NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

Panic set in when she found she could not even breathe. Her chest refused all commands to rise. Her eyes stared helplessly as she watched the fallen sand globe make a wobbling roll toward the door through which Russel had disappeared. A moment later, the small panel at the bottom opened up, a hand snaked through to snatch up the trinket, and both vanished back inside.

  “Muh,” Kiera managed a moment before finally being able to draw a proper breath. “You’re welcome!”

  Wesley walked around her paralyzed body and knelt beside her where their eyes could meet. “So, what did we learn?”

  Kiera ignored the taunting, condescending tone in his voice. “Russel doesn’t like to be touched.”

  “Mhm, and what else?”

  “I need to learn to control my temper.”

  “Yes, very good. So what are we going to do next time Russel is being difficult?”

  Kiera swallowed and took several deep breaths. “Understand and accept that Russel is different and requires a lot of patience.”

  “Do you think you can actually do that?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Wesley’s head bobbed. “Me too, but I’m glad we were able to have a nice talk.”

  “Please go away. I have had all the humiliation I can take for one day.”

  “Are you sure? Because it looks like you’ve peed yourself a little.”

  Kiera managed to move her hand to her crotch. “Goddammit.”

  She sniffed the air and her eyes crossed from the powerful, animal odor wafting up from Russel’s kingdom. Kiera managed to pound the deck with her feet and hands and shouted, “What in the Tormented Plane is that horrible smell?”

  ***

  Bertram entered the interrogation room and took a seat across from the man chained to the table. “Fred Switzer, you have been in here so often we should put a placard above the door with your name on it.”

  Fred grinned, displaying several gold teeth. “You know why I keep coming back? Because they always let me go, just like you’re going to do.”

  The inquisitor’s eyebrows rose. “Is that right? Why would I do that?”

  “Because you got no damn reason to hold me—or my men!”

  “You assaulted the chief inquisitor.”

  “I was impaired and beset by assassins! I didn’t know it was you. I thought maybe you were one of them.”

  “Your men took up arms against the gendarme. They killed four of my officers and wounded several others.”

  “Same defense. They were coming to my aid and didn’t realize who you were in all the confusion. I’ll make restitution to their families after you release me.”

  “Is that a bribe?”

  “Call it an apology,” Fred replied with a shrug.

  “You had a lot of men close by, even for you.”

  “I had a lot to protect, and my paranoia was well justified, as you can see.”

  “Why did you have so much gold with you, and why take up in that boarding house instead of your proper home where you would have been more secure?”

  “That’s my business and none of yours.”

  Bertram leaned forward and glared into Fred’s bloodshot eyes. “It became my business when your people killed four of my men.”

  Fred matched the inquisitor’s stare for several seconds before leaning back and smiling. “I had a large purchase to make, and I thought anonymity a better defense than strong walls and guards.”

  “What were you buying, your own airship? It was a lot of gold.”

  “Like I said, it’s my business, and I’d like to get back to it. Either bring me before the magistrate or cut me, my men, and my coin loose. I have rights, and I’m sure a man so preoccupied with the law doesn’t want to violate it.”

  Bertram stood. “Justice is a funny thing. It does not always walk hand in hand with the law.”

  “You can’t keep me here!” Fred shouted at the inquisitor’s back.

  “Sah Bertram,” a lieutenant said when the inquisitor exited the interrogation room, “Commandant Vanos wishes to speak to you.”

  “I’m afraid I am a bit busy at the moment. Tell the commandant I will attend him when I get the time.”

  “Sah, he insisted that you come immediately.”

  Bertram was about to tell the young officer what Reto could do with his insistence, but the stress of being pit between the two highest-ranking men in the gendarme showed on the trooper’s face and he relented. “Very well. I will go there now.”

  “Thank you, sah.”

  Reto’s office was located at the other end of the expansive government building, as far from the holding cells and interrogation rooms as possible. Bertram did not want to waste such valuable time with the man, but defying him might cause more delays than avoiding him. His secretary leapt from his seat and opened the door when it was apparent that the inquisitor was not going to wait to be announced.

  “You wished to see me?” Bertram asked.

  “I did. Would you like to sit?” Reto gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

  “I don’t expect to stay long. I have an investigation to get to and time is rather pressing at the moment.”

  “Very well, I will get straight to the point then. Release Fred Switzer and his men and any property seized from his home.”

  “Technically, no property was removed from his home. I did confiscate a large sum of money and an extensive cache of drugs from his hideout.”

  “Where he was is not an issue. Holding him without strong evidence of criminal activity is.”

  “His men killed four of ours! Is that not criminal enough?”

  “Which ones fired the fatal shots?”

  “They worked in collusion and are therefore all guilty.”

  “Given the confusion of the situation, the argument for self-defense is going to hold up in court. You know that. If we can get witnesses to identify the ones who shot our officers, we can levy charges that might stick. Even then, we have no legitimate charges to bring against Switzer.”

  Bertram took three steps forward and pressed his knuckles into the commandant’s desk. “Then I’ll levy illegitimate charges. At least he will be off the street until after his trial and we disrupt whatever nefarious scheme he had planned for that money.”

  Reto shook his head and his face sagged with a look of remorse that would have been hard to feign. “This is how it starts, Bertram.”

  “How what starts?”

  “The compromising of one’s principles. I was much like you when I was your age and joined the gendarme. I had dreams of ridding the streets of crime and men like Fred Switzer. It starts honorably enough, making sure that charges stick despite my methods of supplying evidence. You justify bending the rules for the greater good. The problem is that every time you bend something, it weakens and it is only a matter of time before the proper force is applied and bends it the other way.”

  Reto locked eyes with Bertram. “If you truly believe in the law, you will let Fred go. The man was attacked in the middle of the night, and his men were coming to his aid when ours came running out of the darkness. I know it is a bitter pill to swallow, but even people like Switzer can be victims.”

  Bertram ground his knuckles against the wood until they hurt. He released a long breath and stood up straight. “I will let him and his men go in the morning. I need to investigate who tried to kill him and why, and I can better do that with him not getting in my way.”

  Reto nodded. “Fair enough. I should be able to appease him and his lawyers for another day, but no longer.”

  “Thank you.” Bertram turned and walked to the exit but paused with his hand on the handle and looked back. “Do you recall the day it happened to you?”

  Reto looked up from his desk. “Pardon?”

  “The day you bent the other direction. Was it a single event or a slow, steady pressure over time?”

  Seeing no answer forthcoming, Bertram strode from the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  Cleary waited until the
sun went down and the gendarme surrounding the counting house finally decided to vacate the premises. He winced at the pain his movements elicited in his shoulder, but it did not slow him down or impair his ability overmuch. The gendarmes posted to guard the building did so with even less skill and attention than Fred’s people had. It was not difficult to get past them and sneak inside.

  Fred was up to something, something big. Cleary had been doing this sort of thing long enough to know when a man like Fred had something in the works, and he wanted to know what it was. The gendarme had him, but it was unlikely they would hold him long. He had enough money and influence to slip out of whatever shaky evidence and suspicion they were holding him on.

  Given his brief inspection of the interior during his prior visit, Cleary knew that Fred conducted all of his business upstairs and so ignored the sprawling, dusty, littered room on the ground floor. He padded across the room and up the stairs, his footfalls light and silent, inherently knowing which floorboards to step over to avoid their squeaking protests. Cleary went straight to the office he knew Fred had been using as his headquarters these last few days. The chests, which he assumed were filled with coin or other wealth, were gone, likely taken by the gendarme. He did not care. He was here for something more valuable than coin—information.

  Cleary went to the desk and opened the center drawer. He set a small mage glass light on the surface and pulled out several sheets of paper. Flipping through them, he slid each one back into the drawer as he discounted their value. He paused at one and held it closer to the blue light to read it.

  “I see you find that page as interesting as I did.”

  Cleary dropped the paper onto the desk, his sword and pistol leaping into his hands before the sheet came to rest. A figure stepped into the doorway, his mask becoming visible first in the dim light, followed by the black sword and pistol he held.

  Cleary’s first instinct was to shoot the man, but he hesitated, not because he had any moral qualm about killing the inquisitor, but because there was a risk that it would mean failing his mission and endangering Conner. While the two men were equally positioned, it did not mean that neither had an advantage.

  Cleary took note of Bertram’s weapons, particularly the pistol, and appraised their quality. While his own was as fine a weapon as any, the two pistols were nowhere near equal. Bertram’s used a small arcanstone set in the hammer to deliver an electric spark directly to the powder, unlike his own, which used a conventional flint striker and pan. While Cleary had confidence in his weapon not misfiring, the odds of failure were vastly greater than that of the inquisitor’s.

  He was aware of the young man’s reputation for dueling and knew he would not balk and his aim would be true if it came to a gunfight. Even if Cleary managed to win the bout, the noise would draw the attention of the gendarmes patrolling outside.

  Given that the inquisitor had not shot him on the spot, he assumed the man wanted to talk. He tucked his pistol back into his belt and sheathed his sword. Bertram lowered his weapons but did not put them away.

  “Evening, Inquisitor.”

  Bertram cocked his head. “Is that you, Mr. Cleary? You are wearing a different mask than the last two times we met. You must have a collection equal in number but far more varied than my own.”

  “I don’t know no one by that name,” Cleary replied, using a rough, guttural dialect harkening back to his criminal days.

  “Of course you don’t. Would you prefer I call you Sah Isaiah? I doubt either of those are your real name. Something tells me I could pick a name out of the air and it would be one you have used at one point or another.”

  “What do you want from me, Inquisitor?”

  “I would like to ask you some questions if you care to indulge me a minute.”

  Cleary nodded at the weapons Bertram was still holding. “You got my undivided attention. What would you know?”

  “Why were you here last night?”

  “I came to kill Switzer.”

  “Why?”

  Cleary shrugged. “Pick a reason. There’s as many as dust in the air.”

  Bertram nodded. “That’s certainly true, but I have to think you had a particular grudge against the man. What was it?”

  “Fred deals in poison. A lot of decent folk died because of him. Law couldn’t or wouldn’t bring him to justice, so I decided to bring justice to him.”

  Bertram weighed the man’s words. While plausible, he felt that there was something more to his motivation. “What about the girl, what was she doing here?”

  “You mean other than getting in my damn way? No idea. The little nightbird fell through the goddam skylight right atop Fred just before I was to run him through.”

  “That was certainly a bit of bad luck.”

  “For me it was. Not so much for Fred. I don’t think it’s going to pan out well for our nightbird either if Fred figures out who she is and finds her before I get to him.”

  “Do you know who she is? It might be fruitful to watch her if Fred comes after her.”

  Cleary had a name, Kiera, but he was not about to share it with the inquisitor. He had heard the boy, Wesley, speak it when he was talking to Fred’s lanky henchman. The timing of her arrival at Switzer’s hideout was too good to be mere coincidence.

  “No idea.”

  Bertram shrugged. “That’s a shame. Perhaps that letter will lead us to Fred? I was unable to read it, so I assume it is coded.”

  “We?”

  “I think you and I are both after the same thing.”

  “You think so, eh?”

  “Fred Switzer and men like him have escaped justice time and time again. I mean to put a stop to it.”

  Cleary shook his head. “You ain’t gonna stop the rot. It goes so deep not even the duke can cut it out. They’ll get to you just like they got to everyone who thought to stop them.”

  “Like they got to Conner Rey?”

  Cleary paused at the name, silently chiding himself for his hesitation. “Like him or like the rest of the gendarme, including your commandant. One way or another, they’ll get to you.”

  “That’s why you work in the shadows.”

  “Can’t kill what you can’t see.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but one day, I will be in a position to truly make a change.”

  Cleary scoffed. “You think they ain’t got to the duke already?”

  Bertram’s voice dropped an octave, his tone warning the man to tread carefully. “My uncle is a good man. He has worked his entire life to make this city as great as it can be, for everyone.”

  “Has he now? Then what are we doing standing in a criminal’s warren trying to find out where he’s gone to? You got him in your jail, but I bet he’s walking out by the time the sun comes up. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Bertram’s jaw muscles tightened behind his mask. “Tell me what that paper says.”

  Cleary set the page on the desk next to his mage glass light and sat in the chair. “You’re right about it being coded. No way a man of your standing would know it.”

  “But you do?”

  “It’s clearly an Undercity cypher, but it’s mixed with something I’ve not seen before. Probably something of Fred’s own devising.”

  “He’s making a purchase. Something very valuable.”

  Cleary’s head snapped up at the statement. With his hands hidden behind the desk, he subtly took out the grenado hidden in a pocket and twisted the key set in its top to raise the spring-loaded piece of flint inside. Each click represented half a second. He turned the key four times.

  “Looks like it, but I can’t say what it is, when it gets here, or where he’s supposed to make the trade.”

  Bertram raised his pistol and sword once more. “I had hoped you would prove to be of more use to me. I suppose I will have to take you and the letter in with me. Perhaps Fred will be open to decoding the message if I have his assassin as a bargaining chip. It’s nothing personal, but I have a job to do.” />
  Cleary nodded as he depressed the button that released the grenado’s clockwork timer. “So do I.”

  He rolled the explosive under the desk, flipped the heavy piece of furniture over, and took shelter behind it. Bertram fired his pistol, the shot penetrating the thick wood just inches from Cleary’s head, before diving out of the door frame. The grenado exploded, blasting a large hole in the adjacent wall and tripling the size of the doorway.

  Half of the grenado’s payload was flash powder, and a burst of dazzling light accompanied the concussive force, combining to create a device meant to be as debilitating as it was destructive. Even if Bertram had not had the foresight to shield his eyes, the power of the blast should leave him shaken. At least so Cleary hoped. He was not as young as he used to be, and it was doubtful he could outrun the young man.

  Cleary jumped up from behind the overturned desk and sprinted through the new exit created by the explosion. He heard a curse behind him but no sounds of immediate pursuit as he ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time.

  Two of the gendarmes lurking outside ran into the building just as he reached the ground floor. Cleary raised his pistol and fired, striking the leading man in the thigh. He went down with a cry. The second gendarme stumbled over his fallen comrade, and raised his musket. Cleary sprinted across the room, struck the weapon’s bayonet with his sword, and fouled the man’s aim.

  The musket discharged over his left shoulder, the fire and powder stinging the side of his head. Cleary struck the man between the eyes with his pistol and hastened the gendarme’s fall with a hard shove. The shrill sound of whistles cut through the night and grey-cloaked forms raced toward the counting house.

  Cleary bolted for the relative safety of the shadow-laden alleys, but at least one of the gendarmes had spotted his retreat and gave chase, his lungs forcing each exhalation through the whistle clamped between his lips. After several minutes of heated pursuit, Cleary’s labored breathing began to sound like the whistles being blown behind him.

  Spotting a highborn leaving one of the better Midtown taverns and climbing into a carriage, Cleary shrugged off his muted grey overcoat, turned it inside out to display the crimson interior, and leapt into the seat beside the masked man.