Rune Master (Dragon Speaker Series Book 3)

by Devin Hanson

  Chapter 6

  The Cost of Power

  Baron Priah glared at the map of Ardhal hung on the wall of his wardroom aboard the Drake. Dozens of red markers were scattered about it, loosely distributed about the city, though there was a marked concentration around the center of the map. The markers represented murders, the locations provided by the constable when Corvis offered his assistance.

  While the constable was using the plot in an attempt to narrow down where the murderer was hiding and divine who it might be, Corvis was trying to figure out how to throw off the investigation while appearing to be helpful. If he could get the constable chasing after a phantasm, it could give Corvis time to do something about Trent.

  Scuffing from the passage outside drew his attention away from the maps. A knock came at the door and Corvis cursed quietly to himself. Then he straightened up and tugged his cuffs into place. The map would have to wait. “Enter.”

  Travis Bellwether ducked into the room. The young man was leaner than he had been the last time Corvis set eyes on him, and he carried himself with a greater sense of purpose. The trip to Andronath apparently had agreed with him.

  “My lord!” Travis exclaimed, dipping into a bow. “I return successful! I have acquired vitae from the alchemists.”

  The news made Corvis smile for the first time in a week. “Indeed! That is well done, lad.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I would set course immediately for the manufactory hangers, but it would be a waste of time. First we must collect an alchemist to do the transmutations.” Corvis gazed at Travis, contemplating for a moment. He couldn’t help but think of his lieutenant as a young man, but in truth, he was of age with Trent. Of all the people in Corvis’ organization, Travis was perhaps the most innocent. To Corvis’ knowledge, his youngest lieutenant had never engaged in pillage, murder or mayhem, and certainly not rape. He was one of the few men, or women for that matter, Corvis had any dealings with who could make that claim.

  “Why don’t you come with me, Bellwether. It may be educational.”

  “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

  Corvis gave a wry smile. He sincerely doubted that. “Very well. Come along.”

  The trip to the Old Hollow brought them right to the center of the red markers on Corvis’ map. Any half-competent investigator couldn’t help but make that correlation; if not the Old Hollow specifically, undoubtedly within the vicinity.

  Indeed, as they walked the streets of Ardhal, the number of people out and about dwindled down to only the occasional individual, fearfully walking with eyes darting and shoulders hunched. Also visible were the long overcoats and furtive steps of the constable’s men. They knew what area to look in and it was only a matter of time before one of them stumbled over Trent or one of his alchemists in the middle of their gruesome repast.

  Time was running short. Corvis needed those airships constructed and his thrice-burnt son out of this benighted city. Moving to Galdaris would only delay the inevitable, of course, but one step at a time.

  From the outside, the Old Hollow looked much the same as it had the last time Corvis came calling, though now the windows were dark; the customary lit lantern by the door indicating they were open for business was absent and the windows looking out onto the street showed only gloom within.

  Corvis led the way under the deep overhang that concealed the front of the inn from the sky and pushed open the door. Musty air wafted out, redolent with the scents of unwashed bodies and stale beer, spiced with the iron tang of death. Travis gave Corvis a look of wide-eyed disbelief before following in his footsteps, one hand hovering near his rapier hilt.

  A single guttering lantern lit the common room, casting deep shadows among the furniture. Broken glass caught the light from the open door and gleamed. Corvis’ boot fell into something sticky and he glanced down to find a pool of mostly dried blood.

  “What foul place is this?” Travis asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Be mindful, Mr. Bellwether. Speak softly and cause no enmity.” Corvis locked eyes with his lieutenant until he got a tight nod in return. “Good. And unhand your sword. It will not serve you here.”

  Travis glanced down at the hand locked tight about the hilt of his rapier and released it with a jerk.

  Corvis walked across the common room to the private chambers behind the bar and pushed it open, rapping against the wood with a knuckle as he did so. The stench of decay washed over him and his throat locked. It had been a long time since he had smelled the like. There was no light within until Travis fetched the lantern by the bar and trimmed the wick.

  Within the chambers, a long table spanned the width of the room, draped with half a dozen sleeping or unconscious people. Travis swung the lantern around and the light gleamed off the blood pooled on the table and floor. No, not unconscious. Dead. Dead, with their chests split open and their hearts cut out.

  Travis was quietly sick by the doorway. Corvis couldn’t blame him, indeed, he was impressed that the young man stood his ground despite the horror in front of them. The tiny gods knew he wanted nothing more than to flee this place.

  The bodies had little in common with each other. One was clearly a well-to-do merchant or banker by his clothes, others wore the aprons and homespun of the wait staff. It was apparent that the Old Hollow was permanently closed.

  “My lord, these people,” Travis rasped. “We must report this to the constable!”

  “We will do no such thing,” Corvis snapped. “Listen closely, I will say this but once. This death is terrible to look upon, but it is the price that must be paid.”

  “I don’t understand,” Travis whispered. “You knew of this?”

  “Yes, but not the extent. Don’t look at me like that. I find it just as abhorrent as you do.”

  “Is that right, Father?”

  Travis spun, the light from the lantern wavering wildly. Trent stood behind them in the common room dressed in the stained remains of a once-fine suit, his silken sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The harsh light from the open door shone in relief upon the myriad scarring on his face and arms. His fingernails were cracked and caked with dried blood

  Corvis took a few rapid steps forward and caught Travis’ arm before he could complete the drawing of his rapier. “Sheathe it, lad. That’s an order.”

  Travis obeyed haltingly, his muscles trembling beneath Corvis’ grip.

  “Do you expect me to applaud your excess, Trent?” Corvis demanded once Travis’ sword was safely put away. “You must think me a fool if that was so. You would bring the wrath of the duke upon you, and rightly.”

  “What of it?” Trent asked lazily. “I could turn this entire miserable city into a smoking crater on a whim. I have the power of the gods at my fingertips now. You have no idea, Father, how alive I feel! Let the duke come. I will kill them all and feast upon their vitae.”

  “We had a deal,” Corvis said grimly. “Your alchemists complete the airships and I will bring you to Galdaris. If you bring the duke down upon us, the airships will never be completed.”

  Trent slowly smiled. “You gave me your blessing to gather the vitae needed. I do remember that.”

  “Only what was needed,” Corvis snapped. “How many must be killed for this mad power of yours?”

  “Oh, Father. You misunderstand. There is no limit to what can be gained.”

  Corvis stared at his son. In his life, there had been key incidents where his life and his success had hinged upon the actions and decisions made without hesitation. Always before, he had doggedly persisted on the course he had set previously, determined to make his goals come to fruition. Once more, he felt he was at the cusp of such a moment, only this time he hesitated.

  What was Trent becoming? Corvis was not unfamiliar with the sensation of being drunk with power, and he recognized it in his son. Could he demand that Trent control himself and his murders? What would happen if he made the demand and it was ignored? His original goal was to get the a
irships flying. Was that goal worth the price Trent was making him pay? Travis had proved there was an alternate solution, one that didn’t involve murdering dozens of people.

  He could feel the gaze of Travis on his back, could feel the man’s innocence crumble before implacable reality. There was no sense of rightness here, no clear path of success.

  “Perhaps I do not understand,” Corvis said finally. “But I do not need to. All I require is an alchemist to do the transmutation. You still have some under your control, I presume? You have not killed them all yet?”

  “Not all, no.” Trent smiled again, his face wrinkling grotesquely. “Do you still require my vitae?”

  Corvis fought down a grimace but could still feel his lips twitching. “If it does not inconvenience you.”

  “It does. But no matter, I did make a deal.”

  “Well enough. Find some clothes that aren’t bloodstained and meet me on the Drake. We will leave in an hour.” Corvis nodded curtly to Trent and walked past him, hating that he had to skirt wide around his son, unwilling to draw close to him.

  Once outside, Corvis could feel Travis’ eyes on him and he stopped, turning to face his lieutenant. “You have questions, I know. For now, hold your peace. This is no place for a discussion.”

  “My lord, how can–”

  “Enough, Mr. Bellwether. We will speak on the Drake, and not before. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord. My apologies.”

  “Good.” Corvis sighed. “It is I who should apologize. I should not have brought you with me. I did not think Trent would be so far gone as that.”

  Travis nodded, his face grim. The palpable sense of cheer from a mission accomplished was entirely gone, replaced with dull and bleak acceptance.

  Andrew sat in the constable’s office in one of the man’s singularly uncomfortable chairs and tried to convince himself he wasn’t wasting his time. Ten minutes earlier the constable’s secretary, a balding woman in her late years with the bony intensity of a hawk, had bidden him come in and make himself comfortable while the constable tended to another matter.

  The door opened and a tall man stumped into the room. He had broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed black beard shot through with white, and wore one of the long signature coats of his organization. His face was worn; the combination of age and many sleepless nights gave him a craggy appearance. His eyes were sunken and dark, but still had the spark of a sharp mind within.

  Andrew stood and offered his hand. “Andrew Condign. I arrived by airship today with the intention of trade. I was instructed by the dock master to meet with you.”

  The constable shook Andrew’s hand with a tired smile. “A pleasure, Mr. Condign. I am Constable Eric Ryan. For the moment, at least. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I do not doubt your schedule is busy.”

  Andrew had to marvel at the man’s ability to stick to the pleasant forms of conversation when his city was falling apart all around him. There was no secret in the city that a murderer, or murderers, were running loose unchecked by the law. The constable had a million other things he was doubtless desperate to do, and yet here he was, actually pouring tea with a foreign merchant.

  “How was your passage, Mr. Condign? Sugar?”

  “Thank you, but no. My journey was brief. I hail from Andronath.”

  That got a raised eyebrow as the constable passed Andrew his cup. “Is the city of alchemists opening its doors to trade once more? I have heard of a great number of warriors from Nas Shahr making the journey north, and whispers of a man who speaks to dragons.”

  Andrew sipped his tea, wondering if it had been wise to offer his real name. “Who can say what the alchemists are up to? Dragons don’t speak to humans, far as I know. I can confirm the rumors of the Maar, though. In fact, I have a few in my service.”

  “Do you now?” The constable sipped his tea, grimaced and returned the cup to his saucer. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the unrest within Ardhal. Having personal guards close to hand no doubt is a comfort.”

  “I have witnessed their skill once or twice in my travels.”

  Constable Ryan tapped the side of his tea cup with a fingernail, one bushy eyebrow drawn down as he contemplated Andrew. “My men,” he said finally, “are engaged in tracking down a murderer. We suspect a cult of some description. The bodies we discover have been mutilated in a curious way: their hearts excised, but otherwise unmolested.”

  “How horrible. Why do you think this is the doings of a cult?”

  “There are several different people doing the killings, this we know for sure. As for their motives, it is beyond my powers of deduction. A cult is as good a description as any.”

  “Forgive my morbid curiosity,” Andrew said, “but how do you know there are different people?”

  “The methods used to remove the hearts are like a signature. An axe makes a different kind of wound than a knife. Also unique are the ways the victims are subdued before death. I have made a study of it, over the years, a method developed and perfected by the balai of Nas Shahr. This is my first opportunity to apply the technique.”

  “I wasn’t aware the balai had any such technology, but it doesn’t surprise me. They are a very thorough people.”

  “Well.” Ryan glowered at his tea, as if trying to browbeat it into developing a better flavor. “I like to meet newcomers and pass on a warning. Do not venture out alone, even during the day. Avoid dark alleys and stay in areas with as many other people as possible.”

  “You speak of the murderers?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Sensible precautions never hurt anyone, and it might just save a few more lives.”

  Andrew put his own tea down. The blend left something to be desired, and he wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. “Constable, I don’t want to overstep my welcome, but if I may, I’d like to offer the services of my Maar. They are not balai, but are eminently capable. A few more eyes might make the difference.”

  “I suppose a balai in your service would be too much to hope for,” Ryan said wryly. “But I can’t in good conscience accept your offer, though it is appreciated. You should keep your men close, Mr. Condign, for your own safety.”

  “Well, I had to make the offer. If you change your mind, Constable, we have rooms at the Dancing Horse. It would be my honor to aid you in whatever way I can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Condign. I hope your business in Ardhal concludes satisfactorily.”

  Andrew stood and offered his hand again. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Constable.”

  “Likewise. Good day, Mr. Condign.”

  Andrew left the constable’s office and rejoined the wardens waiting in the foyer, cowed into impatient silence by the glare of the secretary. Their relief at his return was plain on their faces.

  “Does the constable know of what he faces?” Adnan asked him once they were outside.

  “Not in the least,” Andrew shook his head. “He knows there are several murderers, though he did not say how many.”

  “I saw some of the constable’s men,” Adnan said. “They are soldiers, good in a brawl, perhaps, or putting down a dangerous drunk, but are no match for an alchemist, let alone an Incantor.”

  “I offered the constable your services, but he turned me down.”

  Adnan shook his head. “It does not surprise me. We proceed as planned, then?”

  “Jules should be making contact with the local Fraternity eyes and ears. We’ll know more of what we face soon. For now, back to the inn. We have appearances to maintain and caravans to send to Andronath.”

  Jules adjusted the hood of her cloak again, making sure her face was shadowed and her hair hidden. It blocked her peripheral vision, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make. It was either the hood or one of the warden’s sand masks; the featureless masks were sure to draw attention, so she had to satisfy herself with the hood.

  A few paces behind her, Iria followed, her own hood thrown back, her sharp eyes constantly scanning for danger. Th
e rest of the wardens she left behind: too many and her contact would spook and run. The shorter woman’s dark skin and obvious weapons drew some eyes, but the attention was brief, the watchers more concerned with their own business.

  For her part, Jules’s thoughts were occupied by the prospect of meeting the Fraternity Sicaria contact. It was an organization that Jules had becoming familiar with during her years studying in the Academy Alchemic. For a while, she thought to join the Fraternity, but her own fame got in the way of that career path. The Sicaria had to move unseen. They chose only the most plain, the least unique, to be members.

  Though membership in the Fraternity had become impossible, Jules had, on more than one occasion, worked with a Sicarius. The Fraternity was the hidden police force of the Alchemists Guild, tasked with enforcing the laws of the Guild. Those alchemists who found the lure of wealth to outweigh their better judgment often retreated to the fringes of society, the same places Jules had often frequented in the search for abandoned dragon nests.

  Perhaps in recognition of her assistance, or some other motive, the Fraternity had extended a sort of partial membership to Jules. She was by no means a full Sicarius, but she was entrusted with the secret signs and codes used by the Fraternity. Those same signs had told her there was a watcher posted in Ardhal, as in most cities in Salia.

  The watchers weren’t alchemists, nor did they report to alchemists. They were usually common folk, traders, moneylenders, innkeepers, and the like, that had a lot of contact with people. They kept their ears and eyes open for certain things that suggested the Guild laws were being broken. They reported rumors of alchemical weapons being bought and sold, drunks bragging about hiring the services of an alchemist to kill a rival, and any of the hundreds of other suggestions that would lead back to an alchemist flaunting the laws.

  More than the laws, the watchers kept careful track of murders and accidental deaths, stories of people buying animal hearts from butchers, people going missing, and the other hints that Incantors were about. The sudden explosion of murders in Ardhal should have had warning notes flooding into Andronath. Except for the one note almost a week ago commenting that Baron Priah’s airship, the Black Drake, had docked in Ardhal, the watcher had been silent.