retreat. Instead, half a dozen of guards ran toward them, swords drawn. “Halt, in the name of the Lord Mayor!” the leader shouted.
Just another night of hunting monsters, except that this night started to spiral out of control from the beginning.
Allery had alerted Calfon to the new threat, and at first, Corran actually thought it would be easy. Big, black beetles, the size of a man’s hand. Compared to the ghouls and the other creatures the hunters had faced down, a few oversized bugs didn’t seem like such a terrifying threat.
Then they had found the bodies, dozens of them, all around the old mill where the insects first appeared, though ‘erupted’ might be a better word for it, as they had burrowed up in waves from the floors. And judging from the corpses, this would be harder than kicking over an anthill or getting rid of a wasps’ nest.
Because the insects, the monsters, had burrowed into their flesh. Wide bruises, black with blood, marked the corpses at the old mill. Once inside, the creatures had worked their way into the soft organs; most of their victims had died by their own hand, turning their knives on themselves to find release from the pain.
The hunters struggled to find a way to kill the insects. Blades glanced off the thick, black shells, and the weight of a grown man was not enough to crush the creatures. So in the end, they burned the mill, watched it go up in flames, saw the insects split in the fire, hissing and spitting— The hunters scattered. Corran shadowed Calfon, knowing that he would not be able to fight his way clear unaided with Allery’s dead weight over his shoulder. The rest of the hunters took off down the winding alleys.
Two guards clattered down the alleyway behind Corran and Calfon. Corran heard shouting in the distance as the other guards went after their companions.
“Go!” he yelled to Calfon, leaping up as they ran beneath lines of washing, pulling them down to tangle their pursuers. But the guards kept gaining, and the attempts to stall them had cost Corran precious seconds. Abruptly, he veered onto a narrow causeway crossing one of Wrighton’s open sewers. Before the guards could make the corner, he took a breath, held his nose and jumped.
Foul water, dead animals, spoiled produce, and excrement swept by Corran, pushing him down towards the harbor.
This has to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done.
Garbage pummeled him. Broken shards of pottery spun past, scratching his skin like whirling knives. A chunk of wood smacked into the back of Corran’s head, making him see stars. He ducked a floating barrel, only to be hit by a dented metal bucket that opened a cut above his eye.
Corran tried desperately to remember the sewer’s path as it ran through a steep-sided stone culvert, wondering where he could climb out without too many people seeing him. He strai
ned to hear above the rush of the water and the clatter of the garbage. The street was at least three feet above him.
A woman leaned out of a balcony and dumped a bucket into the canal. Corran managed to dodge the worst of it, as a dead rat floated by. The current accelerated and he looked around wildly, hearing the roar of falling water. There was a large, dark hole beneath the next street, where the sewer plunged below ground.
I’m done for.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said a prayer as the water fell away beneath him, carrying him into darkness.
Corran’s lungs were burning when he finally surfaced, stealing a breath just inches from the slime-covered top of the sewer tunnel, gagging in the fetid air. The current swept him on its way and the darkness of the tunnel opened up into the indigo of the starry night sky. Corran dragged himself out as the stream slowed, blocks away from where he’d jumped in, and tried to wring the awful liquid from his clothing.
I hope the others got away. I hope Allery doesn’t die. And I hope the gods are listening, because I could sure use a favor to get home in one piece.
Corran crawled to the shadows of the nearest alley, too lightheaded to stand. His eyes and the inside of his nose burned, and his lungs were on fire. Breathing hurt, but he gasped for air and then doubled over, wracked with painful coughing.
I’ve just swum in the muck of an entire city. That can’t have done me any good. Already, his skin felt as if he had sunburn, as if the foul water had burned into his pores. There was water in his ears, making it difficult to hear. He shook his head and nearly fell flat on his face. I’ve got to get home. If I’m going to die, I want to die at home.
He hauled himself to his feet on sheer strength of will, but fell when he tried to walk. He stumbled and hobbled, eventually supporting himself on the walls of the buildings. A half-candlemark’s walk took more than twice that.
One block from the shop, he fell to his knees and crawled the rest of the way. Tears blurred his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. Twice, he had to stop to heave up the contents of his stomach. His ears felt as if they had been soundly boxed, aching on the inside all the way to his jaw. Corran’s throat could not have hurt worse if he had swallowed broken glass, and his skin itched and burned until he might have considered flaying a mercy.
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