NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  The second man paused, unsure of how to proceed. He stared at his dead comrade then at Fred, his boss’ face almost completely white due to the dream dust covering it.

  Fred gathered a thread of coherent thought. “Kill them!”

  The man nodded, stepped over his friend’s body, and charged at Cleary. Cleary deflected the wild chop with his sword, flipped the discharged pistol around to grab it by the barrel, and tried to club his attacker with the butt.

  The strike grazed the man’s ear but hit his shoulder squarely. The guard cursed and backed away. Kiera, being on no one’s side but her own, reeled back to hit Cleary. Fred had reloaded his pistols while his man had his attackers distracted and lowered one at the assassin. Cleary ducked beneath his aim, and now the sights were square on the thief.

  Kiera’s eyes widened, but her instincts took hold and she acted without hesitation. Her free hand slapped against the cord hanging from her hip. She whipped it forward, the weighted end wrapping around Fred’s gun hand, and jerked with all her strength. Fred’s shot went low and wide but scored another glancing hit to Cleary’s thigh.

  Blaming the nightbird’s interference for both of his injuries, Cleary spun around and tried to slash at Kiera. Kiera wrapped the cord around her baton, grabbed the rod with both hands, and leapt out of the window.

  The unexpected weight pulled Fred forward, and he collided with Cleary’s back, causing both men to tumble to the floor. Kiera bounced at the end of her lash and swayed a good fifteen or twenty feet over the cobblestone street. Banging sounds drew her eyes to the boarding house. Their battle had woken Fred’s reinforcements, and they were trying to batter their way through the blocked door. It was likely only a matter of seconds before the door gave way or someone got smart and simply jumped through one of the windows.

  Cleary lunged at Fred’s back with his sword, but the drug dealer turned back around and got away with a deep cut by deflecting the blade with his discharged pistol. Fred raised the other weapon, but Cleary ducked his head and charged. The shot sailed past Cleary’s head as he rammed into Fred.

  Fueled by dream dust, Fred wrapped his arms around Cleary’s shoulders and pushed off the wall, driving his assailant across the room. Kiera found herself racing upward toward the window and could now see the two men exchanging blows with pistols and sword hilts. She heard the boarding house door finally give way, and men poured out into the street with shouts of outrage. Some saw her dangling from the window and pointed. A couple of them shot at her, sending splinters of wood flying near her face.

  Shrill whistles added to the cacophony as dozens of gendarmes burst into the plaza. Unsure of what to do, the men turned and attacked the officers. Numerous musket shots thundered, striking down the thugs nearest the gendarmes.

  A massive melee erupted in the plaza between the criminals and the gendarmes, but a few of Fred’s men sprinted toward the counting house. Kiera spied a gendarme dressed in black and wearing a mask staring up at her. Their eyes met, and Kiera decided it was past time to leave.

  The nightbird grabbed the top of the window sill and braced her feet against the ledge. She was about to drop inside the room when the two men barreled toward her. Two heads appeared between her legs, the masked one facing down, Fred’s staring up at her.

  She brought one foot up and stomped. Cleary, either lucky or possessing some sixth sense, thrust his head to the side, letting Fred take the blow directly to his face. Kiera felt his nose crunch beneath her heel. Fred cursed, heaved up on Cleary’s shoulders, and pushed back into the room.

  Kiera gripped the window frame, raised her feet, and swung through the window, catching Fred in the back and sending both men crashing to the floor. Fred, being on top, recovered first. He jumped to his feet with a curse and hurled one of his pistols at Kiera. She threw herself to the floor, letting the bludgeon sail over her head, and scrambled beneath the bed.

  The sound of fighting resumed. Kiera assumed the assassin had regained his feet and recommenced his attack. Her hand struck something heavy. Barely able to see anything from beneath the bed, she grabbed the object and shoved it into a large pocket on her pack. There was no way she was going to leave this place without something to show for it.

  Kiera popped out on the other side of the bed and sprinted for the door. A figure appeared in the doorway, barring her path. Given the man’s shabby appearance and lack of uniform, Kiera assumed it was not a member of the gendarme, not that it would have altered her course of action in any way.

  She dropped beneath the man’s hasty sword swing, slid between his legs, and delivered a hammer blow to his crotch with the meaty side of her fist. The man bent double with a wracking cough. Kiera came up behind him and nearly collided with a second man. She dropped back to the floor and struck him in the side of the knee with her baton, collapsing the leg. The nightbird hit him in the side of the head for good measure as he fell.

  Kiera sprang to her feet once more only to find herself staring down the barrel of an exquisite pistol. The inquisitor held an equally splendid sword in his other hand, the void-steel and gold filigrees seeming to shine with a light all their own. Kiera’s brown eyes met the brilliant blue orbs behind the porcelain mask. For whatever reason, the inquisitor checked his shot, lifting his pistol to point at the ceiling.

  The young thief was not about to question her good fortune, nor was she going to pass up an opportunity to escape. Her cord flew from her hand and wrapped around the inquisitor’s ankle. Kiera hurled herself over the balcony railing.

  Bertram’s feet left the floor as the cord went taut. His back struck hard, blasting a good amount of air from his lungs. He slid toward the railing and arrested his momentum by bracing his foot against a banister post. He felt the girl, or possibly young boy but he suspected the former, bounce at the end of the line as her weight pulled at his trapped leg. He raised his sword and severed the cord with ease.

  Kiera resumed her fall with a loud snap of her rope being cut. She landed atop a desk with a crash, the wood splintering and collapsing beneath her, absorbing some of the impact. Her breath left her body and beads from the abacus she crushed went skittering across the floor. Sparing no time to recover, she rolled off the remnants of the desk and struggled to her feet.

  Her eyes met the inquisitor’s once more as he leaned over the balcony rail and stared down at her. Kiera raised a hand and flashed him an obscene gesture. She thought she may have actually heard him laugh behind his mask, but several gendarmes burst into the room at the same instant and rushed toward her.

  Booted feet landed on the scattered abacus beads and sent the first few men slipping and sliding. Those behind them tripped over the ones stumbling in front of them and all went down. Kiera wasted no time and raced out of the back door and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bertram could not contain his amusement at the little nightbird’s act of defiance. It was not often someone got the better of him, and certainly never a little girl. He was not sure what she had been doing here, but the fact that she struck out at the men he had chased up the stairs indicated she was not with the man he was after.

  He shook his head in disgust at seeing his men sliding across the floor, falling, and flailing like a pantomime of fools. The man the girl had punched in the balls had recovered and turned toward him with his weapon raised. Bertram cast him an annoyed look and shot him in the face.

  The inquisitor stepped over the other man, who showed no sign of rousing anytime soon, and rushed into the bedroom. He found the one he was looking for engaged in a fight with another man dressed in dark clothing and wearing the mask of a highborn. Whether or not he was entitled to wear it did not matter to Bertram. He would be answering plenty of questions when he brought them both in.

  The men paused their battle at the sight of the inquisitor. Cleary knew Bertram by reputation and had no desire to cross swords with him, especially when he was already having a hard enough time dealing with Fred. Taking a cue fro
m the troublesome little nightbird, he clambered out of the window, grabbed the gutter overhead, and climbed onto the roof.

  Bertram tried to chase after the man before he escaped through the window, but Fred had decided to flee in the direction of the door, and the two found each barring the other’s way. Seeing that he could not reach the masked man before he made his escape, Bertram settled for stopping Fred. Fred had no intention of being killed or arrested this night. He picked up the heavy nightstand and charged at the inquisitor.

  Bertram thrust his sword forward, and the void steel pierced the stout wood as if it were canvas. The blade punched through the nightstand’s back, came out of the drawer front, and stabbed Fred deep in the shoulder. Fred barely felt the pain from the bleeding wound thanks to the dream dust coursing through his system. He hurled the nightstand forward, forcing the blade out of his shoulder as it crashed into Bertram and sent him stumbling away.

  The inquisitor kicked his sword free and faced the irate and uncontrollable man. Fred rushed toward Bertram, heedless of the man’s lethal blade. Bertram set himself for the charge, ready to end Fred’s life.

  Half a dozen gendarmes stormed past Bertram and blocked Fred’s bull rush. Fred roared, snarled, and fought like a trapped animal. It took all six men to pin him to the floor, and even then they were barely able to get his hands and feet shackled.

  Once his men had Fred secured, Bertram sheathed his sword. “Take him and anyone else still alive to the gendarmerie and lock them up,” he ordered a sergeant. “How are our men?”

  “Three dead, half a score wounded, a few seriously,” the sergeant replied. “We killed eight men from the boarding house, wounded several more. I reckon half of them ran off, sah.”

  Bertram nodded, walked over to the bedroom window, and stared down at the street. Gendarmes swarmed the plaza, shackling prisoners and tending to the wounded. He winced inwardly when his eyes picked out the grey uniforms amongst the injured and dead.

  Bertram touched a spot of blood on the windowsill and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Be sure our wounded get the finest treatment in the city. I will pay for it myself if the gendarmerie balks at the bill,” he said as he began climbing through the window.

  “Sah, where are you going?”

  “I would like to have a word with the other man who was in this room.”

  Bertram heaved himself onto the roof and surveyed the area, hoping perhaps that the man was simply hiding until he and his men left. It did not appear he would be so lucky. Pulling a brass, techno-scribed tube from his pocket, the inquisitor shone the weak blue light cast from the arcanstone set inside the cylinder around the rooftop. He paused and studied the blood droplets illuminated by the light, grateful for having access to his uncle’s techno-arcanist.

  The light revealed a clear path leading to another roof, which Bertram followed back down to street level. He found a larger patch of blood, indicating that the wounded man had paused here to either watch the happenings around the counting house or to bandage his wounds. Given that the spacing between blood drops was increasing, Bertram assumed the delay was due to the latter.

  The inquisitor hoped that the man’s injuries were severe enough that he could follow him to his ultimate destination, otherwise his efforts would be for naught. Not that he had anything more important to do at the moment. It would likely be hours before Fred Switzer was coherent enough to answer any questions.

  Bertram followed the blood traces across the city, more and more often having to search a wide area after losing the trail. He was nearing the border of Midtown and Liberty and had begun to think that maybe the man was indeed a highborn and was not wearing an illegal, unregistered mask. He fixed the mask’s image firmly in his mind so that he could research it later. Even if it was registered, Bertram had a feeling that it did not belong to the man who wore it, but perhaps he would get lucky.

  The inquisitor searched the entire block on both sides of the gate separating the two districts but could not pick up the trail again. He cursed under his breath and stared helplessly at the buildings around him. Lights and noise drew his attention to a nearby brothel, Countless Delights. A memory tugged at the back of his mind and he followed its whispers toward the pleasure house.

  ***

  Cleary burst through the door of the house proper, his right hand pressed against the wound on his shoulder. Conner rushed from his study and found his man in the living room.

  “How did it go?” Conner asked.

  “About as well as a demon invited to a church sermon,” Cleary snapped.

  “What happened?”

  “A cascade of crap that landed, quite literally, on my head.”

  Conner sniffed the air. “Are you sure you mean literally?”

  Cleary scowled at his friend. “Maybe not literally, but close enough.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Everything was going perfectly. I took out the two men guarding the entrances and snuck into the room without a problem. I was just about to drive my sword into that piece of filth’s carcass when some nightbird, perched upon the roof, fell through the goddam skylight and landed, literally, in Fred’s lap. Damndest thing I ever saw. Fred bolts, snorts an entire party’s worth of dream dust, and we commence brawling, all three of us.”

  Cleary winced at the pain in his shoulder. “A minute later, Fred’s men charge out of the boarding house across the street and run into a platoon of gendarmes led by the chief inquisitor himself. Now I got a war going on outside while I’m fighting a three-way battle in the bedroom. My little nightbird decides it’s time to go and hightails it out of the room, taking down two of Fred’s men and the chief inquisitor on the way out.”

  The assassin patted at his vest pockets. “I think the little bitch lifted my purse too.”

  “You’re sure it was a girl?”

  “Pretty sure. Slip of a thing, but she fought like a dune drake.”

  “Then what?”

  “I figured it was time for me to leave as well. I was having enough trouble with Fred being high out of his gourd without tangling with the inquisitor and a bunch of gendarmes. I went out the window and across the rooftop.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  Cleary shook his head. “I wouldn’t have come back here if I thought it remotely likely.”

  Both men’s heads snapped toward the front door when someone knocked.

  Conner gave his man a small push. “Go and stitch yourself up, quickly.”

  Cleary disappeared up the stairs as Conner paused to give him time to treat his wounds. At a third series of knocks, each growing more insistent than the last, Conner crossed the foyer and opened the door.

  He repressed the urge to curse when he saw who had come calling. “Can I help you, Inquisitor?”

  Bertram ducked his head. “Conner Rey?”

  “Yes.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you so late in the evening.”

  Conner adopted a welcoming smile. “It’s not quite so late for me. My business has me keeping odd hours. I was only just setting myself to retire.”

  “Excellent, may I come in?”

  The master of the house flicked his eyes to the side, unconsciously seeking out his man. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t think so, but I did track a man to your establishment whom I would like to speak with regarding a situation that occurred earlier.”

  “I assure you, no one has come here. It is possible he went through the pleasure house if he thought someone was following him. You might want to ask the girls if they have seen anything suspicious.”

  Bertram nodded. “I imagine you are correct, but it is unlikely I will find him now. I would like to talk to you, however. I promise, I will not take too much of your time, and you did say the hour is not too late for you.”

  Conner stifled a sour look and opened the door wide. “Of course. Would you care for a drink?” He pointed at the inquisitor’s mask. “It appears y
ou have had a rough night.”

  Bertram removed his mask and traced his finger along the crack marring its surface as they entered the parlor. “I did. It is fortunate that I have a penchant for fighting and so have a wardrobe stocked with replacements.” He nodded at the cane his host leaned upon. “You are no stranger to battle yourself, are you?”

  “A very old injury. The most dangerous thing in my profession these days is dealing with an unsatisfied customer. Fortunately, I run an excellent organization and they are very rare. I do not believe you have ever patronized my establishment.”

  “No, but do not take it as an offense. I have never found myself in need of…those services. Bertram stuck out his hand. “Forgive me, I did not properly introduce myself. I am Bertram Velarius.”

  Conner shook the offered hand. “I know you, at least by reputation.”

  Bertram grinned. “And yet you invited me in anyway. Thank you, sah.”

  Conner gestured to a sofa and both men sat. “Reputations can be good or bad depending on one’s perspective.”

  “They can indeed. Speaking of reputations, I am familiar with yours as well.”

  Conner’s eyebrows rose into an arch. “Is that right? What kind of reputation do I have with our esteemed gendarme?”

  “That you were a rather formidable inquisitor yourself in your day.”

  A multitude of memories flashed through Conner’s mind, but he willed the nightmare to return to its cage where he tried desperately to keep it contained. “I promised you a drink. Mr. Cleary!”

  Cleary appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in his steward’s uniform. “Yes, sah?”

  “We have a guest. Please bring us a whiskey. One of my finest, if you please.”

  “Yes, sah.”