Construct

by Luke Matthews

  “The essence of an individual resides in one’s experiences.” Samuel said, rising to his elbows. “Ridding a construct of their memories makes them…something else. I’m walking proof of that.” He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t want to be rid of this, Acthemenius. I want to understand what I’ve seen. If I am to be the only one who can act on what I know, then by my will I shall act on it.” Each word was punctuated by the dull ring of Samuel’s fingers beating into his chest. “I have left a trail of death and destruction in my wake, and the ones who follow me will not stop until I stop them. And if your only solution is to rid me of what I know, then everything I’ve gone through to get here has been for naught.”

  Acthemenius stalked over to Samuel in three long strides and knelt. With one hand Acthemenius shoved Samuel to the floor and held him there with overpowering strength. Samuel pulled at his forearm but it wouldn’t budge. “You want to know?” the ancient Chronicler growled. “Then know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  * * *

  Something pulled at the edges of Jacob’s slumber. This was the first good night’s sleep in a real bed he’d had in weeks, and waking up went against every signal his body was giving him. His subconscious was insistent, and once he was awake enough he could hear the knocking and the voice outside his door.

  “Jacob, please wake up,” Sorrell said. The sentence was friendly, but did not come out as a request.

  Jacob took a deep breath and rolled his neck to stretch. “Just a moment, Sorrell. Give me a moment to get dressed.”

  “Very well,” Sorrell replied through the door. “Please meet me in the sitting room.”

  Jacob hoped his sigh wasn’t loud enough for Sorrell to hear. He forced one eye open and saw through the break in the curtains it wasn’t even light out yet. What could Sorrell possibly need? Jacob flipped the covers and swung his legs off of the bed. Creaking joints and heavy protests from overworked muscles forced him to sit unmoving, willing his body back into working order. Every movement brought another crash of pain and a wave of nausea. The exertion of the past week is catching up with me.

  Sliding his hand under the lush down pillow Sorrell had supplied, Jacob produced a small, stoppered glass vial. A decision that would have been instantaneous only a few weeks ago dragged on as Jacob made little movements, feeling out his broken body and finding every point of soreness and weakness. With such simplicity he could feel right again, at least for a little while, could walk out of the room without a constant physical reminder of everything he’d been through. For the first time, Jacob thought of what it had cost him over the years, and the look on Eriane’s face at the mere mention of Drift hovered in his vision.

  Those thoughts were tempered by the ease with which he could erase his pain. Eventually, ease won out and he uncorked the bottle, lifted it to his lips, and inhaled the contents in one swift motion. Within seconds his muscles relaxed and the soreness drained away. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, his hands on the edge of the bed, and held his breath while the Drift worked its way through his injuries and strain, and melted the pain from his aching bones.

  There was another knock at the door. “Jacob, are you coming?” Sorrell’s muffled voice said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Jacob’s eyes snapped open. Someone to meet? “Almost ready. I’ll be right out.” The last thing Jacob needed was for Sorrell to have pulled in one of his less-than-reputable associates or, even worse, called in a favor with the city guard. Some sleazeball merchant or local thug Jacob could handle, but involving the law would make an already bad situation untenable. He threw on some clothes and opened the door, startled to find Sorrell still standing in the hallway.

  “Ah, there you are,” Sorrell said.

  “What’s this about meeting someone?” Jacob asked, making a point of his displeasure as he led the way down the hall.

  “Ease up now, old friend,” Sorrell said, catching up. Only when he had his diplomat voice in full swing would he ever call Jacob friend. “I was contacted by an associate of mine whose…interests align with our own. His talents may be of some use to us once we find your friends.”

  Jacob pulled up short and grabbed Sorrell’s arm. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  Sorrell took a breath that signaled equal parts displeasure and relief. “Your friends. They departed last night. Off to see…Acthemenius, I assume?”

  Son of a bitch. Jacob held his tongue but did not hide his surprise, instead masking it into a look of false irritation. No good night’s sleep goes unpunished. Samuel and the kids had taken off on their own, without giving Jacob the opportunity to plan, and now he would have to try and explain himself out of a sticky situation while standing in the middle of the muck. No doubt they believed he’d betrayed them. Who could blame them after my stupid outburst on the Kelef road?

  Sorrell leaned toward him. “I’m not stupid, Kaleb,” he said. “Perhaps, in the future, you might consider telling me the truth?”

  “We have to go after them,” Jacob blurted, hoping his desperation took the right tone to Sorrell’s ears.

  “Of course we do,” Sorrell replied, continuing their walk to the sitting room. “They can’t get much of anywhere, if they’re headed to the Grotto. We’ll have them cornered. Besides, let’s have a chat before heading on our way, and see what my associate is able to offer us.”

  Jacob had forgotten they were meeting one of Sorrell’s footmen. He was paying for his attempt at deception, and should have known better. Sorrell never was one to get his hands dirty, if he could help it.

  They crossed the foyer, lit by flickering lamplight from the archway to the sitting room, where Jacob heard a new fire burning in the fireplace. Sorrell rounded the corner first and Jacob followed, lifting his head as he entered in search of the wine from the night before, and stopped dead in his tracks. The man standing by the fireplace could have been any ordinary thug, but the scar across his face and his piercing silver eyes were unmistakable.

  Every nicety was stripped from Sorrell’s once diplomatic tone as he spoke. “Jacob, I believe you may have already met my associate, Colton Harms?”

  Jacob could’ve taught a master class in self-control when he saw those cold eyes turn to face him. Without hesitation he slipped past Colton to the hutch where he retrieved a brandy snifter and filled it from a decanter in the same cabinet. “I…wasn’t aware you two were associates,” he said.

  Colton wore an easy smile as he followed Jacob’s every movement. An angry bruise marred his jaw and an unstitched cut had formed a craggy scab at his hairline. Otherwise, the man seemed unmolested.

  “It is a…recent acquaintance,” Sorrell said. Colton still stood silent as Jacob backed away, draining a healthy dose of his brandy.

  “You must be the slip.” Colton said, his derisive language flowered like friendly banter.

  Jacob inclined his head.

  “Where have your friends gone?” Colton asked.

  Jacob smiled. “It’s clear you already know the answer to that question.”

  Colton gave a single nod. “You are an intelligent man, Kaleb.” The silver-eyed man sat down across from him. Jacob felt an unpleasant tingling at the back of his mind. “Which means you know what I’m trying to do right now. Your friend has a talent for protections, I’ll give him that.” Jacob attempted to mask his panic with another drink of brandy. His hand shook. As subtly as he could manage, he began pulling energy to translocate away. If he could get to Samuel in time…

  “But just because I don’t have your mind,” Colton continued, “doesn’t mean I can’t close down your translocation when you’re halfway finished.” Jacob’s stomach sank at Colton’s anticipation of his intention.

  Impossible. Only the—

  “Five of my best years were spent as a Royal Interdictor.” Colton said, as though reading Jacob’s thoughts. “It would not do to have half a slip suddenly drop into the Kelef streets, now, would it?”

 
; Jacob finished his brandy and set the glass down, clasping hands to stop the tremors. “I am curious about one thing, Mr. Harms,” Jacob said. Colton nodded but did not reply, prompting Jacob to continue. “How, exactly, did you get here so fast?”

  Colton’s head tilted, a slight twitch turning the corners of his smile. He stood, took three smooth steps, and leaned into Jacob’s space, closer than was strictly comfortable. Every instinct told Jacob to lash out or to break and run, but he held back in spite of his screaming nerves. The silver-eyed man came almost nose-to-nose with Jacob, his hard eyes betraying the smile on his lips.

  “Tenacity.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  * * *

  Memories crashed like a hurricane, sweeping Samuel’s mind into a maelstrom. As images poured into him from Acthemenius, it was all he could do to stay conscious, although he wasn’t even sure he was. His surroundings vanished beneath waves of other constructs’ experiences, drowning him in a sea of history.

  Do you see? Acthemenius was here with him, in the storm, omniscience rather than voice. Does it all make sense to you now, child Chronicler? Is your goal somehow clearer? Acthemenius’s vitriol overwhelmed Samuel’s thoughts. He latched onto it, anchoring himself to the foreign presence, trying only to not be swept away. Centuries of memories flowed into him like a flash flood. He clung to the ones he knew and held fast against the deluge.

  It will be too much for you, Samuel. And only then will you have an inkling of my mind. Acthemenius pushed wide the floodgates. Samuel screamed, somewhere in his psyche, trying to hold onto anything familiar. As his own memories were subsumed into the swell, a single thought rose to the surface. A powerful image had driven Samuel from the moment he awoke: The pleading eyes of a dying woman.

  • • • • •

  “Is he home, Bezeltania?” the woman at the door asks. She’d been by the house many times over the last several months, more visits to her old master than she’d graced them with in the five years prior.

  “I’m sorry, but he is not,” he responds. “He’s been out most of today, and he’s late in returning home.”

  “Damnit,” she says. “Something’s happened. Something is different, and I think both Ezekeal and I are in danger.” The woman paces the kitchen, her hand to her lips, muttering to herself. “I thought I’d been so careful.”

  “Would you like to wait here for him?” he asks.

  “No…no,” she answers. “I have something I need to take care of, so I’ll come back in a bit. If he returns while I’m gone, please ask him to wait for me.”

  “Absolutely, your Highness,” Bezeltania says.

  “Thank you, Bez. And please,” the woman replies, turning back toward the rear door of the house, “Just call me Heliah. Using my formal title could be dangerous. And besides… it may not apply for much longer.” With that, she slips out the door. Bezeltania wonders where master Ezekeal has been, but this wouldn’t be the first night he came home late. There is nothing to do but wait.

  For the next several hours, he busies himself with house chores, sweeping and dusting, cleaning and straightening. It isn’t until after dark he hears voices downstairs. A man and a woman talking, and then arguing. He can’t hear what they are saying. These kinds of discussions are no business of Bezeltania, so he continues to finish his chores in one of the upstairs bedrooms until he hears the argument rise in pitch, ending in an abrupt silence.

  There is no sound of a door, no sign either or both people have left, but the voices have ceased. Bezeltania makes his way out of the upstairs bedroom and down the stairs of the large house.

  “Master Ezekeal?” he says. There is no response. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, craning to look into the study and the large family room, empty on either side of the main entryway.

  “Master?” he calls as he rounds the corner, moving into the long hallway leading to the kitchen from the front of the house. There is no response, save for a wet noise that repeats with a light slap, like someone coring a pumpkin and throwing the seeds aside. He’s halfway down the hallway when the noise ceases, replaced by a quiet scraping and grunts of effort, someone lifting something heavy. He pushes the kitchen door open and freezes, unable at first to process the scene before him.

  Blood splatters the floor and cabinets, dripping off the edges of countertops and doorhandles. The tile floor is obscured by an expanding pool of viscous red liquid that fills each grouted seam as it creeps toward him. Streaks break the surface of the red, intersecting small piles of pink matter steeping in the crimson morass. His gaze follows the trail and stops at two feet as they slide through the pool toward the back of the room.

  Delicate legs lead his gaze to the woman’s body, still bleeding from a belly-level opening too large to be called a wound. Entrails snake out of the evisceration and drag on the floor beside her. A spasm draws him upward to her face, Heliah’s eyes open and somehow still alert, pleading with him for help behind tears that streak down her face. Her shoulders are held in her murderer’s grasp, whose face is hidden behind long, dark hair that hangs heavy, soaked in blood. One of his hands moves from under her and draws a small knife across her throat, opening veins that spew upward and add to the carnage.

  The killer’s head rises. White eyes shine bright against the dark gore surrounding them. He drops the Queen Consort as she bleeds to death on the kitchen floor, standing straight and staring at him, blood dripping from the end of his knife. Bezeltania knows he must leave and turns to run, bolting down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Don’t run, Chronicler.” The killer’s voice slinks down the hallway, a creeping trail that follows Bezeltania out the front door. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

  Curious onlookers follow his flight down the nearly empty street. The only place he knows to go is master Ezekeal’s shop, ten full blocks away. He ducks down a side street and into the alleyway that runs along the back of the row of shops where Ezekeal’s stands.

  The door of Ezekeal’s shop stands ajar and the light of an oil lamp flickers within. Bezeltania stops short of the entryway and approaches with caution.

  “Master Ezekeal?” he calls, pushing the door open further. There is no answer.

  Lamplight shines from the main shop at the far end of the hallway, but Bezeltania can see no movement or sign of life. A few things are out of place in the shop, a place he knows to be meticulously kept by Ezekeal, who is organized to a fault. He calls out again, all but knowing he will get no response.

  Across the rear of the shop stands Ezekeal’s office. He hears no sound from within and hopes it might stand empty, Ezekeal simply away for the evening. He grasps the handle and the door swings open on creaky hinges.

  The office beyond is smashed. Shelves have been emptied, and his master’s desk is overturned in the corner. A shadow sways on the opposite wall, cast by Ezekeal’s limp body suspended by a noose looped over one of the rafters. There is a note pinned to his chest, but Bezeltania can’t bring himself to read it.

  Ezekeal hadn’t shared the reason for the Queen Consort’s increase in visits, nor had he hinted at their nature. Something terrible has befallen both of them and he is at a loss to understand why. Now masterless and homeless, he has no idea what his place in all of this might be. A hand touches his back and a cold feeling rushes through his body. He can’t move.

  “You shouldn’t have run, canner.” It was the killer’s voice. Calm and measured, quiet like a crack forming in deep ice, felt more than heard. “Now, I’ll just go ahead and make an example of you.”

  The hand on his back releases and Bezeltania slumps to the floor, every faculty cut off. He can’t move or speak and his hearing dulls, but he can still see everything in vivid detail. Unable even to turn his head, he is forced to watch as the blood-soaked man releases Ezekeal from his noose, lays him on the floor, removes the note from his chest and crumples it into a pocket, then methodically eviscerates him the same way he had the Queen Consort.
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  When the killer finishes his gruesome task, he calmly steps around the pool of blood that now stains the floor of Ezekeal’s office and kneels down into Bezeltania’s line of sight.

  “See what you’ve made me do, canner?” he says, his voice barely audible. “You just needed to stay upstairs, and you’d never have been a part of this.” The snake of a man plants a hand on Bezeltania’s shoulder and his limbs came to life, but not under his own control. With some concentration the man is able to get the construct back on his feet, and even makes him walk with jerky, hesitant motions, forcing him to stand in the pooling blood. Every instinct inside Bezeltania fights the motion, but he has been separated from all control of his own body. He watches from inside his own shell as he bends over and covers both hands in Ezekeal’s blood, and then turns as the killer puppets him out of the office and into the darkened alley.

  His movements are uncoordinated, almost drunk. Although his movements become smoother as they walk, they do not become faster, and the return trip feels like an eternity. Although he tries to fight, to leave, he is powerless in the madman’s grip.

  At the rear of the manor house they ascend the stone steps to the kitchen door and stop, the killer making a point of planting one of Bezeltania’s bloody hands on the doorframe as they enter. His hand leaves a tacky crimson streak on the jamb as he enters. Two steps in, past the slumped body of the Queen Consort, the puppeteer releases his hold. Bezeltania falls in a heap on the kitchen floor.

  The dark haired man once again leans into his line of sight. “One last thing before I leave you,” the killer says, a sly grin splitting his face. He tips a small dagger back and forth in the construct’s line of sight and wraps Bezeltania’s fingers around the blood-soaked handle. Bezeltania hears light footsteps down the hallway before the front door opens and shuts, leaving him alone.