The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  Tristan opened a cabinet and withdrew a large mirror. It was a gorgeous work. The mirror itself was oval, surrounded by an intricately fashioned silver frame that hung between two supporting poles. A slight touch would rotate the mirror easily. The poles, too, were silver, covered with twining ivy. Its feet ended in dragon’s claws. Three inches from the bottom, two sconces twined out from the side, bearing half-burned beeswax candles.

  Gently, he set it down on the stone table. “This is the prize of my collection,” he informed Sigfrid. “I use it for scrying. I acquired it a long time ago, when both Kethmaar and I were younger than you. It looks just like an ordinary mirror when I’m not—”

  He broke off, startled, and sat down in front of the mirror. All that could be seen in its polished glass was a dark, sluggishly swirling bank of gray-black fog. Sigfrid seated himself on the table, wisely holding his tongue. This was Tristan’s territory, and Sigfrid would wait for him to speak. Tristan watched the glass for a while, seeing if any image would emerge. None did. Tristan lit the candles and gave the mirror a series of instructions.

  “Show me Ivaar.” The mists did not clear. “Show me the Vistana encampment. Show me Othmar.” More requests. All proved useless. The fog continued to swirl, unconcerned. At last, frowning, he eased his chair back and looked at Sigfrid.

  “I gather something’s wrong,” Sigfrid hazarded.

  Tristan nodded. “Normally, it’s simply a mirror. With the right commands, it can show me certain things.”

  Sigfrid whistled in admiration. “That’s pretty useful.”

  “Yes and no. It’s very tiring to use, and I have to word things just the right way. It’s a tool, like any other tool. But right now, I think it’s a broken one. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sigfrid. We may have to approach this murder like ordinary mortals. We can only hope our killer does as well.”

  Sigfrid looked grim. “You didn’t see that body. There was nothing ordinary about the way she died.”

  Tristan did not answer his friend. He merely continued to stare, wondering, into the gray murk that clouded his scrying mirror.

  Dagmar Valdisdottir took a deep breath and attempted to maintain a hold on her patience. The young prostitute quailing before her was obviously genuinely terrified. Yelling at the girl wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Dagmar glanced over at her partner, Hallam. He, too, was getting tired of asking the same questions and getting the same nonsensical responses. His mouth was drawn in that thin line that Dagmar had come to recognize as utter impatience.

  “Let’s start again, shall we?”

  The prostitute’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I’ve told ye all I know! It’s the truth, me lady, honest it is!”

  “Sergeant, not my lady,” Dagmar corrected her. “Ara, I sympathize with your loss, but you can’t honestly expect us—”

  “It was a plains cat!” Ara cried, her voice rising to a wail. “I saw it, clear as I see ye! It came right up to where my little Teo was playing, good as gold he was being.…” She began to sob harshly.

  “What were you doing, leaving a baby outside at that time of night anyway?” asked Hallam. Dagmar shot him an angry glance. Attacking Ara’s mothering was hardly the way to earn her trust. Besides, no tumbler, as the prostitute’s clients were called, would tolerate a baby in the room.

  Fortunately, the distraught girl didn’t appear to have heard Hallam’s remark. She continued with her tearful account. “I heard him cry and went to see—that great big black thing had him in its mouth. Then it was gone, just like that, gone with my little Teo.…”

  Fresh sobbing broke out. Dagmar mentally shook her head. They would get nothing more out of the bereaved mother tonight. With a gesture, Dag summoned one of the girl’s friends, who gently wrapped her arm about Ara and led her away. As Dagmar watched them go, she took in the squalid, false luxury of the place. Stained velvet curtains trimmed with dull gold tassels served as doors to various rooms. Behind those inadequate barriers came sounds that left little doubt as to the activity being pursued therein. The smell of heavy, cheap perfume did little to hide the sour scent of bodies that were not as clean as they could be. Dampness, too, emanated from the place, and the carpeting beneath their feet had green spots of mildew.

  Dagmar had had enough. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They paused long enough to relight their lanterns, then headed back toward their station.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the barmaid you found five days ago?” asked Hallam.

  Dagmar shook her head. “The slashes on that body were made from a dagger, not from teeth or claws.”

  “Well, poor Ara’s obviously mad,” Hallam concluded. “Someone snatched her baby, and she snapped. Guilt created this plains cat, nothing more.”

  “I don’t know,” Dagmar said thoughtfully. “This isn’t the first rumor I’ve heard about them coming into the city. People are frightened, especially in this part of town. With that killer out there, I don’t blame them.”

  Hallam made a disparaging noise. “It’s the fashion,” he said. “You know how it works. One person sees a movement out of the corner of his eye, next thing you know a whole section of town is haunted. Remember that werewolf rumor two years ago? They were about ready to burn everybody whose eyebrows met, and it turned out it was someone’s pet dog gone feral. No, Dag, this is only—”

  A sudden noise from an alleyway interrupted them. Immediately, both soldiers drew their clubs and raised their lanterns. They waited, tense. A high-pitched moan came from the alley, a growl-wail that ended in a sharp hiss. A small, sleek orange shape appeared. It had an object in its mouth. In a swift movement, it fixed them with a baleful glare, eyes glowing in the lamplight, then vanished into shadow.

  Hallam let out the breath he’d been holding. “There’s your plains cat, Dagmar—a pet gone wild.”

  “Hallam—”

  “What?”

  Dagmar stared after the little animal, still tense. “It had something in its mouth.”

  “A mouse?” He desperately hoped he was right even as he knew he wasn’t.

  She shook her head. “No.” She swallowed hard. “A human ear.”

  Hallam groaned. Their eyes met, then they looked toward the alley. They both knew that they would find another mutilated corpse hidden in the shadows. He swore softly. “Come on.” Lifting the lantern high, he strode forward and turned the corner.

  There was indeed another corpse—mangled and torn. And above it, furious at having its feeding disturbed, snarled a giant black shape. Hallam cried out, dropping the lantern as he lifted his club. The weapon was useless against the mammoth cat, which sprang with supple power for the guard. It landed squarely on him, its weight mercifully knocking him unconscious before inch-long fangs crunched down over his face, obliterating it.

  The cat’s attack was so swift Dagmar didn’t even have time to react. Poised above the red and gray mass that had been Hallam’s face, the great beast glared at her with eyes that glowed green in the faint light of the torches. Slowly, it drew back bloodied lips. She had expected a feline yowl, but to her horror, the cry that exploded from the creature sounded like nothing so much as a woman’s scream.

  Dagmar was armed only with a guard’s club. The creature had its prey, and there was nothing she could do for poor Hallam now. She turned and fled.

  Safe in the shadows, Malken watched her go. He laughed softly to himself. He had grown more bold in the five days since he had first killed, since he had realized that the shadows obeyed him unquestioningly. His hunger, sated only by violence, had also grown.

  The guard who had run away like a frightened hare was a pretty thing. One day—one day soon—he would number her among his victims. But for now, like the predator thinning the herd, Malken would content himself with the dregs of Nova Vaasan society. Nobody, surely, would miss another whore. He thumbed his already bloodied knife and smiled as he moved quietly down the street toward the brothel.

  Normally
, Tristan would have looked forward to a day spent with the friends of his youth. But the regents council he was hosting today at Faerhaaven was sobered by two things. It was the first time the five regents had met since Kethmaar’s funeral seven days before; all five men would be thinking of their missing companion. Also, Tristan had invited Sigfrid to attend the meeting, and he knew what the younger man planned to discuss was grim indeed.

  Apparently, the other regents shared Tristan’s mood. They smiled pleasantly at little Madeleine when she entered carrying tea for the six men. After she left the receiving room, closing the door gently behind her, the smiles faded. How tired we all look, thought Tristan. How tired and … how old.

  “Is Othmar behaving himself?” he asked Hadwin Hadwinsson. The chief advisor to the prince grimaced as he took a sip of the fragrant tea.

  “A bit worse than usual. He does his duties rather like a farm boy doing his chores. Most of the time, when I want him, I can’t find him.” Hadwinsson smiled briefly, his teeth flashing white in his gray beard. “Then again, when I don’t want him, I can’t find him either. So it balances out.”

  The other men chuckled faintly. Tristan turned his attention to Lord Keirin, a slender, white-haired nobleman. “Any problems in your area?”

  Adal shrugged his thin shoulders. “King, prince—my people are far enough away that it makes little difference. There’s no trouble.”

  “I report the same,” interjected Bevis. His large, beefy hands made the china teacup look even more fragile as he sipped at the tea. “As long as the Vistani are willing to keep training and selling the horses under Othmar’s rule, my people have no objections.”

  “Osric?”

  Osric Laars, mayor of Kantora, was normally a jovial fellow with a quick smile. Today, he was somber, and Tristan noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. He gestured toward Sigfrid. “He’s got my report.”

  Tristan nodded to Sigfrid. “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “In the last seven days,” said Sigfrid, “the watch has discovered three female corpses—two found just last night—all mutilated in the same unique fashion, as if the killer were leaving his signature.”

  “Any link between the victims?” Bevis asked.

  Sigfrid turned his attention to the heavyset nobleman. “They were all either prostitutes or barmaids—strictly lower class. All were killed with a knife and, as I said, mutilated afterward.”

  “You’re sure the mutilations occurred after death?” Laars inquired.

  “Absolutely. There were things … done to them that would be impossible to do to a living person, even an unconscious one.” The regents exchanged uneasy glances. Sigfrid continued. “There is as yet no clear suspect, but we have had a few leads. Witnesses all report that there was a nobleman at the various establishments. Dressed in plain clothing, dark-haired. He wore a hat pulled low over his eyes and a scarf around his neck. Clearly, he didn’t want to be recognized. Problem is, nobody can agree on anything more specific. All say they mistrusted him. Something about him was, as they put it, simply wrong.”

  “That’s not enough to arrest anyone,” Laars noted.

  “Captain Skolsson and I discussed this earlier,” said Tristan. “I’d like to allot more men and money to the night watch. We have every reason to believe he’ll keep killing till he’s caught.”

  “I’m definitely in favor,” said Laars. “I know he’s only stalking Kantora now, but—”

  “He could move to our areas at any time,” finished Bevis. His brows were drawn together and there was thunder in his voice. “Add my vote to yours.”

  Tristan, Hadwinsson, and Adal all agreed. The killer had to be stopped. “Now,” resumed Tristan, “on to the so-called plains cat attacks. What’s going on there?”

  “It’s very odd, sir,” Sigfrid began hesitantly.

  “I don’t want to hear how odd it is; I want to hear what’s happening and what’s being done about it.”

  “Over two dozen sightings have been reported, sir.”

  “By whom?”

  “It’s a good, solid sampling of the populace. Everyone from drunks to judges, from prostitutes to my own guards. One of my men was killed just two nights ago. We’ve seen the destruction they do.”

  “That they’re hunting in Kantora is a fact. But why?”

  Sigfrid hesitated again. Tristan disliked putting Sigfrid on the spot like this, but it couldn’t be helped. The regents needed answers, not wild speculations.

  “There may be shortages of food on the plains. The Vistani are taking excellent care of the horses, and maybe there simply aren’t enough horses left wild to feed the cats. They seem to have some means of getting in and out without being noticed, as they certainly would be if they just wandered into town. We’ve found no traces, no tracks, nothing. We think they might be using the sewer system. And they seem to be driving the domestic cats quite crazy.”

  “What domestic cats?” snapped Laars. “They’ve all gone feral. My daughter had one. Loved it to death until the thing scratched her and fled into the streets.”

  “Captain, put some men on this during the day,” said Tristan. “Follow up on the sewer angle. If we know how they’re getting in, we can prevent it. In the meantime,” he said, glancing at his compatriots, “I have a suggestion, but I’ll need you all to approve it. I’d like to have a look at these goings-on myself.”

  Laars choked on his tea. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Indeed I am. There’s something not right going on here. Don’t you see how strange everything is?” He sat forward, his eyes snapping with intensity. “A week ago, the king died. Then a mysterious death occurred in my own castle. Pet cats go mad, plains cats invade town, a killer starts playing games with us—”

  “Respectfully, sir, I can’t let you put yourself in that kind of danger,” said Sigfrid. “You’re retired now, and chief regent. You don’t need to supervise this yourself.”

  “Oh, so I’m an old man and can’t wield a sword anymore?” Tristan joked.

  “Yes, indeed,” laughed Laars with a hint of his old humor. “If I have to sit by the fire and leave this sort of thing to the young, so do you. For one thing, you’re immediately recognizable.”

  “My clothing can be changed. Even my face and form. You know that.”

  The regents exchanged glances. They knew Tristan had taken up magic many years ago, applying himself to its study with the same diligence and enthusiasm he had exhibited with weaponry. Not many in Nova Vaasa practiced the arcane arts, so Tristan had been largely self-taught. His skill was great, though, and he had mastered many of the subtleties of the craft. It would be simple enough to alter his form, slightly or greatly, and go thus disguised.

  Sigfrid glanced down at the green sash that Tristan still wore, then up to his friend’s face. Tristan looked tired and wan. It wasn’t surprising, not after all he’d been through in the last fortnight. Perhaps the distraction would do him good.

  “Well, sir, we could use your expertise,” said Sigfrid. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Granted.”

  “It’s uncanny,” said Sigfrid softly, permitting his concern to show. “No witnesses to the murders. No clear suspect. The cats are like ghosts; they come into town, kill or frighten, and then just disappear.”

  Laars spoke up. “Tristan, I know you’re not a superstitious man, and neither am I. But is there a possibility of—”

  “The supernatural?” Tristan Finished. He thought of past campaigns. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, gentlemen. Magically animated statues, things unnaturally created, monsters right out of nightmares. But all of these have a solid reason—if perhaps artificial or magical—for existing. Nothing yet has made me believe in ghosts or vampires—or, in this case, spirit cats or spectral murderers.

  “Let us look for the rational first. This may be nothing more than a clever madman and hungry plains cats.

  But there’s only one way to find out. We have to go and see for ourselves.�
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  “If we said no, you’d do it anyway,” said Laars. “Gentlemen, we’ve never been able to hold back Tristan once he gets an idea in his head, and I don’t think we’re going to start now.”

  “Do be careful, Tris,” said Hadwinsson. “I’m next in line for head regent, and I’ve quite enough trouble with the royal brat as it is.”

  Sigfrid smiled a little. He was no longer alone.

  Avarill 14th: How I yearn for the simple years now. Was life this confusing and complex when I was young? Perhaps I only now have the wisdom to see it!

  I have learned more about the killer who stalks the streets of Kantora. He sounds a monster, but whether truly bestial or merely a twisted human being, I have no way of knowing yet. Sigfrid has agreed to accompany me on a search for the killer. I am afire to begin. Our trail will, I am certain, lead us into the most unsavory parts of the city, parts I had hoped, in my youth, to eradicate altogether.

  Tristan frowned to himself and hesitated to write the next words. Grimly, he continued.

  Ivaar, too, hates the squalor in which the lower classes must wallow. He would like to eradicate poverty, but would he do so by eradicating the poor? I have confided my suspicions to none save my ever-silent journal. I pray I am wrong, but fear I am right.

  Tristan paused, dipped his quill in ink, and continued. It has taken four days to gather the necessary items for our trip into the darker side of Kantora, but I am now prepared.

  He rose and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. The clothing, a dull brown tunic belted with an equally dull brown leather belt, black breeches and calf-high black boots, were all far too small for him. No matter; he would remedy that quickly enough.

  He ascended to his sorcery chamber, closed the door behind him, and paused for a moment to peer into his mirror. As it had for the last few days, it showed only fog in its glass face. Tomorrow, the knight resolved, he would take several hours and determine how to lift that irritating cloud. Now, he had more pressing business to attend to.