by Rik Hunik
The front door of her store was locked and it was dark inside so I made a fingerlight and pressed my face close to the glass. Something lay in the aisle near the door. I brightened my light for a few seconds and identified it as a body.
I didn't know what kind of protective spells Silvina had so I stood back and tossed my little knocker through the window, then used the tip of my cudgel to operate the bolt and the latch. Nothing visible happened but I'm sure an alarm sounded back in the headquarters of Dark Wing Security.
It was Mimi on the floor. I couldn't see a wound anywhere on her, and there was no blood on the floor, but she wasn't breathing, and when I touched her hand it felt cool and it was getting stiff. She had been dead for hours.
I retrieved my knocker and looked around but I found nothing out of place in the store; Mimi had gone down without a struggle. Silvina didn't answer my call so I went into the back. In a small office I found a pile of sloughed off skin, dry and aged like I had found on the street following Renzo, but there was enough here to cover an entire person. I reluctantly picked up a piece and opened myself to impressions.
My heart stopped beating when I saw a pretty young woman with thick, black hair and blue eyes, but it started again when I realized she wasn't Zena, and she wasn't Silvina either. It was Belita I saw, as she had been when alive, and at the same time I saw her body crammed into a hole like a quarter of beef. I dropped the piece of desiccated skin like it had caught fire.
I stood up, brushing my hands off on each other. This was Belita's skin, falling to pieces even as I watched, but I knew, without sorting through all the parts, that all of her skin was here. There was no actual smell, but the foul reek of dark magic filled my nose and my skin crawled up my back.
So how did Belita's skin get into Silvina's store? Where had it been hidden for the last month? Was it a coincidence that the magic knife that skinned Belita had been stolen from the police station days ago? Almost certainly not. Somebody should have studied that knife a lot more. It should have been locked up a more securely.
But Renzo was dead so who had the knife now?
I remembered how Acastus had never been satisfied with the way the killer's behavior changed at the end, and I was never quite sure that Renzo had been responsible for the death of Belita. What if there were two killers?
The first killer started in Rome, killed in various cities on the peninsula, and ended here in Agrippina, where he killed Belita. Somehow Renzo got stabbed in the leg and got away with the knife, but the spell on the knife drove him mad because he had no idea what it was being used for. If a third person got ahold of the knife that could happen again, but I had a strong feeling it was back in the hands of the original killer, a black-haired man in black, and he must have taken it back for a reason. An ominous phrase from my research on the Thirteen Moons spell resonated in my head, "...a final victim in the dark of the moon."
This was the night of the new moon, so there was sure to be another murder tonight, one last skinless corpse, and I had a strong feeling, deep in my heart, that Zena was the target. I had to find her quickly, if I wasn't already too late, but the Skinner would be adept at covering his tracks. Only a few of his victims had been found.
Even if the black-haired man was preventing me from connecting with Zena I thought I should be able to get some impression from an artifact as powerful as that knife, especially if it was in use. Steeling my nerves, I picked up the most innocuous piece of skin I could see, about six inches long and an inch and a half wide, but I could still tell it came from her forearm.
I banished all images of Belita from my mind and concentrated on the knife, opening myself to impressions. I felt, maybe, a slight tug to the north or northwest. If I brought along a big piece of skin it might be enough to strengthen the connection if I got closer.
As I turned away when I saw a piece with more shape than the others. I carefully pulled it out and held it up with both hands. It looked like a mask.
I held it higher and blew on it to fill it out. For a second it looked like Silvina, in reverse relief, and for that second I looked through the eyeholes and saw a grid of city streets outlined in lights, converging in the distance. Then the vision was gone and I was holding a piece of skin. I opened my fingers, dropping it on top of the rest of the skin, glad I no longer had to touch any of it anymore.
I recognized the view, I knew exactly where to go because there is only one place in the city that is high enough for you to look down on the city's lights like that.
I ran two blocks before I flagged down a cab. I jumped up to the seat beside him and said, "To the Triumph Of Germanicus, and hurry."
"You can't ride up here."
"I don't care, I'll pay double, just hurry the fuck up. There's a crime being committed on top of the arch and I have to stop it. Now move."
Either my intensity or the promise of double fare convinced him and he snapped the reins to get the horses moving. Traffic was light so we managed a good clip. The cabby had a heavy coat against the cold but the wind pierced my thinner clothing. As we turned north on Barber Street he asked, "How do you know there's a crime on top of the arch?"
"I'm a Certified Magician." That seemed to satisfy him, or maybe he was just too busy driving to talk. We sped up Barber Street until it intersected Rome Street at an acute angle about eighty yards south of the Triumph Of Germanicus. "Fetch the police as soon as you let me out by the arch, and tell them to hurry. It's urgent."
He nodded. I counted out what I guessed I owed him, added a bit more, pressed it into his hands and hit the ground before the cab stopped. He tossed me a salute and sped off.
The Triumph Of Germanicus, the tallest structure in the city, towers a hundred and fifty feet above the street, with a ninety-foot-high arch spanning four lanes of traffic. Above each end of the arch, on the north and south faces of the monument, is an alcove for a statue. Except for the alcoves a gallery runs all around the monument, to provide public viewing for those too timid to tackle the roof.
To support the immense weight the base is mostly solid concrete, though there are stories about secret rooms. On both sides of the street a staircase inside climbs up to the gallery, which is open to the public around the clock, so there were no doors or barricades to slow me down. I took the stairs two at a time all the way up.
I was out of breath when I reached the gallery, where another staircase leads up to the roof, but the heavy wooden door granting access to it was barred from inside. I bounced off it a couple of times and it didn't even budge, so I desisted before I hurt myself. The door was a lot tougher than I was, and there was nothing up here that I could use as a tool or a battering ram.
While I caught my breath I considered my options and I came to the unsavory conclusion that the only way left to me was up the outside. The smooth columns around the perimeter of the gallery provided no purchase so I chose the statue on the south face.
The alcove, about twenty feet wide and forty feet tall, contained a giant statue of Germanicus, one hand raised. There was no moon out tonight but the city's myriad lights provided a soft glow, bright enough for me to see by. I climbed over the waist-high stone railing, crossed to the statue, pressed my back against the back of the statues's leg, put my feet up against the back wall of the alcove and worked my way up. Even in the chill night air I started sweating before I reached the statue's waist.
When I got to Germanicus's shoulder the climbing got a little tricky. Reaching back I grabbed a couple of handholds on Germanicus's stone hair, then I kicked with my feet, pulled with my arms and wriggled my butt until I was sitting on Germanicus's right shoulder. From here, for the first time, I could see the road, a hundred and thirty feet down. As impressive as the height of the structure is from below, it feels even higher from above, especially from a precarious perch.
I turned my head to look at the solid stone in the back of the alcove until my heart ceased hammering, then I turned my attention to the next phase of my climb. Although I couldn't see it from whe
re I was sitting, I knew that above the arch was a ledge that ran under the row of bas-relief carvings that decorated the facade, and from there it was only ten feet to the top.
Germanicus's right hand extended out of the top of the alcove. His forearm was about two feet in diameter, tapering to his wrist. Straddling his arm with my legs I worked my way to his elbow, but from there his arm sloped up too steeply to continue with the same butt-walk technique. Sweat broke out on my face and under my arms, more from nervous anxiety than exertion.
I brought my feet up so I was crouching in the crook of his elbow and stretched along his forearm until I could reach his hand and pull myself up.
"Thanks for the hand up," I said to Germanicus. From his hand I reached out, steadied myself with one hand on the outside corner of the alcove, stood up, and used the bas relief carvings as handholds to climb onto the ledge.
The bold style of these reliefs made them almost like statues attached to the wall on one side, so they provided plenty of handholds, but most weren't nearly as large or prominent as I would have liked, though the stone had weathered through the centuries and lost it's polish, giving me a fairly secure grip. Once I got my feet on the bottom ledge I felt almost safe. When I stood my head was only five feet from the top.
Nose to nose with an ancient warrior, I couldn't help but admire the skill of the long-dead artist, who surely deserved to be more recognized and appreciated. I wondered why they made the figures way up here so small, but then I realized they had to make room for a lot of accomplishments in Germanicus's life. It was a waste having such a detailed masterpiece so far up here where no one would ever see it, except for the occasional lunatic playing spider, and I was seeing only a tiny portion of it, with no time to appreciate what I saw.
Looking up at the starry night sky I saw my next problem. I had forgotten about the cornice that runs around the entire outer rim. It doesn't look like much from the ground, and you don't notice it when you're looking down, but from my perspective it looked like an insurmountable obstacle. It projected out about two feet and rose the same distance.
Too late to turn back now, I told myself, nowhere to go but up. I climbed until I was right under the cornice, got a good grip with my left hand on the head of a prominent carving, leaned out, and reached up with my right hand. My fingertips touched the top corner. I stretched up on my tiptoes and got my fingers over the lip. It wasn't a very secure grip but it was the best I could get. I slowly let one leg dangle into space and managed to wiggle my fingers one at a time and get another fraction of an inch of grip with my right hand. I took a deep breath and forced myself to let go of the other foothold, controlling my swing with my left hand. My body swung out a little too far and I felt my right hand slip the fraction of an inch I had just gained.
Chapter 46
My heart lurched but my grip held.
Don't look down, I reminded myself as I steadied myself so I was no longer swinging at all, increased my grip with my right hand as well as I could, then slowly released my left hand and brought it up beside my right. For a long second I just hung there by both hands, the night breeze chilling the sweat that soaked me, with a question repeating in my head, Berk, you idiot, what the fuck are you doing?
I made a mental note to charge Lucina double for this hour, then wondered if I could charge her at all, because if I couldn't I was doing this for nothing. I pulled myself up, hooked an elbow, a foot, and then a knee, and then I squirmed onto the top.
The top of the monument is a smooth, flat expanse of marble, ninety feet wide and ninety feet long, with the cornice forming a low parapet around the perimeter. I slid off the parapet and lay on the stone, relishing the solidity under me as I tried to catch my breath without making too much noise.
Walking away from me I saw Zena, arm in arm with a thin man with black hair, the same man who had given her that note in my office. So I wasn't too late yet. Even though I still couldn't see him clearly I knew this had to be the man who'd killed Belita last month. Where had he been hiding and why couldn't I find him before?
I climbed to my feet, got a head-knocking grip on my cudgel, and ran to catch up to them. I collided with an invisible barrier with so much force I bounced back and fell flat on my ass. Slightly stunned, and glad no one had seen my pratfall, I felt my way on hands and knees back to the invisible barrier. Although I could see nothing, and barely felt anything, however hard I pushed, something pushed back just as hard. On the stone where I felt the invisible wall, if I looked at the right angle, I could see a faint line, about half an inch wide, like moonlight reflecting from water.
When I got to my feet the skinny man in black saw me and his step faltered, but he recovered quickly, smiling and waving like we were old friends, while Zena stared straight ahead, trudging along in a daze, guided and hastened by him, drugged, no doubt, probably with the same drug he'd used on Belita. I called Zena's name loudly a couple of times but she never responded at all.
Putting one hand on the invisible wall I trotted around the perimeter until I found an opening. Now that I knew what to look for I could see rows of equally spaced, curved lines, but only at the edge of my vision, where I wasn't looking right at them. I trotted along the path between two lines.
The man-in-black tried walking faster but Zena stumbled over her own feet and would have fallen if he hadn't pulled her up by her arm. They followed a wide curve that didn't appear to be taking them anywhere in particular, then did a U-turn and curved back beside the path he had just taken. That's when it hit me, they were following the circuits of a labyrinth, longer and more complex than the one at the Minotaur's Mansion, but still with only one winding path to the center.
I was a frequent visitor to the top of the Triumph Of Germanicus because I enjoyed the view, but, day or night, I had never before seen any sign of a labyrinth, so he must have drawn it tonight, and that's what had given me enough time to catch up to him.
There was powerful magic in this labyrinth and in the knife he carried, which he had obtained from police custody after the death of Renzo. Was he a Magician or Wizard himself, or did he just have a Wizard accomplice? Or was all his magic now contained in artifacts he had obtained from a Wizard?
It didn't matter, I wasn't turning back.
The path I followed twisted back on itself, winding from the inside to the outside several times, so I couldn't tell how far along Zena and her killer had progressed, how much lead time they had. At one point we passed within five feet of each other but I couldn't touch him and Zena still didn't respond to my shouts. It was too dark to see his features clearly but I was fairly certain it was nobody I knew.
Apparently he had more of a lead than I thought because one minute he was hustling Zena along a curve right at the outer edge of the labyrinth, the next he made a U-turn, followed a sweeping curve a quarter of the circle, took a sharp corner, walked ten paces and reached the center. Even with my more rapid pace I estimated that I was barely a third of the way through and probably wouldn't get there in time to stop him.
The man-in-black smiled and waved at me. Suddenly it was harder to move, like I was forcing my way through water instead of air, though my breathing was unaffected. Anger and determination increased my strength and I pushed my way forward without slowing down, wondering what other defensive spells he had ready.
Zena didn't move unless the man-in-black actually moved her or guided her like a puppet. While I watched, unable to interfere, he laid her down spread-eagled. Her eyes were open, staring straight up into the starry sky, and I could see her chest slowly rising and falling with her breath.
He lit some candles and placed one at the end of each of her limbs and a fifth one a foot away from her head, recreating the scene at the center of the maze at the Minotaur's Mansion. Renzo's kills had shown none of this preparation. How had we all been fooled for so long? Acastus was an expert, he should have figured it out, but he had been so busy catching other criminals, with more waiting in other cities, that he didn't
have time to spare thinking about those who were already caught. I couldn't blame him.
The man glanced at me a few times but he didn't look nervous or seem to be hurrying. I kept pushing forward even though the constant extra exertion had me sweating profusely, despite the cool breeze that had no difficulty blowing through the invisible walls.
I came to a dead end. I had been following the only route that was open and now it was blocked. The atmosphere had changed when the man in black lit his candles and the lines now glowed an unhealthy blue that cycled back and forth between purple and green. I turned around to see if I could spot the place where the path split but there was no longer any path, just another dead end about five feet from me.
Two steps, turn around, two steps, turn around. Over and over while I racked my memory, trying to think of some magic I had learned that might help me in this situation, but I was out of my league, I had no paraphernalia with me, and nothing I carried seemed even remotely useful against this sorcery.
Then I remembered the brief vision of a bloody hand that I'd had at the Zenobian's banquet. Blood is used mostly in the dark aspects of magic, and I had learned how to recognize and defend against such spells, but now I was thinking more of the disruptive, destructive effect blood could have on intricate, elaborate spells. It was crude magic, not without its uses, but frowned on by sensible practitioners because of the toll it took on the user.
In keeping with the accuracy of most of my visions I made a two-inch-long cut in the fleshy part of my left forearm instead of my palm, deep enough to bleed, but shallow enough that the simplest healing spell could make it stop. It stung a bit but life in the army had inured me to worse pain before I got out of bed. I put away my knife, got some blood on my hand and smeared it across a two-foot section of the glowing line. It hissed like red hot iron plunged into cold water and blue sparks popped wildly for a few seconds.
Then the line was gone. I stepped through the gap and repeated the process, saving myself another ten minutes of difficult travel, but the hissing and sparks attracted the attention of the man-in-black.