Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  Realization dawns in me. “We're beneath the house. This is why you set the fire: to block the way down."

  "Excellent. I cannot tell you how enticing a woman of such beauty and such intelligence is to me, Kirin."

  "What if they realize what you have done and decide to dig you out?” Lia asks, looking around. Her eyes find Napaula's reclining form, and go wide.

  Rath shrugs. “We'll hear any such effort hours before they can clear the stair. If we do, we retreat into the catacombs. If someone tries finding this place by backtracking through the tunnels, the lads will serve to slow them long enough for us to make our escape. But as few remember the underground ways any more, I think it unlikely that—"

  "The geomancers remember,” Lia interrupts. “Who do you think made these passages? If they learn you are here, they will summon an earth elemental, one which can have the debris blocking the stairs cleared in minutes."

  "Then we shall have to hope that will not happen,” he replies with an easy smile.

  He presses on, ignoring Lia's interruption. “I've taken the liberty of ... modifying some of the tunnels leading away from here. It should make any pursuit problematic at best."

  "You seem to have thought of everything,” I grudgingly admit. “Except for one thing.” I point to Napaula.

  She has lifted herself and sits on the edge of the couch. As she shifts, she winces and cradles her belly. I remember the expression well from my sister's pregnancy, as the baby pressed against her organs and bladder. She needs to relieve herself.

  "Mi latdadora,” the old woman whispers.

  Rath nods. “Eddard made arrangements for our comfort back in the woman's crypt,” he says, gesturing towards one of the iron gates. “All things considered, I don't think my ancestors will mind having to deal with a little stink for a few days."

  "I'll do it,” I tell Lia, and take the old woman's arm. I pick up a candle holder and lead her through the indicated gate. Beyond, I find a small, round room. Marble plaques are set into the walls, each bearing a woman's name, and a set of dates. Some are adorned with inscriptions, snatches of poetry or declarations of sorrow or love. There is a covered bucket in the corner, and when she lifts the lid I see it is half filled with sand.

  I look away as Napaula squats and does her business, supporting her weight on my bent arm. The smell is unpleasant but bearable. “Where is your serving man?” I call out, remembering Lia does not know who Eddard is.

  "Running an errand for me,” Rath replies. “He should have returned by now, actually."

  When she is done, I help the old woman back to the couch. Lia gives her a worried look. She cannot take her eyes off her distended belly as she settles back, breathing hard, as if she has run for miles, not walked to the other room and back.

  Rath examines the tray of instruments beside Napaula's padded table. I step beside him and look at the row of gleaming tools, delicate, razor-edged knives and hooked retractors. They are much finer than my mistress's instruments, forged from some shining metal, gleaming like polished silver. I pick up a blade and see minute writing engraved on the side of the leaf-shaped blade.

  "Those belonged to my ancestor. He was a surgeon, the ship's doctor for the long journey across the sea. Family lore says he was brilliant healer, as befitted such a lofty position in the crew. But, if the stories are to be believed, he was also a cold man, interested more in solving puzzles and diagnosing ailments than in the people who were saved as a result."

  "It must have been lonely for him,” I say, without thinking, my attention still on the priceless instruments arrayed before me.

  "Perhaps, but I like to think he preferred solitude. ‘Some insights,’ he wrote, ‘can only be made following careful, reasoned contemplation.’ Too much interaction with other people would have been a distraction to a man like him."

  I look up from the tray, over to Lia. She has pulled a chair up to Napaula's side and has taken her hand. She bends her head and whispers something to the old woman. I see her toothless mouth stretch in a warm, answering smile, and she pats Lia's hand.

  "It still sounds like a lonely life to me. What's the point of life if you must live it alone?"

  Rath snorts, dismissing this idea. He takes the scalpel from my hand and holds it to the candlelight, allowing the glow to play along the edge. Satisfied, he nods and replaces it in its place beside the others.

  On the table, Napaula's breathing quickens further. The breaths turn to gasps. Napaula begins to cough, the racking spasms shaking her thin chest. She raises a cloth to her lips, and when she takes it away, I see it is flecked with red.

  Alarmed, I open my secret eye and gaze at the tapestry of her life. She is fading, her lifelight succumbing to the black parasites infecting her body. Once again, I am shocked that she is even alive at all.

  "Rath,” I say, trying to sound calm. “We have to deliver the child. Now."

  "Out of the question. I need Eddard to hold the instruments. Mistress Cho has no idea—"

  A new series of coughs twists the old woman's body. When they finally pass, blood sparkles, shocking and red in the candlelight, on her chin.

  "If we are to do this, it must be now. Rath, please..."

  The nobleman chews his lip, glancing between Lia and me. I can understand his hesitation: the fear of the unknown can be crippling. But her life is fading before my eyes. We cannot afford to wait. She cannot afford it.

  "All right, we do this,” he finally says, nodding. The indecision in his eyes fades, replaced with a steely resolve.

  I nod and, together, we turn to Napaula. Despite her bone-deep weariness, her smile lights the room. Surrounded by death, we prepare to welcome new life.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rath steps into the circle of golden light. A box of black lacquered wood rests in his soft, long-fingered hands. He sets it on the table beside the bed, and opens the lid.

  The light from a hundred candles sparkles against its contents: a pair of slender glass tubes, resting in mirror-bright silver holders. Rath lifts one of the devices and screws a needle to its tip.

  I lean forward, the better to see the syringe. Like all of Rath's instruments, it is ancient and precise, the product of a long-lost art. Before today, only in books had I ever seen such things. He smiles to see my face, and places the device in my hand.

  While I inspect the syringe, marveling at its hair-fine tip and flawless, paper-thin glass walls, Rath fits a needle to the second tip. That job done, he draws a clear glass bottle from the box's red velvet interior and carefully removes the cork from its throat.

  "This will put her to sleep while we work,” he explains. “The shock of the incision's pain would probably kill her, otherwise. But I can only guess the amount. My books say nothing about a woman of Napaula's advanced age or ... condition. If I give her too little, she will wake in the middle of the procedure. Too much, and the medicine will stop her heart. It will be up to you to watch her from within, and keep that from happening. Do you understand?"

  I nod. With the sight granted me by the blood magic, combined with my newfound experience with poisons, I should be able to see what the elixir is doing to her. Controlling it, however, is another story.

  What if Rath's medicine works differently than the amnunthol extract, and I do not know what to do? What if she is allergic to the chemicals in the vial? Such reactions, while rare, were cautioned against many times in my mistress's books. What if she is simply too old, and frail, to survive the stress of the cutting that is to come?

  "Where did you find such medicine?” Lia asks, watching the procedure from the other side of the bed.

  "My books contain very precise recipes,” he explains. “Our ancestors possessed such wonderful knowledge, and were skilled in the making of things we can only dream of. They brought extensive supplies with them when they settled here, but were all too aware that one day, their stores would run out, or lose their potency, so they documented h
ow to make more.

  "Of course, much of what they could do cannot be recreated now, because the tools and machines used to make them have been lost, or destroyed. But this potion is not magic: it is chemistry, an art which was never entirely forgotten."

  Lia frowns. “I do not understand."

  "Apothecaries,” I explain. “The healing arts, especially the art of medicine-making, have never really been lost. Diminished from what they were, yes: Rath is right when he says the first settlers could do wondrous things. I take it you had help?” I ask him.

  "Indeed. My family has enough wealth to procure the services of the City's best apothecaries. It took almost a year to properly prepare, but I finally did it. I've tested this anesthesia on multiple occasions, and I can assure you of its effectiveness."

  I almost ask how Rath has tested his medicines, but keep silent. Although I desire to hear the truth, I fear Lia's reaction, should his answer be upsetting. Later, when all of this is over, I will have a talk with him about the price he, or others, have paid for his knowledge, but not now. Now I must focus on the two lives that are depending on me.

  Napaula lies on the padded table before me, nude beneath a covering blanket. I look down into her face. She smiles at me and gropes for my hand. When she finds it, she gives it a squeeze.

  "I afraid. I know this best thing. My son, his time come. Now I finally see. Now I see. I happy. But I still afraid."

  I nod, touched by her quiet resolve. “You will live to see your son, I promise.” I look up at Lia, standing on Napaula's other side, and see tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes.

  Rath fills both syringes with the clear liquid, drawing it slowly inside, measuring the levels precisely against the tiny markings on their glass sides. When he is satisfied, he taps the glass with a fingernail, dislodging the bubbles trapped inside.

  He looks at the instruments laid out on a clean cloth at Napaula's side; at the multitude of candles arrayed around the table. His eyes meet mine. I see excitement capering in them. He gives me a manic grin.

  "Ready?” he asks.

  I nod, and turn my attention to the old woman lying before me.

  Rath ties a cord around Napaula's biceps and then bends over her, tracing the veins in her arm with a fingertip. They are clearly visible beneath her thin skin, delicate, branching lines of pale blue. He takes a deep breath, then slides the needle's point beneath the skin. When he draws the syringe's plunger back, a cloud of bright red blood blossoms in the clear liquid. He smiles and slowly pushes the plunger down.

  "Napaula, look at me,” I whisper, gently, allowing a small portion of the power of command to infuse the words. Her eyes meet mine. In my belly, I feel the roiling of the blood magic, feel it slipping up my throat, past my lips, moving outwards with a contact more delicate then the brush of a fly's wings.

  I open my inner eye and allow my vision to ride with the magic, past her eyes and nose, down the wet tube of her throat. I watch as the tendrils of translucent force divide and split, attenuating themselves until they are finer than hairs. They slide through Napaula's body, questing for her heart.

  I feel her slip into unconsciousness. Feel her breathing deepen and slow. Every muscle goes slack, completely relaxed.

  I travel deeper and soon I see her heart, an aged lump of gristle. It beats, slow and steady, moving her blood into her lungs and, from there, to the most distant parts of her body.

  Rath's medicine is already affecting it: I can see the rhythmic beating slowing, see the first traces of hesitation in its contractions. I command the magic to slip inside, then, unsure how to assist her, will a tiny portion of my own energy down the connection between us.

  To my secret vision, it looks like pale fire, or the glow on the surface of water at sunrise, a steady, orang-ewhite radiance. As I watch, it suffuses the aged organ, strengthening its beating. Softly, as if the words come to me from a very great distance, I hear Rath say, “She's asleep now. Can I begin?"

  I withdraw a portion of my attention, enough to move my head up and down in a jerking nod. “Her heart is steady and strong. For now,” I whisper dreamily.

  "I'm going to cut. Be ready,” he warns.

  I split the blood magic and send some of it downwards, circling around the black veil blocking my secret sight. I find that, if I concentrate very hard, I can monitor the beating of Napaula's heart while simultaneously following this new tendril to the site of the incision. The process is difficult, and disorienting, as if each of my eyes is looking at a different object. I feel a throb in my head, like someone has clamped a vise against my temples and is tightening it with exquisite slowness.

  "I'm making the first cut ... now,” Rath says.

  From my vantage point just beneath Napaula's skin, the blade of the scalpel is enormous, larger than a glacier. The shining wedge slices through the endless rows of interlocked skin and fat cells, severing countless blood vessels as it travels. Blood rushes to the incision, a million, million particles of blood, suddenly freed from their narrow byways, spilling out in lavish abundance.

  The magic I have left to guard her heart tells me that it still beats evenly; the trickle of lifelight from my own body assures that. “She is fine. Keep going,” I manage to say.

  The scalpel cuts deeper, gently parting the muscles beneath the skin. More blood rushes out, released into the harsh air. Napaula's heart skips a beat, and I will more of my own life energy down through the blood magic's connection.

  I flash back to the other times I used this same, hateful power, to draw red vitality from my victims. How many did I kill? A dozen? More? The fact that I cannot remember the exact number disturbs me more than anything in recent memory.

  Her heart skips a second beat. Something is wrong. I look at the incision, and see more and more of her blood is spilling away. “Hold. She is bleeding ... very badly. Give me a moment ... to quell it,” I force my distant lips to say. The scalpel withdraws.

  I command the blood magic to flow into her vessels. It divides, again and again and again, until the power forms a countless multitude of delicate strands. The power threads itself into the spaces between her cells, plugging the myriad openings Rath's cut has made. I watch the crimson tide grow sluggish, ebbing until it stops altogether.

  "Amazing,” I hear Lia whisper.

  The strain of regulating Napaula's heart and controlling the blood magic tightens the vise at my temples. “Keep going,” I command.

  I see the scalpel dip into Napaula's flesh once again. This time, it cuts deeply into muscles covering the dark void beneath. More blood rushes out, and I move to block it. The magic shifts, squirming against the phantom fist of my control. There is so much blood, all around, perfuming the dusty air, and it is so hungry. So very hungry.

  I grit my teeth and bear down, commanding it to do my bidding. I will not allow it to revert to its base state, to draw the blood from Napaula's struggling body, no matter how much I ... no matter how much it wants to.

  "Hurry,” I whisper, forcing the word past my clenched teeth. I hear Lia mutter a curse.

  The scalpel cuts again, one last parting of flesh. The lips of the wound are pulled apart.

  "Take this and hold the edges open,” I hear him tell Lia. When she hesitates, he barks, “Now!"

  Napaula's heart is laboring, beating at twice its normal rhythm. I increase the flow of lifelight trickling into it, trying to slow its frantic beating.

  Nothing happens. I do not know how to slow it. As I watch, it skips another beat. Then another.

  "Rath, something's wrong,” I gasp. “You must stop. Her heart—"

  "Too late to stop. I'm almost there."

  "But I can't—"

  "I'm almost there, damn you! Hold on to her!"

  Distantly, as if from across a great void, I hear the sound of booted feet, ringing on the stones. The heavy wooden door crashes open. “Master! There is trouble at the—” I hear Eddard, Rath's serving man, begin.

  "Not now!” Rath howls.
“And where were you, by the gods? I need you here!"

  The footsteps approach. I hear Eddard's labored breathing, as if he has run a great distance. “It is madness above. The Mor are—"

  "I said not now,” Rath growls. “It's all right; thanks to Kirin, I was able to give her sufficient medicine to put her deeply under. Whatever the problem is, we can discuss it later."

  "No, I wish to hear what he has to say,” Lia begins.

  "Bloody hell, this is not the time!” Rath practically shouts. “I'm about to cut the sack. Eddard, hold that retractor. Harder. There you go."

  I look at Napaula's belly with my inner sight, but the impenetrable shroud still surrounds the baby. I must see what is happening. I focus, harder than ever before, sending a fresh spike of agony into my pounding head, and withdraw a portion of my attention from inside the old woman's body. I force open my mortal eyes.

  Napaula lies on the padded table before me. Her belly has been slit, low, nearly from hip bone to hip bone. I frown. The incision is far too large, much longer than the recommended length I remember from my mistress's books. Blood slicks her hips and stains the white sheets beneath her, but thanks to the blood magic no fresh tide flows from the wound. The lips are held apart by gleaming metal retractors, one held by Lia and a second by Eddard.

  I peer into the incision and see a sack, pale yellow and blue, shot through with veins. It does not move. I frown as I peer at it: it is not where it should be. I look up higher, behind it, and see Napaula's tiny, shriveled womb. Whatever is in the sack is not in the birth canal.

  Rath slits the surface with a fresh scalpel, working slowly. I see sweat glistening on Lia's and Eddard's brows. Holding the old woman's flesh open must be trying work.

  "Almost there,” Rath whispers, finishing his cut. He sets the scalpel down on the bed next to Napaula's hip and reaches inside.

  His long fingers part the sack, moving with gentle grace. I see the gleam of ivory, like fresh bone, submerged in the pool of blood filling the cavity. I frown, unsure of what I am seeing.

  "Goin’ to be sick,” Eddard moans. Then to Lia: “Hold this."