NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  “And it will be the last, Mr. Switzer,” the magistrate promised. “Inquisitor Willard, if you charge this man with another crime without clear evidence and witness of wrongdoing, I will personally see to it that it is you who will be defending yourself in my courtroom. Do I make myself clear?”

  Willard hung his head. “Perfectly.”

  “This court is adjourned with all charges against Mr. Switzer and his associates dismissed.”

  Willard began returning the papers scattered over the desk to his satchel with slow and deliberate movements. He ignored Fred Switzer’s condescending smile and waited until the man had left the room before slinging the bag over his shoulder and departing.

  Dejected, he returned to the office he maintained in the courthouse. He jumped and stifled a cry when the door shut behind him and strong arms pushed him across the room and pressed him against his desk. He recognized the man from the courtroom gallery despite him wearing a different mask and jacket.

  “You were supposed to ensure that Switzer went to the mines,” the man said.

  Willard’s voice trembled as much as the hands he laid on the man’s wrists. “I tried! You were there. You saw that I entered the evidence I found, the evidence your note led the gendarme to. It isn’t my fault none of your witnesses showed in court!”

  “They were your witnesses. You were to make sure they were safe from harm and Switzer’s influence!”

  “I did my part. Please, tell your master that I tried my best. Do not publicize my indiscretions, I beg you. I can still be of use, but not if I lose my job.”

  The man inclined his head until his mask nearly brushed the tip of the chief inquisitor’s nose with its cold, glassy surface. “You aren’t any help now. Why should I think you ever will be?”

  Willard turned his face aside and stared at the far wall and whimpered. “I’ve been helpful. I have put many criminals away for you. I wouldn’t be chief inquisitor had I not.”

  “That’s right. You are chief inquisitor because of my master. Do not forget it. He can destroy you with less effort than it took to create you. He can also replace you with just as much ease.”

  The man gave the inquisitor a small shove, forcing him to sprawl across his desk in a most undignified fashion. He left the inquisitor cowering in the office, his coattails fluttering behind him in his haste to depart.

  Chief Inquisitor Willard’s failure to prosecute Fred Switzer meant that Desmond, or Cleary as he preferred, was not going to be wanting for something to do over the next few days. His master, Conner Rey, would ensure that he stayed busy.

  It was a bit of a walk from the courthouse back home, but it was a clear day and Cleary appreciated the exercise. He might soon find himself squatting outside a window for hours on end, so it was good to stretch out his muscles as best he could before then. He was not as young as he used to be, and his body seemed to enjoy reminding him of the fact more frequently with every passing year.

  It took him a little under an hour to reach the brothel Conner owned, operated, and lived in. Many people might consider it quite a leap, going from chief inquisitor to brothel owner, but not Conner. When Cleary asked about the disparity shortly after his employment, Conner replied that both jobs required him to be surrounded by whores who exchanged favors for money, but at least the women were honest about it.

  While the expansive manor was located in Liberty near the Midtown border and catered mostly to a higher-class clientele, Countless Delights had women and services affordable to the middle class as well. Conner did not open the bordello out of a desire to operate such an establishment or for the money, he had plenty, but for the ability to gather a great deal of intelligence in one central location without drawing any attention to himself whatsoever.

  Cleary used an entrance that led directly into the house proper, avoiding the wing in which the brothel was located. He doffed his “work clothes” and donned his uniform of white gloves, a double-breasted coat, and waistcoat, giving credence to his official capacity as Conner Rey’s personal valet and house steward.

  He found Conner in the exercise room wearing nothing but a robe. He sat on a bench with his left leg extended while a woman in a flowing white blouse and billowing shimmersilk trousers rubbed liniment into the scar on his hip caused by an assassin’s musket shot the same night his family died.

  Surri was statuesque and beautiful with her large, sea-green eyes set against bronzed skin and framed by the veil she wore. However, she was not one of Conner’s pleasure girls. Her skills lay elsewhere. Cleary considered himself an excellent fighter, had made a career sending people to their graves. But he knew with almost certainty that if it ever came to a battle between him and the exotic woman, it was his body the gravediggers would be throwing dirt upon.

  Surri packed up her liniment and departed the room. Conner hitched his robe closed and stood while bearing much of his weight on an ebony, silver-handled cane. He winced with every hobbled step he took toward his valet.

  “Given that Mr. Switzer is at this very moment occupied with two of my women, I deduce that his trial did not go as we had planned.”

  Cleary tightened the muscles in his jaw and glanced at his feet. “No, sah. He got to the witnesses and probably the magistrate as well.”

  “And Chief Inquisitor Willard?”

  “His prosecution was convincing. I don’t think he betrayed us.”

  Conner’s cane swept out and struck a punching bag with a resounding crack. “Our witnesses were supposed to be hidden, protected!”

  Cleary nodded as he felt his shame coloring his face. It had been his job to see to their protection. He had enlisted the men who were supposed to watch over them, and they clearly failed. That meant he had failed, and he, like Conner, was a man who took a grim view on failure.

  “What now?”

  “It is past time to remove that poison peddler from the streets. The courts had their chance. His guilt is without question. Now it is our duty to see to his execution.”

  Conner’s use of the term poison peddler was not entirely colloquial. There was no shortage of drug dealers in the city, but few gained Conner’s attention or ire. Fred Switzer managed to do both by his tendency to cut his product with other agents that produced a similar intoxication for a fraction of the price. But its success relied on accurate measurements. Too little of one substitute agent resulted in an inferior product that would ruin his reputation. Too much, and it created the rather nasty side effect of killing the user. Which was what happened to two of Conner’s working girls.

  Cleary jerked his head up and to one side. “You want me to go do him upstairs in his room now?”

  Conner shook his head. “You know that I do not allow any such dealings anywhere near the house.”

  “I know my job, sah. I can have his throat slit and the body out of the back door, rolled in a carpet, long before anyone misses him.”

  “It is not your skill that I doubt, Mr. Cleary. The point is that someone will miss him, and the first place they will look is the last place he was known to be. I do not want that kind of attention. He will likely be on alert for a time. In the meanwhile, find out what happened to your men who were supposed to be keeping our witnesses safe.”

  “What would you have me do with them?”

  “I will leave their fate to your discretion.”

  Cleary nodded. “Aye, sah. I’ll get right to it.”

  Cleary hated waiting. If a man needed to die, best get to it and have it done with. He had killed men and women in almost every place imaginable: their homes, churches, middle of the street, inside a gendarmerie. He once even assassinated a man while the hangman was fitting the noose around his neck because that was what the man who paid him had wanted. But Conner was not just his boss, he was his friend, and he would do as he asked.

  Finding his men was not likely to be easy. Either they were dead or they had betrayed him and gone to ground. The former meant digging up some bodies, the latter was likely to involve
a great deal of watching and waiting.

  CHAPTER 8

  With the extra tokens Kiera had taken from the vulgar man, the two hauled enough food back to their home to keep them fed for a month. As they suspected, there was no fruit left by the time they reached the distributor, but they did manage to wrangle a few potatoes and turnips to go along with several pounds of cured meat obtained from various sources.

  Kiera and Wesley unshouldered their burdens and deposited them in what constituted the ship’s pantry. With Wesley being the only one with any sort of culinary skills, it was his duty to handle all things food related.

  The two of them returned to the deck and Kiera noted the sun’s position in the sky. “I guess I better go see Nimat and get this done with.”

  Wesley nodded, his face grim. “Just be on your best behavior. Be respectful above all else and Nimat will let you off with a rebuke. She always does. She knows you’re good for the debt, and she likes you.”

  “Yeah, she likes me the way a skitter lizard likes a mouse but is too full to eat it just yet.”

  “I think you underestimate her affection for you. Just make sure you don’t overestimate her tolerance or you’re likely to get yourself killed.”

  Kiera scowled and stomped down the gangplank. “I know how to deal with Nimat.”

  “Just be respectful!” Wesley called after her.

  “I’m always respectful, you gilded gutter junky boy toy!” she shouted back over her shoulder.

  Wesley wagged his head as he watched Kiera storm away. She was angry at her failure to score last night, and she took it as a personal insult that both the house guards and Langdon’s crew had gotten the better of her. When she was in this kind of mood, it took a while for her to cool down, and she would be unbearable for the next few days unless something exceptionally good occurred. Unfortunately, nothing good ever happened in Blindside.

  Kiera threaded her way across the lower borough and into Midtown. The peddlers and shopkeepers barely paid her any heed, feeling safe from the thieves that normally stalked the stands just waiting for a proprietor to become inattentive so they could filch a bauble or two.

  Tribute Day was something of a holiday in the city. Kiera and the rest of her kind did not have to worry about tolls as everyone was making their way to Undercity, and the citizens were largely left alone as the pickpockets and thieves were off to pay tribute to Nimat. It was one of four days a year when there was almost no crime anywhere in the city.

  Sure, people still got assaulted or killed in some acts of rage or vengeance, but the usual petty crimes ground to a halt until the morrow when everyone’s life returned to normal for both predators and prey.

  Kiera was rounding a corner on a street that would take her into Highborn when she collided with someone coming from the other direction. Her hand instinctively flashed toward the man’s vest pocket, but strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and held her fast.

  “Well, what have we here?” Fred crooned. “You wouldn’t be trying to rob me on Tribute Day of all days, would you?”

  Kiera jerked her wrist from his grasp. “No, I’m just trying to get to Undercity. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  The drug dealer’s eyes flitted to the two men who stepped up behind Kiera before locking back onto the young thief, his pupils unnaturally large. “Best watch your tone, girl.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the two men who now blocked her retreat. One was of average height but exceptional in his repugnance. The other was freakishly tall and lanky and wore a beat-up top hat and suit in some sort of parody of a gentleman.

  “You best get out of my way so I can go pay my tribute.”

  Fred laughed. “You actually have something to give her this quarter?”

  “I do, and some of it is fragile, so you better keep your hands to yourselves or I’ll tell Nimat that you are the ones who deprived her of her due. If your drunken clumsiness hasn’t already.”

  Fred leaned down and leveled his eyes with hers. “You got a mouth on you, girl.” He extended a finger and tried to trace her lips. “A real nice mouth. Maybe that’s why Nimat lets you slide so often, eh?”

  Kiera slapped the probing hand away before it touched her.

  The drug lord chuckled at her. “You seem tense. I got something that will fix you right up. Take away all your anger and worry.”

  She laid a hand on the baton hanging on her right hip. “And I got something that will fix that ugly gob of yours. Now get out of my way.”

  Fred straightened up, his serpent’s smile never leaving his face. “I ain’t keeping ya, but I don’t move for nobody. Especially not for some fledgling little nightbird like you.”

  Kiera glared at him for a moment before spinning around only to find her way still blocked by Top Hat and his cohort. Top Hat sneered down at her but did not move. Kiera brought her hands up, palms together, and shoved through them as if she were parting a pair of curtains. The men gave ground but not without enough resistance to make her look foolish. Once past, she circled around Fred Switzer and hastened away as fast as her remaining dignity allowed.

  “You tell your boy Wesley to come see me again soon. I got what he likes!” Fred called out after her.

  It was a universal fact that everything in Velaroth had a price, and it held true even when it came to belittling someone. While it did little to soothe her simmering anger, Kiera took some small satisfaction in the weight of Top Hat’s coin purse now jingling in her pocket. She had broken the code by stealing from a fellow thief on Tribute Day, something that could get her in a great deal of trouble, but as long as she got it into Nimat’s hand before anyone noticed it was gone she was fine. Fred and Top Hat might make an issue of it, but she would deal with that when it came.

  Kiera could have avoided the surface problems by delving into Undercity using one of the numerous access points in Blindside, but that would have meant traversing almost the entirety of that dark, frightening realm. She would rather face run-ins with a hundred Fred Switzers on the surface than one of the barely human sub-dwellers. Those people gave her the creeps. It was bad enough having to deal with Nimat.

  She selected an entrance that split the difference between walking the streets of Highborn and traversing the dark passages of Undercity. Those guarding the topside and interior boundary gave her a cursory look and let her pass without question. Kiera suppressed an involuntary shudder as she paused near the ladder connecting the two cities—or perhaps worlds—while her eyes adjusted to the dark.

  Lamps, candles, and torches provided the spotty illumination that allowed people to navigate the underground streets without having to bring lights of their own. Kiera held a torch powered by a bit of mage glass Russel had made for her. That alone earned him his keep despite his troublesome behavior. The mage glass, being rough and impure, contained a limited amount of energy, so she held it in reserve until she really needed it.

  Kiera was not overly concerned beyond the usual anxiety being in Undercity caused those who did not live here. While the pale citizens she passed followed her with their hollow-eyed gaze, she was confident none would accost her. Nimat ran a tight airship, and anyone who dared interfere with a tribute carrier would face a very grim fate.

  The eyes tracking her movements grew less feral but more dangerous and intent as Nimat’s people began outnumbering the common rabble. By the time she came within three blocks of the underlord’s “palace” the only people she saw worked directly for Nimat or were tribute payers like herself.

  Nimat’s residence, at least what was visible from the street, was the ground floor of a palatial manor buried by sand and dust a millennium ago. It was an odd experience to see a single-story home from the “outside” become two stories and much larger once she entered it.

  The only thing more shocking was the interior’s opulence compared to the rough, filthy, scored surfaces of the world outside. The underlord’s servants had worked tirelessly to restore the interior to its fo
rmer glory, and largely succeeded. The marble floors shone even in the inadequate blue light cast by the mage glass lamps and chandeliers.

  Kiera moved with the gaggle of supplicants flowing from the foyer into the grand ballroom where the underlord hosted the quarterly tributes. Nimat was seated upon a throne atop a dais. Dressed in black shimmersilk, she wore an elaborate mask worthy of a duchess or even empress, which, in her own right, she was.

  Behind her, Kiera spied a girl near her own age peering out from behind the folds, seemingly hiding out of shyness behind the throne’s curtained backdrop. She would not have even seen her in the dim light had her skin and hair not been so fair as to stand out against the deep red fabric.

  Across the room, Kiera recognized several faces in the crowd. Langdon stood next to his boss, Rafferty, with Iggy, Micah, and two more of his crew behind them. With Rafferty being the unofficial crime boss above ground, his entourage was larger than anyone else’s. Being at the bottom of the food chain, Kiera had to come alone. Most independents chose to pay whoever was in charge of the district they worked in, but Kiera had leveraged a deal giving her somewhat equal status to a local boss even if she ran a crew of just three.

  The amount of wealth being delivered into Nimat’s pale hands filled her with envy and more than a bit of anger. Rafferty and the other bosses of the larger gangs handed over enough treasure to pay her tribute for two or three years and still live comfortably. Seeing it only increased her ire and embarrassment when Nimat called her forward.

  “Ah, Kiera, although the poorest of my supplicants, I look forward to your tribute most of all,” Nimat said as Kiera walked toward the dais.

  Kiera tried to ignore the chuckles and whispered jokes at her expense, but she would have had better success blocking out the pain of a searing brand pressed against her flesh. The redness of her face, thankfully hidden in the chamber’s gloom, certainly looked like a red-hot iron.