Vile

by Keith Crawford

  “What’s wrong with you? Why are you holding back!?” she said.

  Elianor planted both palms on his chest and pushed. He knocked the broken sword from the table; it clattered to the floor. She ran at him as he stumbled, and they swept across the room, she forwards, he backwards, exchanging jab for counter, block for blow, until she took him by both arms and shoved him against the wall.

  “Nathaniel, if you are doing the world’s best imitation of an idiot, then it’s time to stop.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  “I have orders to bring a Vile to the Senate, for a vote that could bring down the Kingdom, and I will succeed in that mission. But I’m not blind and I’m not stupid. You talk about Black Dogs and missing women as if it’s normal. I may not have believed in Kindred infection when I read about it at the Academy, but I know a conspiracy when I see it, you patronising fuck.”

  She left him leaning against the wall but kept her hands on his arms.

  “You are a Magistrate,” Elianor said. “I have chosen to trust you. You will make yourself worthy of that trust because the stakes are too high for you to fail. There is no leadership in the capital. We have a puppet Queen, backed by a royalist majority who think the Vile family name is enough to hold off an invasion. But we both know Dalard Carada was a drunk and Arbalest Vile was a farmer who took a fake name because royalists don’t want to believe a peasant can kill a Kindred Prince.”

  Nathaniel gaped.

  “Don’t look at me like that; it’s right there in your books. What do you think I was doing here all morning, press-ups and preaching? If the Black Dog is a vanguard for the Kindred, then there is nobody to stop them. Shadowgate will burn, and Durançon will burn, along with every town and village between here and the capital. It will make the purge look like a carriage accident, because the only place we can stop them is at Demon’s Pass. And we can’t stop them at Demon’s Pass if Shadowgate is too busy fighting itself.”

  She prodded his chest with her finger.

  “Tomorrow morning, everyone will be here. I don’t care why Brek hates the Garns, but he’ll come to see Derec hang. Gwyion will stay to plead for his son. If they’re alive, Anton and Persephone will return. As will whoever has my bloody rifle. And then we’ll get answers. I don’t want to see that stupid boy hang any more than you do. But Shadowgate is a boil that needs to be lanced. And I have to know what your father is really doing.”

  She released his arms.

  “Now, will you help me, or stay down here and sulk?”

  He straightened his legs and lifted himself from the wall.

  “I will help you.”

  “Good. Find me a way to see Derec Garn, tonight, without anybody else knowing. And get me a new sword. The old one is broken.”

  Chapter 34

  “What do you mean, Father has retired?” Anton said. “The sun has barely set!”

  Anton and Persephone stood before the Manor house steps, the aches and pains of their journey hardening their muscles. Lena stood in the doorway, barring their way.

  “Take a bath, Anton. Get some sleep. You can report to him in the morning.”

  “Abacus,” Persephone said. “Did the Magistrate return?”

  “She arrested Derec Garn.”

  Anton put his foot on the first step. “Is Gwyion here?”

  “Gwyion has been given quarters for the night.”

  Anton climbed the next step, towering over Lena. She did not move a fraction of an inch.

  “It’s late, Anton. People are asleep.”

  “Well, wake them up!”

  “We fought a Kindred,” Persephone said.

  Lena stepped back and tightened her shawl.

  “You had better come in.”

  They passed through the crooked antechamber into the audience hall of Shadowgate Manor. The light from Lena’s candle sculpted shadow and gloom; the walls shifted and groaned as if consumed from within by invisible flames.

  “Take a seat, both of you. I’ll light the fire and you can tell me everything.”

  “Where is our father?” Anton said. “He needs to hear this.”

  “I’m here.”

  Lord Arbalest Vile was on his throne, wrapped in a woollen nightgown with a cap on his head. Lena lifted her candle. Her eyes narrowed in time with her scowl.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be,” she said. “You ought to be in bed.”

  “Quit your faffing, old lady,” Lord Vile said.

  Persephone put her hand on Anton’s chest and then went to throw kindling in the fireplace as Lena scuttled over to Lord Vile’s side. “Is it done?” Anton heard Lena whisper to Vile, but he waved her away.

  “Have you killed the Black Dog?”

  “No, but we heard it. I think we heard it,” Anton said. “And we found Mabyn’s patrol.”

  “Killed by a Kindred,” Persephone said.

  Lord Vile leaned forward and bared his teeth. “How do you know it was Kindred?”

  “There was one amongst the bodies,” Anton said. “Persephone fought it, and—”

  “Persephone fought it, not you?”

  Anton squinted, a sharp pain in his head. Why did Vile always obsess over ridiculous details?

  “She was closer,” he said.

  “What kind was it?”

  Anton hesitated, trying to remember lessons he had learned from his father’s stories.

  “A Shifter,” Persephone said. “I think it was a Shifter.”

  “Not a Shaper then,” Lord Vile said, leaning back in the throne and kicking his right foot out like a child on a swing. “You were lucky. What happened when it died?”

  The uncomfortable silence was all the answer Lord Vile should have needed, but he just sat there, swinging his leg, until Persephone spoke.

  “We ran when we heard the Black Dog.”

  “I fell,” Anton said. “Persephone saved me.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Lord Vile sighed a long, fake sigh, with a sideways look at Lena, who kept her head bowed. “At least you were right to go check the watchtower. You did check the watchtower, didn’t you?”

  “We felt it was more important to come and warn you,” Persephone said.

  Lord Vile planted both feet on the floor and pushed his index finger into the arm of his throne.

  “Very well. I have been warned. I shall send Nathaniel to correct your error, once we have dealt with this Garn business.”

  “We can’t just send Nathaniel,” Anton said. “We need help.”

  “The Kindred has some sort of armour,” Persephone said. “It blocked my sword-blows with its arms. It…It changed as I fought it.”

  “That’s what Shifters do.”

  “Nathaniel will be killed!” Anton said.

  “We should contact the Durançon Warden,” Persephone said. “Get help from the capital.”

  “Don’t compound your cowardice!” Lord Vile shouted back. “Two of you against one Kindred! If this were a new invasion, how could we hope for victory with you as leaders? To beat the Kindred, you must fight with no regard for your kin. That is why, Persephone, you will never be fit to be Castellan. And as for you, Anton—”

  “You’re insane!” Anton shouted.

  “You are a weak, corrupt fool.”

  “At least I fought in the last war, while you sat in your castle looking at your trophies.”

  “I won every battle I fought. You lost your first war and came home a cripple.”

  “I don’t think it was my contribution that won or lost the war.”

  “That is exactly what I mean.” Lord Vile banged his fist on the arm of his throne, and the momentum drove him to his feet. “A great man rises to the occasion. You do not. Despite his previous errors, Nathaniel deserves his chance.”

  The roaring in Anton’s ears drowned out the sound of his father’s voice. He clenched his fists. His fingertips were still frozen. He looked to Persephone for help, but she kept her arms straight at h
er sides and her mouth shut.

  “What do you intend to do with Derec Garn?” Anton said.

  “Hang him, of course.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Then see him. It makes no difference. He will die in the morning.”

  “You’re talking about Gwyion and Haf’s son! You spoke at his naming day!”

  Lord Vile sighed, and just for a moment held his body still.

  “Why is it so difficult for you to understand? You dallied with whores and interfered in the affairs of peasants. Derec’s death is your punishment: the consequence of your weakness.”

  Lord Vile walked out via the side-door of the dais, his woollen cap bobbing on his head. Lena followed close after. Anton put both of his hands on the long dining table and tried to warm the fingers against the grain, but dead wood has no warmth. It only rots or burns.

  “I have no idea what that man wants,” he muttered.

  “I thought he was pretty clear,” Persephone said. She was pulling at her gloves but couldn’t get them loose from her hands. “There was something though, something he said.”

  “Are you okay?” Anton asked.

  She bent forward as if someone had punched her in the belly. When he went to take her arm, help her sit, she shook her head, a short, snappy motion. But her legs still wobbled.

  “Seph?”

  “He said ‘if it were a new invasion’,” Persephone said. “As if he knows that it is not.”

  “Are you going to be alright? I need to see Gwyion. And Derec. Can I come to see you in your chamber, afterwards?”

  “When you come, bring wine,” Persephone said. “Bring lots of wine.”

  Chapter 35

  “The first person you look at.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Elianor said.

  Genevieve Grime helped Elianor climb up onto the rooftop. The capital panorama belched smoke, and the river smelled of dead fish. The body of the burglar lay where it had fallen, the side of his skull mashed in where Elianor had struck him. This memory must have been from, oh, six months before Grime was killed.

  “I’m serious. The Truthsense will guide you. Eight times out of ten, the first person you look at when you get to the scene will be the guilty party.”

  You mean four times out of five, Elianor thought, but she said, “That reasoning won’t exactly stand due process.”

  “Of course not. And that’s why you need a proper investigation, a nexus of evidence. Truthsense can only be a guide. But let it guide you. You’ll see, when you’re in the field.”

  “I’ll never be in the field. I’m set for the courts.”

  Genevieve had only smiled. “You’re a Combat Magistrate, Miss Paine. You’ll only be happy with blood on your knuckles. Carada is many things, but he’s not stupid, and he won’t waste your talent.”

  Elianor placed one hand flat on the trapdoor above her head and listened. For a moment she thought she had heard voices. Yet, if voices they were, they were blown through tunnels, not from the room above. She balanced on the ladder and shuttered her lantern. Then she lifted the trapdoor. A fresh breeze blew across the stone floors, leaving her blinking dust and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. Nathaniel’s directions had been precise: through the labyrinth of tunnels that linked his chamber to the other parts of the castle, through a storage room of barrels so familiar looking she almost stopped to investigate—then the pressure of time and fear of getting caught rushed her here to the gaol. She opened the trapdoor all the way, careful not to let it fall, and climbed out into the dark room.

  It was a short corridor lined on both sides with barred cells. Light came from beneath the doors on either end, a candle’s glow from the interior and cool starlight from the exterior. From trapdoor to window none of it was particularly secure storage for prisoners, as if the builder had not meant it to be a prison at all. Elianor lowered the trapdoor, deposited the lantern, and looked through the bars of the middle cell to find Derec Garn staring back.

  “Have you come to rescue me?” he said, dryly.

  Elianor checked the hallway, then the other cells, one by one. All four were empty. The courtyard door was barred. The barracks door was closed. She stood before Derec Garn’s cell, just out of arm’s reach.

  “Nathaniel asked me to come and see you,” she said. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  Derec stood up and dusted off his trousers. “Have you found your rifle?”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “You asked me that question before. You have the Truthsense, don’t you? All Magistrates have it. That’s why Magistrates never lie.”

  “I have the Truthsense, yes.”

  “They tell me you fought the Black Dog. If we’d continued to Shadowgate together, do you think we would have made it alive?”

  “I think I would have made it.”

  Derec smiled a hollow smile. The shadows of the bars striped his face, drawing his cheekbones up through his pale flesh.

  “So, disobeying you allowed me to live a couple of extra days.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Anton Vile sent you?”

  “I wish I had. I didn’t want to risk you picking sides before you spoke to my father.” He breathed out hard and rapid through his nose, a man too tired to laugh at something that was not funny. “We needed your help. We need your help. Have they found Mabyn’s patrol yet?”

  “Yes.” She had spoken to Anton earlier in the courtyard; the briefing had been terse, brief, and deeply concerning. Derec wiped his hand across his mouth.

  “Did any of them survive?”

  Elianor shook her head, watching his aura as he spoke. He wrapped his fingers around the bars.

  “Bron was the first girl I ever kissed. I can’t believe she’s dead. I can’t believe they’re all dead. My father said I should get married, but I thought I was too young to settle. I wanted to leave Shadowgate, maybe move to Durançon, or see the capital.”

  Had Bron been one of the guards from the lost patrol? It hardly seemed important. Elianor stepped closer to the bars.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you at Brek’s farm. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

  He shook his head. “What is it you want?”

  “Derec, why are young women disappearing around Shadowgate?”

  “You’ve met Tannyr Brek. You’ve been to his home. What do you think Shadowgate will be like, if he takes over?”

  “You think Tannyr is the reason for the disappearances?”

  A thin scream echoed up through the trap door.

  “Did you hear that?” she said, but one look at Derec’s face showed her he had.

  “Don’t leave me,” he said.

  “Stay here,” she replied.

  Chapter 36

  In the darkness at the bottom of the ladder, Elianor waited for another scream. There was none. She twisted opened the shutter on the lantern and allowed a crack of light to escape. She still didn’t have a sword. Her pistol was in pieces on the table in her chamber, where she had dissembled and cleaned it in the hope it would work again once dried. So, she drew her knife and raised the lantern over her head. The tunnel continued in both directions.

  No point going back the way she came.

  She turned the knife in her hands and walked deeper beneath the guardhouse. It was bitterly cold; the handle of her lantern stung her fingers. After twenty metres, an opening appeared to her right. Stairs were illuminated grey by the little light from below. She crouched. Had the scream come from the stairs or the corridor? She held her breath. There. Shuffled feet, a hurried whisper, a muffled grunt of pain.

  She placed the lantern at the top of the stairs and closed the shutter, allowed her eyes to adjust, then raced silently downwards. The stairs turned, once, twice, thrice, spiralled deeper, then stopped before a wide-open door into a long, straight corridor. It was another gaol. Six prison cells, three on each side, hung with ominous sets of chains. An open door at the end of the room led to a
larger room whose light was broken by the shadows that moved inside.

  Six Demon’s Pass monks stood in this other room, facing away from her. They were wrestling something on a large table. A seventh monk leaned against the wall, his hands on a face still hidden beneath his hood. The door obscured Elianor’s view, but she saw one monk raise a large hypodermic needle filled with a thick black fluid. A naked foot shot out from between the brown-robed bodies. The monks were holding a woman on the table.

  Elianor flipped the knife so the cutting edge faced outwards. There were too many in the room. She could kill two or three, maybe more, but then she would be overwhelmed. An alternative was needed. Another option.

  There was a second woman in one of the cells. Her wrists were manacled to the wall, and she wore what might charitably be described as a light nightdress. Her dark, curly hair fell over her face and across a shivering shoulder. She had bruises on her knees, a gag tied tight in her mouth, and closed eyes. Elianor gripped the knife tighter. If she killed a few monks, the others might run away. It was as much as she could think of as a plan.

  Elianor advanced. The monks had not seen her; they mounted the table in the struggle, and as a gap opened, a startled face looked straight out at Elianor. The woman on the table was Begw the guard. Elianor raised her knife. Begw shook her head, her eyes wide and fierce. The resemblance to the woman in the other cell was striking. It must be Begw’s sister, Seren, manacled to the walls. Begw’s message was clear. Elianor shrank back into the darkness just as the seventh monk slammed the door to the far room shut.

  She shoved open the cell door and stepped inside. Seren’s eyes snapped open, so wide the white circled her irises.

  “Stay quiet,” Elianor hissed. “Stay still.”

  In three paces she reached the prisoner. Seren tried to clamber to her feet, long bruises on her exposed legs, still shivering. Elianor took her shoulders and held her in place as she examined the manacles. From the other room, a man cried out in pain. Something heavy fell from the table. Elianor ran her hand up the chains on the wall. The bolt was firm. She gave it a tug.