The Verse of Sibilant Shadows: A set of tales from the Irrational Worlds

by JM Guillen

“What can you tell me?” I leaned back in my chair. “Do you have an address where I could start?”

  “No.” Santiago’s brow furrowed with impotent frustration. “This is part of the problem, yes? My sister’s odd little… affectations.”

  I said nothing, simply waiting. I knew Santiago, and already had his agreement. After a moment, he continued.

  “Rebeka’s association with the Red Hand was always an interesting one. She would take money from her brother, but would never accept the Guild funds that our father left her. She found the business distasteful and was always worried that my activities would lead to difficulties in her life.”

  Heroically, I refrained from pointing out that she had apparently been correct to do so.

  “So she would rarely stay at the family holdings. Rebeka would take rooms at various wayhouses and taverns across the city, sometimes having more than one at once. She would give the proprietors false names, sometimes going out of her way to alter her hair or dress like a guildwoman.” An appreciative smile tugged at the edge of Santiago’s lips. “She was a hard woman to track.”

  “Even for the Red Hand?”

  “Heh,” Santiago chuckled. “Rebeka was her father’s daughter, just as I am his son. She knew her business.” He cleared his throat. “She was always afraid, you know. Rebeka could never forget how our mother found her horrific end.” Santiago’s voice grew quiet. “This is a hard business for a woman, Judicar.”

  We sat in quiet for a moment. The fate of Dúcelia Il Ladren was a well-known story on the streets. It was often used as a morality lesson for women who wished to live among the powerful and corrupt guildmen of the Warrens.

  I could imagine those memories having quite the profound effect on a daughter.

  “I used to keep track of her, Judicar. I did. But eventually, it became obvious that her wishes would not change. She wanted little and less to do with the Red Hand, so I stopped having her followed.” He sighed. “I let my sister be.”

  No address. No clues regarding her life. Tainted Night, she could be a famous singer or player for all I knew, hidden under another name.

  That was frustrating.

  “What can you give me, Senír?” I held my hands out, palms up, in a helpless gesture. “Do you have anything at all?”

  “Ci.” Santiago stood, his face grim. “I do.”

  Thank the lost gods. I gave a small sigh of relief. I thought I might be starting with an empty hand.

  “Come, Tomás.” He walked around the desk. His lithe guardians flanked him, just steps behind.

  “Let me have Grith introduce you to the last man who saw Rebeka alive.”

  4

  Santiago had Grith walk me down through the gambling pits. As we walked through them, folks grew just a touch quieter. In the corner of one was the man I had heard on the violi when I had come in. He had long gray hair and wore a tie and bowler. Now, he played something slower than he had been, almost mournful. It was a song that seemed to pull sadness from the air. I listened, trying to catch the tune.

  Was it Drae’s Sojourn?

  Perhaps. I listened for a moment. Scoundrel shifted and muttered on my shoulder; I absently scratched her neck.

  “Judicar.” A thin man tipped his hat to me. He was playing a game of daief with three other men. It looked to be a fierce hand, but no one was showing their castle yet.

  “Gents.” I smiled, looking over their table. There were a half dozen just like it, scattered around the room. Of course, some played rout and others draughts, but each game was deadly serious. Just this one had a small pile of silver slips in the middle, along with a fistful of salt notes.

  “Want to throw in, Judicar?” A younger man with a waxed mustache sat on the other side of the table. “We’re only two rounds deep. Plenty of time to toss some silver in.”

  I eyed the table skeptically. “Two rounds? That’s a rich haul for two rounds!”

  The third man leaned back in his chair. He was one of the Sindri, with their typical, bright-red hair. “What use is playing if the pot’s poor?”

  “The judicar hasn’t time for any play, does he?” Grith gave me a wide grin. “Why, he has all manner of noble work to do.”

  I gave Grith an irritated look. He was correct, of course. I just didn’t like that he got to enjoy being right.

  “Master Grith is correct.” I gave the gentlemen a smile. “There are things that he has failed to take care of for the Red Marquis, and as a result, an adult had to step in.”

  The men laughed. Grith, however, did not enjoy my wit as much as the men at the table did. He grumbled as he led me on.

  I shrugged at the men as we strode away. They were still laughing.

  After stepping down a wending corridor, the lean man opened a door and stuck his head in for a nonce. He nodded, seeming satisfied. He turned to me.

  “It’s Edmund Groil.”

  A tight smile found my lips. “Eddie the Filch.”

  “Filch.” Scoundrel mimicked me. She looked at Grith. “Filch, Filch.”

  Grith flinched away from Scoundrel but tried to hide it by leaning on a nearby door-post. An uncomfortable moment passed before he spoke again.

  “You know the man?” Grith cocked an eye at me.

  “I know his reputation. Eddie has a long list of things I suspect him of. Several break-ins, to be exact.” I grinned. “My fellow judicar, Wil, was after him for a while.”

  It was a bit more than that. Eddie was exactly the man Wil had been after when he had started digging into the Red Hand. On the surface, Eddie was a registered lock-hawk, but things went considerably deeper than that. Wil had been hunting someone who had slipped through the locked side-gate at a Warrens taproom, and that single assignment had led him on a merry chase.

  “I’m certain our Eddie proved hisself clean.”

  I smiled at Grith. “Wil couldn’t prove anything, or Eddie wouldn’t be here.” I nodded toward the door. “What does he have to do with Rebeka?”

  Grith smiled at me. “Eddie had his eye on Rebeka. Long years now, ‘e’d do her the occasional sweet, but she really weren’t interested.”

  I gave the man a curious look. “So Eddie had a liking for Santiago’s sister?”

  He gave me a dour glance at the familiar use of the man’s name. “Senĩr Il Ladren wasn’t having any of it, was he? Eddie Groil wasn’t quite the man the Red Marquis wanted for his sister.”

  “I bet Eddie didn’t take well to that.”

  “Rebeka always had men looking after her, whether she knew it or not. She had a kind heart and did a lot of good in the c’munity.” Grith reached for his tin of fumas and set one between his lips. He struck a match against his thumb. “Eddie wasn’t the only one, but he were persistent.” He lit his smoke and grinned at me.

  “You think one of these men might be who I need to be hunting?”

  Grith inhaled sweet smoke and considered. “Rebeka was a good woman. Happy. If you were looking for every man who had even sniffed after her’ that’d be a long list.”

  Happy. That made sense.

  “The Smiling Lady.” He played a card with a beautiful, dark haired woman on it. She seemed familiar somehow.

  “Santiago says Eddie was the last one to see her?” That sounded suspicious. The man was carrying a torch for Rebeka, and he also was the last person to see her alive?

  Too easy.

  “He was. I’ll let him tell you though, won’t I?” Grith smiled and stepped into the room.

  I followed closely behind, with my good girl on my shoulder.

  “Thom.” She ruffled her feathers and nuzzled into me. I knew she just wanted attention.

  Quiet. I quickly made the hand-sign, and my girl settled down.

  Eddie the Filch was a slender man, short and nervous, with thin brown hair. I knew him by sight. As I had said, he had been a suspect of Wil’s, and I had suspected him in a great many minor illegal events, but he had never actually been caught.

  The room swam wi
th thick tabac smoke. It had an odd, spicy scent. The walls were lined with wooden shelves, piled with small boxes and disassembled padlocks. Eddie sat in the corner, smoking, as he looked over a lockbox. In his hands he had a pair of thin pick-wires.

  When I walked through the door with Scoundrel on my shoulder, I thought he was going to leap through the ceiling.

  “Judicar!” The word exploded out of him. “I been here all night. I haven’t been—”

  “Shut up, Eddie.” Grith gave the man a tired look. “Thom here is just looking to ask some questions about Rebeka, ain’t he?”

  Eddie relaxed just a touch. Still, the man seemed wound tightly. Drunk? Maybe. I gave him a nod.

  “I am, Eddie. I wasn’t even here to talk about whatever—” I paused, “—whatever that is that you’re up to.” I gave the man a hard smile while looking at the box.

  “I’m a registered lock-hawk, Judicar.” He met my gaze. “This here is a hired piece of work by Malthers, over at the Salt-house.” He smiled. “It’s easy for a skilled man to find honest work.”

  “Malthers.” I didn’t ask any questions. I knew from experience that sometimes, I didn’t have to.

  “Right. He has commissioned new strongboxes. Better locks.” Eddie made a twirling motion with one of his picks. “Something about salt-springs north of the city.”

  I nodded. Someone had been hitting caravans coming from some of the city’s outliers, caravans loaded with precious salt. It sounded as if Malthers was looking at his options.

  Lost gods. The Filch might actually be about solid work.

  “That’s fine, Eddie. That’s not what I’m here for.” I took a seat in one of the rickety wooden chairs, straddling it backward. Scoundrel, for her part, squawked and opened her wings, trying to keep her balance.

  “Oh. That’s real good. Not that I’ve—” Eddie shook his head. “Haven’t been up to anything, is what I mean. I was just afraid you’d come looking for someone and you had the wrong guy. You know. Like before.”

  “I remember before, Eddie.” I gave him a hard look. “Wil still isn’t certain he had the wrong guy.”

  Eddie shrugged, his eyes red and unfocused. “I been here all night. Wouldn’t catch me outside in the rain anyway. I catch sick if I get my head in the wet. Every time.”

  Grith shook his head and walked out of the room. He quietly shut the door behind himself. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “drunken idiot.”

  “Eddie, tell me about Rebeka.” I leaned forward. “Tell me everything you remember.”

  Nodding, he set the lockbox aside. I noticed that his hands were trembling. “Always happy to help.”

  He wasn’t though. Eddie the Filch sat up straight, trying to avoid looking too guilty. He was trying too hard, it seemed to me.

  That was fine. Perhaps if he was nervous, he would trip his own gait.

  5

  The cause was obvious, and Grith had figured it out. The man was drunk or, more likely, doped on some tonic. I could faintly smell it on him, a sharp, peppery scent. Half of what he said was rambling nonsense.

  “Last week?” He was musing, as if speaking to someone who wasn’t there. “Yes. It was early Riddling morning—”

  “How early?”

  He scratched nervously at his face. “Third bell, Dawning perhaps? Or fourth?” He nodded vaguely. “Somewhere thereabouts.”

  I sifted out that he had seen Rebeka, already beginning her rounds. She apparently delivered small baskets of staples and sundries to take out to the poor on established routes. I took it from Eddie’s ramblings that the goods had been donated by Santiago.

  I’ll admit, the idea made me scowl. It was obviously a play by Santiago—using his sister to show the good his guild did in the Warrens.

  The man was a kabron.

  “She was so sweet, Thom.” His eyes were red and wet. “She was one of the good ones.”

  As I listened, I thought about how fortunate it was for Rebeka that her brother was the Guildmaster of the Red Hand. His name had weight. No one would want to stop Rebeka from doing her rounds, not if they knew who she was. She should have been able to step through the most dangerous neighborhoods with no concern.

  That was an important point.

  “Do you think the men that took her knew who she was?” I interrupted Eddie, who was rambling again.

  “I dunno, sir.” He was sweating. “I was over by Dockside when I saw them. They came out of an alleyway there—you know the one, it’s by the tallow works.”

  I did know the alley. When it rained, the streets ran in rainbows from the tallow. “And she still had her parcels with her?”

  He nodded.

  “And you didn’t see their faces?”

  “I didn’t, sir. I been asked by Senĩr Il Ladren, but I didn’t see nothin’ at all. Just them takin’ her.”

  Of course. This was going nowhere. At least I could check the alleyway, but—

  “Thank you, Eddie. If I need anything else, I’ll come back.” I stood.

  “Don’t you think she’s dead?” The sentence came out in a rush. “Most folks seem to think she’s already—”

  “I don’t know what to think, Eddie. But I wouldn’t be looking if I thought she was dead.”

  “Dead.” My girl opened her wings. “Dead. Dead. Dead.” She fixed a gaze upon Eddie.

  I gestured to my smart girl. Quiet, sweet bird.

  Eddie didn’t like Scoundrel’s attention. “Well, Judicar, if there’s anything—I mean, if you need—”

  I nodded wearily. “If there’s anything I need from you Eddie, I’ll be back.”

  I couldn’t decide if he was happier that I was leaving or more fearful that I’d return. I couldn’t imagine any reason I would need to speak with him again. The man was a waste of breath who knew nothing that mattered.

  I had no real way forward.

  I closed the door behind me and walked back down the hallway. This time, I took a right at the gambling pits and made my way to the front door.

  “You can still pitch in, Judicar!” The Sindri man’s voice was just a touch slurred. I ignored him. I had larger problems.

  Potentially deadly problems.

  Latigo stood at the door, wearing a thick coat against the rain. The furred hat was still on his head. He was a large and dark sentinel, peering into the darkness. It looked as if the storm had grown worse.

  When he saw me, he jeered. “Have a nice night, Judicar.”

  I did not answer. I strode by him, my head swirling with dark thoughts.

  I felt Santiago’s anger, his fury. It was like a wash of heat. “If I don’t find her, people will die.” His voice was twisted and fierce. “That’s the way of it, Judicar.”

  That was the way of it.

  Three days.

  I strode into the storm.

  The Striking Viper

  Seeking, Third Bell, Eventide

  Less than a bell later, I was halfway across the Warrens. The rain came and went, and of course I was soaked through. Still, I hated feeling as if I were empty-handed. I would have been out tonight no matter what the weather.

  Technically, I had three days. My time didn’t even begin until the morning, but I wanted to at least have a thread.

  “Thom.” Scoundrel was less than happy to be in the wet. She was nuzzling as far beneath my hat as she could and kept shaking the water from her wings.

  “Sorry, little sweet.” I caressed her, trying to wipe some of the wet off her feathers.

  Neither of us wanted to be out here.

  Unfortunately, the only real direction I had was that alleyway by the tallow-works. It had just been a few days since she was taken, yet, there was only a slim chance that I would find something that might make a difference.

  As I walked toward Gaslight Road, I began to wonder.

  Dockside isn’t a wealthy borough by any stretch of the imagination, but it has more affluence than the Warrens. Therefore, as I walked through my borough, the
buildings gradually grew better kept and cleaner as we approached Dockside. In fact, one might say that, of Warrens residents, the “wealthier” ones lived near Dockside. Wasn’t it strange that Rebeka had even been over here? Whom was she delivering to?

  I passed one of my favorite taverns, the Masque and Moon. I was sorely tempted to go inside, maybe even see if Wil was about, but I couldn’t.

  I needed to stay on task.

  I kept on, bypassing three more taprooms and a show-house that was putting on a play. The rain had faded to a gentle mist now, and more people were stepping out onto the streets. I saw drunken revelers making their way home and lightmen re-lighting the gaslights that had gone out from the weather. The gentle glow of the lamps seemed to hang in the mist.

  In the shelter of an awning, three ‘prentices were playing throw-stones as I passed. One of them, a Sindri street boy, called his rhyme before his toss.

  Can you hear them, calling out?

  His men, they wander, all about.

  Terror makes the sweetest meal.

  Orahiel. Orahiel.

  He threw the die-stones, landing the three of them in a circle. There was a chorus of groans as the boy won. The boy grabbed the stones and canted again, his thick accent making the words echo oddly in the shadowed street.

  Eyes on hands, they look at you,

  Seeing all things, through and through.

  When shadows drink all that you feel.

  Orahiel. Orahiel.

  There were hundreds of rhymes that went with throw-stones, most of them about how to ward demons or detect the taint within someone. We all learned them as children.

  These, however, made me feel uneasy.

  Orahiel and his mad followers had been real, as real as Elsador or Altheus or Keinė. The depraved cult had followed his tenets and worked secrets in the shadows. For most of my life, I had imagined that the sect was long dead.

  Until five years ago. That’s when the madmen had attempted to infiltrate the Guild Senate.

  It had begun simply, in all honesty. The cult had indoctrinated women who worked in pillow-houses, typically high-end courtesans. Of course, only the wealthy could enjoy indulgences of that caliber, and so these cultists had gradually learned sensitive secrets and cowed powerful men. They took secrets and dealt back horror and madness.