Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  I change into a pretty, embroidered dress, a gift from Lia, never worn. The deep blue wool will be warm, and the color compliments my fair skin and silver-blond hair. My sturdy boots go underneath the long skirt.

  I slide my good steel knife into my boot, and hang the stone Mor knife I recovered from outside the wall on my hip. Let people glare if they wish, either at the sight of an enemy relic or at an armed woman; I care not.

  I wrap myself in a burgundy cloak trimmed with gold embroidery, then lock the front door behind me. Delicious smells reach me as my footsteps approach the main thoroughfare, reminding me I have not eaten since the morning of the day before. I walk into one of the eateries and order food, then stare out the window at the freezing rain until my meal arrives.

  It is mid-day, and soon the place is full of people, a mix of merchants and minor court functionaries. The courtiers all whisper together, heads bent, plotting minor intrigues over cups of blood-red wine.

  "See them, sister?” I whisper. “Do you wonder what scandals are brewing? What gossip is being exchanged? What intrigues must they be privy to, I wonder?"

  There is no reply.

  "Come now, surely you can't be mad at me forever. Pouting does not become you. Why not rail and shout at me about whatever I did and be done with it?"

  Still there is nothing. Fingers of ice seem to close, slowly, around my laboring heart. My chest feels constricted; I cannot draw a proper breath.

  I think back to yesterday—was it just a day ago?—trying to remember exactly what transpired atop the Armitage. I recall the terrible storm of the Mor ghosts’ thoughts, a whirlwind of rage and pain and fear, buffeting my mind until my very thoughts began to dissipate, like smoke. Recall the way I struggled to close my secret eye, to cut off the flood, struggling helplessly against it.

  Then I remember the brief respite, as if someone, or something, was helping me. Not much, just enough for me to force my third eye closed. After that, all has been silence.

  "Sister, please, stop this now. You're scaring me. I know you disapprove of what I did, but this is cruel. If you love me ... tell me you're all right. Rage at me if you want, I've earned it, but stop tormenting me with this silence."

  I sit and wait, staring at my cold soup and out at the drizzling rain, until all of the chatting, glittering courtiers have gone. The proprietor comes out from behind his counter and asks me for the fifth time if I am done eating. This time, he adds that he will be closing for the afternoon, so sorry, and that I must go. I scatter coins across the table and walk out into the wet chill.

  My feet lead me away, into the maze of streets. They are no longer crowded. The wind and the freezing rain have defeated all but the most determined and well-cloaked. I knot my hands against my belly and curse myself for forgetting my gloves.

  My wandering steps take me south, towards the drop of the Northwatch Cliffs, but I know that is not my true destination. Yesterday's events atop the wall have shown me I can no longer afford the luxury of ignorance. I am certain now that there is something about me which compels the Mor; that drives them to near-madness with the desire to stamp it out.

  My mistress told me that those with power over death must always be cautious, and live a life of solitude, avoiding the prejudice and fear such knowledge breeds. Necromancers seldom meet and never gather.

  I recall the hunched creature I saw in the alley near the bazaar. I must know. If it was the product of necromancy, then I must learn who its master is.

  I retrace my steps to the bazaar. It is nearly empty; the icy rain has ceased, but not before sending all but the bravest, or most desperate, merchants back to the warmth of their hearths. I spend a fruitless hour roaming its perimeter, searching for some sign of the figure, but turn up nothing.

  The golden threads adorning my cloak soon draw the attention of a group of shifty-eyed youths. They follow me, hanging back at a discreet distance. I keep an eye on them as I move around the square, lest they think to come up behind me unaware.

  An idea occurs to me, and I stop. I look back at the youths, then turn and walk towards them. They look at one another as I approach, clearly unused to their prey walking straight into their clutches.

  "Which one of you leads?” I ask. I open my eyes wide, treating them to a long, unbroken view of my disturbing gaze. My hand rests on the hilt of the Mor knife. They stare at me, their mouths open, then look at a large lad in the rear.

  He is tall, well over six feet, with a blacksmith's muscled shoulders. He cannot be more than sixteen, the same age at which I married, but already an ample gut strains atop his wide belt. A long knife hangs there, prominently displayed. I glance at it with an amused smile, as inside the blood magic readies itself for violence.

  The tall youth pushes forwards, his eyes hard above his grinning mouth. I can tell my black eyes make him uneasy, but, just like other men I have known, he covers it with a display of bravado.

  "That'd be me, woman. Wha'choo wan'? Pr'haps a bit o’ rough trade, eh? Ol’ hubby not greasing you reg'lar and you hunger for a bit o’ excitement?"

  "No. What I hunger for is information. This side of the square is your territory, yes?"

  "Aye. This whole stretch b'longs to me an’ my crew. An’ you're walking on our ter'tory. You be payin’ us for our protection. You looks like you cn’ afford it."

  His eyes roam up and down my body, slow, the gesture meant to intimidate. Behind him, the others, emboldened by his display, snicker and shift, fanning out.

  I smile back. “Good. Then it's your business to see who comes and goes. Hopefully you noticed someone I'm looking for. I saw them a few days ago, over there in that alley. A small person, deformed and wrapped in rags and tatters. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

  The boys look at one another, even before I am through speaking. One mutters a curse, only to fall silent as the leader glares at him. Oh yes, they know very well who I am talking about.

  "What iff'n we do? What's it worth t'you?” the big youth says, glaring.

  "What is your name?” I ask in reply. He blinks at me, startled by the question or my by calm tone, I know not which.

  "Rolf,” he mutters.

  "Rolf, listen to me. I think that you know who I'm speaking of, and that you have reason to wish them ill. Am I right?"

  Rolf looks at the other members of his gang, then drops his eyes. Suddenly he looks his age, young and scared. I stand, silent. I know that for people like him, the line between fear and violence is very thin, indeed, and I do not want to hurt them.

  "People've been goin’ missin',” he finally says. “Tweeter there los’ his sissy a month back. She jus’ up and dis'peared from her room in the night. Nobody seen her since. Lotsa folk aroun’ here say they be seein’ other strange things. The beggars and street people be too afraid to stay; they move to other parts of the city few months back. They tellin’ stories."

  "Stories?” I prompt, softly.

  "Ya. Stories abou’ people in rags, limpin’ about and takin’ people away. Say they got no skin, they does, and that they comes at ya quiet-like, when you be sleepin'. I hear tell they got knives for fingers and skulls for faces, and only comes out at night."

  Knives for fingers, I think to myself. Yes, that could be them. But the one I saw, I saw in the daytime. Even though it stuck to the shadows.

  "Rolf, do you know where they go? Where they take people?"

  He looks up at me, his frightened eyes going hard with anger. “Iff'n I knew that, d'you think I'd be standin’ here? I'd be goin’ to take a piece o’ them for Tweeter's sissy. We all would."

  I look at him, my head cocked, considering his words. I believe him; he does not know. One of his men, a thin, pock-faced boy of no more than twelve, drops his gaze and tries to hide himself behind the boy in front of him.

  "What about the rest of you?” I call out. “What about you, there, in the back?"

  The boy looks up, startled, and meets my black gaze. I see him sketch the sign of Loran Lightb
ringer in my direction, the movement furtive, as if he fears me seeing it. I bear down, forcing him to meet my gaze.

  "I maybe sees sumthin',” he finally mutters, when it is clear I will not look away. Rolf's eyes go wide.

  "Come here, boy,” I say, threading a tiny bit of the power of command into my words. “The rest of you, stay here.” The boy lurches forward, as if he dreads getting close to me.

  "Why should we let you talk to ‘im?” Rolf says, stepping close to me and pushing his face into mine. His breath is sour and smells of onions and the wet stench of lupas root. His teeth are very bad, brown stumps set in reddened gums. I meet his truculent stare calmly. Magic tinges my words with the metallic tang of blood.

  "You'll allow it because I wish it. And, trust me, you don't want to come between me and my prey, do you?"

  The red magic threads its way into Rolf's body, and I pull, gently, just hard enough for him to feel the first precursors of pain. His eyes go round as dinner plates, the pupils dilating in fear, until they are mere pinpricks. He too, sketches a sloppy sigil of the Lightbringer's towards me.

  "Please, mistress. I din’ mean nuthin’ by it. Lemme go, I beg you,” he breathes. Behind him his men take a step back, their expressions awed.

  "Go,” I command them, and they fall back. “Not you,” I add to the pock-faced boy. He stops like a hooked fish, clearly wanting to be away but held by the power in my voice. I step close to him as the others scramble away, disappearing into the nearest alley

  "Tell me what you know and you can go, I promise,” I whisper, stroking his shoulder like I would a skittish horse.

  "Please, milady, I don’ be knowin’ nothing,” he begs.

  "I think you do. Tell me. Tell me."

  The boy's will proves no match for my magic, although in the end I am forced to hurt him more than I would like. He fears them so much, and with good reason, but I have to know. I leave him on a trash-littered stoop, bleeding from the nose and the mouth, but essentially unharmed. He will be fine in a day or two, ready to work more mischief on the weak at Rolf's command.

  I follow his directions, his words still fresh in my mind. It was a house, old place with a wall an’ a gate. There was statues, with wings-like, set up high on the walls, above the gate. There was more on the roof. I saw things there, shapes like Rolf said. Their eyes, they was white, and sparkly, like them gems with the rainbows trapped inside. Loran protect me, when they look up at me, I was so scared...

  White with rainbows trapped inside. Eyes like opals. When my dark children returned from the grave, their eyes were like that, shining and white, and altogether inhuman.

  I begin searching, following the boy's sketchy directions. The rain stops shortly after I begin, sparing me from a further soaking. It is close to night when I finally find it.

  The neighborhood was grand, once, its streets lined with the ruins of large houses. Many have high, peaked roofs and old-fashioned facades. Several are surrounded by high walls topped with iron spikes, but only a few are still in good repair; the rest show signs of neglect bordering on outright dilapidation. Several of the roofs have been cannibalized for their tiles, and the exposed trusses jut into the freezing rain like ribs. Unlocked gates hang open or creak in the gusting wind.

  The gate I find is guarded by a pair of statues, a brace of winged lions set on stone columns atop the wall. The lions are eroded and chipped, their once-fine carvings softened by countless years of wind and rain.

  At least the house still has its roof, and its window glass, I think to myself. Someone must still live here.

  More winged shapes squat near the roof: stone raptors, carved with wings outspread. Many are broken, their stone feathers sheared away and their carvings softened by untold years of weather. No other house is so adorned. This must be the place.

  I stop at the locked gate, peering through the bars. I see tracks running through the withered gardens. The freezing rain atop a dusting of old snow has softened their outlines, but the wrongness of them is clear to my learned eye. They are misshapen, ill-matched things, no pair the same as another. Whatever made them was not feet or claws or hooves or paws, but an inhuman blending of all.

  I should return later, in the daylight, but my curiosity overwhelms my better judgment. I will take only a moment to look around. The darkness will help cover my movements, should someone be looking out of one of the curtained windows.

  I slip through the gate and move to the closed front door. I peer at the weathered bronze crest set into the stones beside it, moving aside the brittle ivy so I can see it better. The crest shows three ships set above a field of waving lines; a merchant family, perhaps, fallen on hard times.

  I walk around the side of the house. My boots crunch against pebbles of frozen sleet; the sound echoes off the manor walls. I feel an unpleasant sensation, like eye-tracks on my skin, but in the darkness I can see nobody watching me.

  Around back is a cobble-stoned yard. A coach house stands near the back gate. Candlelight gleams from inside, the dim orange light barely penetrating the dingy windows. The rear gate is closed tight, secured with a stout timber bar. The manor's rear windows are protected by rusted iron grates.

  I move forward, towards one of the windows. Just before I can see inside, my booted foot crunches down on a shard of broken bottle glass. The sharp crack fills the courtyard.

  "Who's there?” a man's voice says, deep and slow. He steps from the interior and holds his candle aloft. He sees me, standing beside the door. There is a cudgel in his hands, a stout length of wood studded with nail heads. “This is private property,” he growls.

  He is middling tall and thick-set, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His earth-colored coat is stained and tattered, worn atop a dingy white shirt. A drooping moustache partially conceals his hard, uncompromising mouth. Brown eyes glitter beneath unkempt brows of bushy gray.

  "I've come about the creatures,” I say. Even as the words leave my lips I realize how mad they would sound to any rational person.

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” the man replies, his tone flat and cold. For an instant, I think I see a reaction in his eyes, perhaps guilt, perhaps simple wariness.

  "Please. I need to know more about their master. Is that you? Do you have the power to call them back?” I would feel foolish saying such things, like a madwomen, except for his reaction, a guilty lowering of his eyes. He knows. Gods, he knows.

  "You should go. Now. You don't belong here.” He takes a step towards me, hefting his weapon. I draw the Mor knife from my belt, and feel my body responding, my weight coming up on my toes. Inside, I feel the stirring of my red magic, like a hunting dog sensing its master's excitement, straining against the leash of my self-control.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

  "I can't help you,” he says, a new note creeping into his tone. Fear. “You have to leave. Now."

  "You're lying. You know something, and I won't go until you talk with me."

  A hissing whisper comes from behind me. I turn to face it. There, in the shadow of a skeletal tree, something crouches. Just moments before, it was as still as only a dead thing can be, but now it moves with awful purpose. I see the play of rawboned muscle and jagged bone as it shifts, icy wetness glittering in the wan candlelight.

  More sounds, delicate as whispers, come from all around me, and from the black depths of the carriage house. More shapes move in the tangled, concealing grass. Two. Three. More.

  "You should have left while you could,” the man says, shaking his head. His hard eyes soften with regret.

  From the shadows behind him something steps into the light, a compact shape, terrible yet familiar. It is smaller than a man, only four feet at its tallest point, with hunched shoulders and long, ape-like arms. Its legs and feet are twisted at unnatural angles, the feet more resembling the taloned claws of a bird than anything else. Gray-red muscle and pale tendon slide under a patchwork covering of leathery skin. Beneath it, I see the y
ellow-ivory gleam of bone.

  Worst of all is the face, a slack, dead-eyed thing with splayed teeth set into black gums and wide, opaline eyes ringed with hemorrhaged flesh. A row of horns circles its brow, a barbaric crown.

  I cannot breathe. It is a sweetling, there is no question of it.

  "Please,” I begin, then break off as the rest of the pack emerges from their hiding places. Unmelted snow sparkles on horns and claws, and rending teeth. “Please, you must listen to me. There are things happening, on the wall. The Mor ... I think they've come because of this. Because of us, and what we can do."

  The man frowns, cocking his head at me. “What do you know about this?” he asks, gesturing to the closing ring of malice that surrounds me.

  "I came because I can call them too,” I hurry to reply. I know all too well the creatures’ terrible speed, so unexpected from such ruined-looking things. If they charge, I will stand no chance against them. “I don't know how, or why, but anything or anyone I bring back from the dark lands is ... like they are."

  "You lie,” the man replies, shock registering on his face. “That's impossible."

  "No, it isn't. I wish it were, but it's not. Please, call them off, and let's talk. I swear to you that what I have to say is nothing but the truth."

  The sweetlings draw close, half a dozen strong. The cold has killed the worst of the stench their decaying tissues exude, but at such close range I can still get a whiff of them. The sickly-sweet smell, the perfume from an open grave, is strangely comforting. Once, I associated such a smell with security, even love. But that was before. Before my infant son paid the ultimate price for my pride.

  The largest sweetling, the one from the carriage house, raises a thorned limb. Three jagged claws sprout from the ruin of its hand, wicked, barbed things of fetid bone. I can see its desiccated muscles bunching, drawing tight as it prepares to spring.

  "Hold,” a new voice says. The sweetlings instantly obey, freezing like statues. In the confusion of the moment, I did not hear the manor house door open. A second man stands there, at the head of the back steps, looking down on the courtyard. He is tall, and thin, his pale skin contrasting with the dark velvet of his coat. He does not seem old, but his eyes do; they are wide and dark, surrounded by a web of deeply-etched lines. I recognize him.