The sharp tang of spices hung thick in the air of the next marketplace a few streets away—Old Town Market, I think it’s called—accompanied by the rich aroma of cooking meat, the pungent stink of draft animals, and hundreds more odors that filtered into his senses.
The Hunter couldn’t help comparing the city to his own home of Voramis. Though the buildings looked older, more worn by time, the streets were cleaner, the people within the Praamian Wall better-dressed than those in the Beggar’s Quarter.
Yet he knew the truth of cities like Praamis. Malandria had been one of the most beautiful places he’d visited on his journey north, but it had hidden a deep, dark ugliness.
Just as beautiful garments often hide ugly souls, he thought.
Off to one side of the marketplace, a dusky-skinned man in a dust-covered brown cloak stood on a wooden crate and shouted at the people passing by.
“The Long Keeper is your only hope of salvation!” he cried to the small crowd of listeners that had been attracted by the fanatic zeal echoing in his voice. “When the end comes—and it will come for us all, sooner than you might imagine—only his embrace will keep you safe from the death and destruction. Throw yourself on his mercy and plead for your eternal souls!”
He had features foreign to Praamis, his swarthy skin more common to the sun-kissed far north of Einan.
The Hunter snorted. If only he knew how false everything he’s preaching is. The Long Keeper, like all the other so-called “gods” of Einan were the fabrication of primitive humans, perpetrated and encouraged by the temples and priestly orders that used religion to gain power and wealth.
His coach rumbled out of the marketplace and down a side street in the direction of The Gardens, the section of town where the wealthier merchants and newer noble Houses of Praamis owned vast mansions. The way to The Gardens was usually clear, yet a moment later, the Hunter found himself thrown forward when the coachman pulled the vehicle to an abrupt halt.
“What the deuce was that, my man?” The Hunter spoke not in his own voice, but the prim, proper, slightly effete voice of a nobleman.
“Sorry, my lord,” replied the coachman. “The street’s blocked.”
“Well, go around it!”
“Can’t, my lord.” The coachman sounded apologetic. “Too many people in the way.”
The Hunter gave a foppish snort of disdain and was about to speak, when a familiar smell caught his attention. Beneath the pungent odor of animal droppings and the stink of unwashed men and women, he caught a smell of death. Not the ancient rot and decay that marked a demon, but death nonetheless. Flesh rotted not by time, but by some foul poison.
“Let me see,” the Hunter snapped. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the street, straightening his clothing. He wore an ostentatiously colored jacket, vest, and trousers, far too elaborate in style to be comfortable or practical and edged with more lace than a woman’s evening gown. He’d be rid of them in a heartbeat, but they were all required for his current disguise. Pulling his cloak forward to conceal Soulhunger, he pushed into the crowd.
“Step aside, step aside!” He pitched his voice deliberately higher to make himself sound younger. The façade he wore would be in his early thirties, not five thousand years old like the Bucelarii beneath.
A burly man in a flour-stained apron turned to snarl at him, but stopped when he caught sight of the Hunter’s face—with its prominent nose, weak jaw, high cheekbones, and angular chin—and rich robes. Evidently the pretentious demeanor and garish clothing of a nobleman was enough to convince the man not to growl a response. Commoners of cities like Praamis and Voramis disdained noblemen, but never to their faces. Lords and ladies had a tendency to kill first and ask forgiveness later.
“What’s all the fuss?” The Hunter shoved his way forward with just enough force to displace people, yet not hurl them aside. His inhuman strength, a gift of his Bucelarii heritage, gave him the strength to snap a man’s leg with only mild effort. “What’s going on here? I demand an explanation!”
His eyes fell on the body before the words had finished leaving his mouth. He stepped into the alley, heedless of the muck that squelched under his shoes, and crouched over the corpse. A child, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, with features just on the healthy side of emaciated, a thin torso, and limbs that had just begun to grow gangly. The Hunter didn’t need his keen nostrils to tell him the boy had been poisoned—the bright blue color of the lad’s lips was unmistakable, and a perfect match for his azure coat, vest, and trousers.
The Hunter scanned the area for any indication of who had killed the child or abandoned the body. The mud had been disturbed by drag marks that ended at the boy’s heels. Someone had dragged the body and dumped it there. Two footprints were visible beside the body, and a round imprint that might have been from a knee.
Almost as if someone knelt beside the body. But why?
The Hunter’s eyes went to the boy’s right hand, which was closed into a tight fist. A tiny scrap of parchment poked between the child’s fingers.
What is that?
He moved closer and pried open the boy’s fingers. Within the victim’s palm lay a paper crumpled into a tight wad, and lodged in one of the boy’s fingernails was a single dull brown thread. The Hunter quickly snatched the two objects and concealed them from the crowd behind him.
“Poor little Bluejacket,” said a woman’s voice from behind him.
The Hunter turned and fixed the speaker with a lordly frown. “You know this lad?”
“No, my lord,” the woman said with a vigorous shake of her head. “But his clothes, you see. He’s one of Lady Chasteyn’s Bluejackets.”
The Hunter studied the boy’s clothing. Though he had the look of a street urchin, his clothes were well-tailored and as clean as could be expected of a child this age.
Before the Hunter could ask who Lady Chasteyn was and what the Bluejackets were, shouts of “Make way for the Guard!” echoed loud from the back of the crowd. People moved aside or were shoved aside as four men in the olive robes and silver breastplates of the Praamian Guard marched toward the body.
The leader of the squad narrowed his eyes at the sight of the Hunter. “Here now, who the bloody hell are ye and what are ye doin’?”
The Hunter drew himself up to his full height—more than a hand’s breadth taller than the Praamian Guard—and plastered a look of disdain on his face. “Lord Harrenth Anglion, son of Lord Enusk Anglion. And who, pray tell, are you to speak to me in such a disrespectful manner?”
The guard paled but held his ground. “Sergeant Mayten, fifth squad, Old Town Company. We’ve been called about that!” He thrust a finger toward the corpse.
“Good,” the Hunter snapped. “About time. This crowd was blocking my coach, so the sooner you can clear the way, the sooner I can be on with my business.”
“Right.” Sergeant Mayten cleared his throat and shouted at the crowd. “Away, the lot of ye! The Duke’ll handle this.”
“Bloody lot of good that will do,” muttered the flour-covered baker as he turned to leave.
“What’s that?” snapped Sergeant Mayten. “Who said that?”
The Hunter stepped in front of the Praamian Guard. “Sergeant, someone spoke of the Bluejackets and a Lady Chasteyn.”
“From the House of Mercy, just south of The Gardens.” Sergeant Mayten nodded. “And bugger me if I ain’t the one who has to deliver the news that another of her lads has been sent to the Long Keeper.”
The Hunter cocked an eyebrow. “Another?”
The sergeant gave the Hunter an expectant look and inclined his head.
Of course. With a disdainful sniff, the Hunter dropped two silver half-drakes into the man’s hand.
The sergeant nodded and made the coins disappear. “Second one in the last two weeks. Though the last one was bloody bizarre.”
“Bizarre?” The Hunter cocked his head.
“Head all plastered up like a mask, but all smooth, no features.”
Sergeant Mayten scowled. “Worse was that odd symbol carved into his chest.”
Another body with the Serenii-looking rune? And a child?
The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. One child poisoned and another killed in some strange ritual. They both had the feel of a demon, but not the smell. The Abiarazi had a very distinctive odor: an ancient rot and decay. The Hunter’s sensitive nostrils didn’t catch even the slightest hint of that scent here. The killer had been human.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said with a nod.
“Of course, milord.” The man actually gave a little bow, then turned back to shouting at the crowd to disperse.
The Hunter cast one last glance down at the corpse. The boy was a year or two younger than Hailen, the child he’d met in the Beggar Temple in Malandria. Over the last four years, he’d come to think of Hailen as his own son. Anger burned hot and bright in his chest as he pictured Hailen lying discarded in the muck.
He’d come to Praamis in search of a demon and found a monster. He could hunt both.
Chapter Three
Even after eleven years as Master Gold, Ilanna still felt strange standing in front of the crowd of apprentices, Journeymen, and House Masters that filled the Menagerie. All eyes fixed on her, voices silent as the Night Guild—her people, every one of them—waited for her to speak.
“Brothers and sisters of the Night Guild, this is unacceptable.” Ilanna lacked the previous Master Gold’s flair for the dramatic; she preferred a more concise, to-the-point style. But her voice rang off the earthen walls and high ceiling of the Menagerie with grim resolve, and it seemed the torches and lanterns dimmed from the force of her anger. “Seven murders in Praamis in the last three weeks. Men, women, even children. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Ilanna’s eyes fixed first on Errik, Master of House Serpent. “Master Serpent, speak.”
Errik, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the green armband of his House, rose from his plush armchair at the front of the crowd. “House Serpent has no record of these deaths being sanctioned, nor knowledge of their execution by any Journeyman or apprentice.”
Ilanna nodded as the man took his seat. She hadn’t needed his answer to know it wasn’t the Serpents—the Guild assassins would never be so careless to leave the bodies for the Praamian Guards to find unless they wanted to send a pointed message. And Errik, her friend since her earliest days in the Night Guild, would never sanction the killing of a child.
Her eyes went to Asald, a towering giant of a man with flaming hair to match the red of his House armband. “Master Bloodbear, have you anything to say?”
Asald drew himself up to his full height and loomed head and shoulders over Ilanna. “House Bloodbear has no knowledge of these deaths.”
At Ilanna’s nod, the huge man sat back in his armchair. Once she would have laid the blame on House Bloodbear without hesitation. During her youth, they had been a collection of thugs, brutes, and bullies. Over her years as Master Gold, a marked change had come to House Bloodbear. The thugs, brutes, and bullies used their strength and brutality to protect not only their fellow Night Guild Journeymen and apprentices, but the people of Praamis from rival gangs, river pirates, and any outside enemies that threatened the safety of the populace. They’d grown as fierce in their protection of Praamians as they’d once been in their extortion and blackmailing.
She stopped in front of Tyman, who wore the black armband of a Scorpion. “Master Scorpion?”
Tyman stood with effort. “House Scorpion is blameless, Guild Master.” His voice resonated with its usual strength, but the last eleven years had worn on his body. His shoulders had a pronounced stoop now, the result of long hours spent hunched over his patients, and his hair had gone silvery white.
“Thank you, Master Scorpion.” The poisoners would not slit throats when they could kill with alchemical mixtures and concoctions that would be invisible.
Ilanna repeated the question to broad-shouldered Eden, the Master of House Fox, and one-eyed Septin, Master of House Grubber, and received the expected denials. Foxes were street-level thieves, cunning in the art of deception and lifting purses, but not prone to violence. They fled rather than fought, hid rather than confront. Grubbers were little more than beggars, street-sweepers, sewage scavengers, and errand runners for the other Houses.
Ilanna came to stand in front of the man who wore the brown armband of House Hawk. “Master Hawk, what have you to say for your House?”
“Nothing.” Bryden barely managed to control his sneer. “You know as well as I that no Hawk would do such a thing.” He didn’t bother to stand; his twisted leg served as an excuse to avoid the effort, but he remained seated out of disrespect to her.
Ilanna’s jaw tightened. The years hadn’t tempered Bryden’s instinctive dislike of her. He’d been the second-in-command to Jagar Khat, the Master of House Hawk during her years as apprentice and Journeyman. After the mess with the Bloody Hand and the massacre of all the Guild Council, he’d ascended to command of House Hawk—for good reason, he was as capable an administrator as her own aide, Darreth. His presence made for irritating and infuriating Council meetings. He stopped just short of contempt in public and private, but his feelings for her were no secret.
Ilanna turned away from Bryden without a nod and stared at the next House Master. “Master Hound, what of your House?”
Shaw, a whip-thin man with tightly-corded muscles and a lean build that hid surprising strength, stood with an easy grace. “My Hounds are innocent of any wrongdoing in this matter.” He met her gaze without hesitation, his long, strong fingers adjusting his white armband.
Ilanna moved on without waiting for him to sit. She stopped before the Master of the eighth House of the Night Guild, a swarthy-skinned Ghandian woman with a golden armband around her broad bicep.
“Master Phoenix, have you anything to say?”
The woman rose with the grace and poise of a warrior and loomed over Ilanna, her strong, muscled shoulders and thick arms adding to the ferocity blazing in her eyes. “It was one of the girls under my House’s protection that fell to these murderers.” Her voice rang out loud in the Menagerie. “House Phoenix will have retribution in blood.”
Ilanna met Ria’s dark brown eyes and saw anger and sorrow written there. Ria looked like an angel of vengeance, her kaffe-colored skin agleam in the flickering torchlight. She felt the loss of the prostitute keenly and her fierce protective streak cried out for her to punish the guilty. That passion was one of the things that had made Ilanna fall in love with Ria in the first place.
Ilanna nodded to Ria and circled back to her original position at the front of the crowd. “The Night Guild will give answer to these crimes. Every House will lend the manpower and resources needed to find those guilty. I will personally deal with the matter myself, and I will not rest until the murderers are punished.” Her eyes roved across the hundreds of cowled and hooded faces and fixed each man, woman, and child with a stern gaze in turn. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave the ritual bow. “This cruelty will not go unanswered. We will have the Watcher’s justice!”
“The Watcher’s justice!” Four hundred and eighty-three voices rang out in the Menagerie.
Pride swelled within Ilanna as she stared at her people. Criminals, killers, and thieves: they were the Night Guild, and she was their Master.
* * *
Ilanna dropped into her heavy armchair with a sigh. Her long day of sorting out Guild issues had turned into a long night when she received the King’s summons, and she found herself longing for the warmth of her bed and Ria’s arms.
But bed would have to wait. This business of the murders was bad for the Night Guild. She doubted King Ohilmos would do anything unless the killing continued, but Duke Phonnis would use every one of those deaths as weapons in his argument against the Night Guild.
I’ve got to find whoever’s behind this and deal with it quickly.
She reached for the perspiring metal pitcher on h
er side table and poured herself a glass of chilled watered wine. As always, she hesitated before bringing the goblet to her lips. Her predecessor had died by poison—the handiwork of Allon, a Hound that had been her former lover and, she’d believed, an ally—so she was cautious of what she drank. Thankfully, her aide had been a Scorpion, and he knew every toxin used in the Night Guild, Praamis, and the south of Einan. Nothing would get past him.
She stifled a groan as the man himself, Journeyman Darreth, entered the room. He never seemed to bring good news.
“Master Gold.” He gave her a little bow, a habit he’d clung to despite her insistence to the contrary. She’d recruited Darreth into her crew during the Lady Auslan heist and kept him on when she became Guild Master. He numbered among the most competent administrators in the Night Guild—in all of Praamis, she’d wager—but had an uncanny habit of disturbing her when she had no desire to be disturbed.
“The House Masters await you outside.” He spoke in a grating, nasal voice that seemed a perfect match for his slim build and long-fingered hands, which, like his eyes, seemed never to stop moving. “Master Hawk, of course, has already complained thrice about being kept waiting for the whole minute and a half since his arrival.”
“Send them in.” Ilanna stood with a sigh and came around to the front of the desk.
“Of course, Guild Master.” Darreth bowed and strode to the door, his movements as precise and controlled as his handwriting.
This isn’t going to be fun.
A moment later, the door swung open and Bryden, Master of House Hawk, limped into the room with a furious expression. “You know full well that the Hawks are innocent of any of this!” he shouted, his face flushed and red. “There is no reason to accuse any of the Journeymen or apprentices—”
Darkblade Justice: An Epic Fantasy Murder Mystery (Hero of Darkness Book 7) Page 2