by Greg Curtis
“They lived. My family were murdered and they lived.”
“But none of those you harmed were responsible for your family's death.” She knew that. She had been given all the details. “You could rightfully blame the father, Duke Wainthorpe of Clairmont. No one would argue. But the children? No.”
“They're not human.”
“They're human.” It seemed an odd charge for the man to make. And she had to wonder, was he talking about their magic? Or about the way those with gifts were changed when they finally accepted their magic to them. But even if he was, they were Smythes and so alone among the spell-casters in showing no outward signs of their magic. Though as it turned out, inwardly they were very strange indeed.
The healers had finally worked out how a five year old child could survive being practically torn apart by a lion. Manx' bones were somehow flexible. Like cartilage. They moved and bent and buckled in strange ways, which probably accounted for how a family of thieves could climb sheer walls and get into tight spaces. And that very flexibility had saved him. Many bones had broken, but enough had bent and flexed that he hadn't been killed. It seemed that the boy's trial by lion had awoken his gift, at least enough that his body had reshaped itself enough to survive what would have killed anyone else.
“So you say?” He emphasised the “you”, making his point obvious. He didn't consider Sorsha human either.
“Great!” Sorsha let out a heavy breath. She should have expected the charge though. The people of this time hadn't seen spell-casters before. They hadn't even had stories of them. Not accurate ones anyway.
“Whatever we may look like, Mr. Walken, we're as human as anyone else. And in case you didn't know it, we start out exactly the same as anyone else. It's only when we accept our magic to us that we change.” She wasn't sure if he knew that. Or if he would even care.
“But as any priest would tell you, it's what's inside that makes us human or not. The boy Harald, that you murdered, he was just a young man. The sister Petunia that you crippled, she was just a girl at the time. And Maxwell Smythe, who you fed to the lions and now just tried to murder, he's as human as anyone else.”
“You dangled a five year old boy above a pit of hungry lions. You let him be mauled. You ruined his entire life. Caused him immense suffering. And then twenty five years later you tried to murder him! It's you that's not human.” But did that matter to the man? She suspected not. He was so consumed with hatred that nothing else mattered.
“Muck spout!” He didn't even bother looking at her. “You think I'm going to be deceived by your lies!”
Sorsha let out another heavy sigh. There was no point in continuing with this. He was never going to listen. Never going to regret what he'd done. And really, that wasn't why she'd come. So she turned to what she had come to ask about.
“So how did you find Maxwell Smythe?” That was the question she really needed an answer to. Because they needed him and that meant he had to live. They couldn't allow this man or any others to hunt him down.
“You mean Manx the librarian?” He scowled at her. “Pathetic! His ruse worked for a while. I would never have found him. But then he got a name for himself. The Smythe helping to free your lot. And after that it was easy. All I had to do was find a city they hadn't come to yet, and wait. And then your people even showed up in a flying cart! Not even a thought of hiding!”
“You didn't use the Silver Order?”
“Them!” The man scowled. “That Lady Marshendale was going to interrogate me! She even had inquisitors coming!”
That sounded bad. Inquisitors? Somehow in a world without magic, she doubted they would have been soothsayers. They wouldn't have used shamanic magic to reveal the truth. But it was good for Sorsha. The worry had been that this had had something to do with the Silver Order. A new plan. But it seemed not. On the other hand it was probably bad for Manx. This man would try to kill him if he ever got free again. And now he knew Manx's name and where he lived. They clearly couldn't let him go free.
But that was the other reason she'd made the journey here. She was considered a leader among her people, rightly or wrongly. And here a decision had to be made. This man had committed a crime against one of their people. But he was no spell-caster. He was not in the pay of any spell-casters or under their influence. It was a purely mundane crime. And that left her with a decision to make. Who tried him?
He had to face justice. But whose? If she decided it was the place of her people to try him, she was placing her people outside of the law of the land. Above it. And that was rebellion of a sort. It could lead to war with the King. That was the very thing they wanted to avoid. Spell-casters had never been people who lived outside of the lot of the normal people of Redmond. They obeyed the laws like everyone else and faced justice just the same.
But if she then decided that this man should face the local Magistrate would she be seen as abandoning one of her own people? She didn't know this new Redmond. And what she had seen of it so far had not been good. People could simply attack spell-casters because they were different? That was just wrong. And she wasn't sure she could trust the local Magistrate to even keep him locked up. They might free Walken simply to spite her people.
If only this man had been a spell-caster of some sort. Then she could have done anything she wanted with him. One spell-caster attacking another? No one would have cared. After all, they didn't care what happened to the surviving members of the Silver Order. But he wasn't.
In time she came to her decision. The only one she could make.
“Mr. Walken,” she began, “I'm sorry for what happened to your family. I really am. But I'm also horrified by what you've done in their name.”
“What's it –?”
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “You should face justice for what you've done. I don't know what that will be. Whether they'll stretch your neck or not. But you will be sent before the Magistrate for your crimes.”
The prisoner stared at her calmly and then looked away. As if it was no importance to him. Maybe it wasn't. Or maybe he had a way out.
“However, you will face one more restriction. You tried to murder one of my people. And that can never be tolerated. So in a while a sorcerer will visit you and lay an enchantment upon your very bones. Whatever happens to you – whether you go to prison or the noose or walk to freedom – if you attack Maxwell Smythe again or any others of my people, your bones will catch fire inside you. You will burn from the inside. And it will be a truly agonising death.”
“That's –,” he began.
“No!” Once more she cut him off with a simple gesture. “Do you understand me?” Sorsha looked him straight in the eyes, hoping he understood how deadly serious she was.
“Girlie –.”
“That was a yes or no question,” she interrupted him. “And I am no mere girl. You will address me as Mistress Sorsha Hooper, Walker. And you will answer me before I have your tongue ripped out by hell hounds.” And to make sure he understood just how serious she was, she called one from a nearby dimension to stand beside her.
“Now, do you understand me?”
“Yes.” The white bearded man stared intently at the beast beside her with smoke billowing from its mouths, and maybe he was beginning to understand her perfectly.
“That's yes Mistress!” She wasn't going to let him go with a mere acknowledgement.
“Yes, Mistress,” he muttered, his eyes still on the beast beside her.
“Good.” Sorsha sent the beast away with a flick of her hand. It was good that her magic was coming back to her, even if she was using it for such unworthy purposes. “I will offer a prayer to Mother Mya for your miserable soul.”
With that she stood up, turned and left the man still sitting on his cot in his cell, satisfied that he had at least heard her. Whether he would remember what she'd said in a few days or weeks or months, she didn't know. But if he was stupid enough to try and harm the librarian again and his bones started to blac
ken and burn inside him, he would at least remember why it was happening before he died.
“Don't bother, bitch!” he called after her. “You'll all burn before I do!”
Sorsha didn't let the words bother her. Instead she welcomed them. Finally the image of the kindly old man with his smile and his whiskers was gone and the true monster had revealed himself. The truth was always a welcome thing. Even when it was horrible.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Being stabbed in the gut wasn't a lot of fun. But surviving and then recovering from the injury wasn't that much better. At least that was Manx' impression of things as he climbed on to the glider and then collapsed into the seat. It was time to go. To leave this accursed city behind. He and Adern and Larissa had done what they'd set out to do. It was time to move on. In another hour they would be somewhere else, and then he could find somewhere to sleep in a new inn, and wake a little bit more recovered in the morning. He needed to recover.
Everything hurt, and strangely it wasn't just the fresh wound he'd been given. The healer had taken one look at him as he'd lain there, bleeding to death, and apparently decided not to stop with his bleeding belly. He'd used some sort of internal magical stitching to knit his collar bone back together. Then attached his floating ribs to their anchor points – apparently they weren't supposed to float. And finally he'd even pulled his loose hip back into its socket.
It was probably a good thing that he'd done it. And maybe those old injuries would finally begin to heal as they should have. But it hurt. Everything was stiff. Nothing moved as it should. And he was beginning to feel like an old man. A crippled old man.
But that was to be expected. It was only three days since he'd been stabbed. He was bandaged from the top of his neck to his waist and down both arms. And while there was a chance that in time he would be better than he ever had been, it was hard to believe that when he hurt so much just then.
“So any more old men trying to kill you, that we should know about?” Adern grinned happily as he took his seat beside him. “I mean it's two so far!”
“Never! I scratched his eyes out!” Whitey added proudly as she made herself comfortable in his lap. “I tore him apart with all four paws! He won't try that again!”
“By the gods I hope not,” Manx answered both of them.
Strangely, what bothered him most though, wasn't being stabbed. It was being so easily fooled. He'd never thought he was a stupid man. But his attacker, Walken, had seemed like a sweet old man. Harmless. He'd simply never expected the man to stab him. Not until he'd felt the pain as the knife had slipped into his belly. And by then it had been too late. How could he have been so stupid?! Was he in his dotage?! That was what upset him most. Even though he'd never seen Walken before, he'd known the man was somewhere out there. But he simply hadn't thought that the sweet old man in front of him could be Walken.
The other thing that troubled his sleep was that Walken was the man who had killed his brother and hurt his sister. He scarcely remembered either of them. The last time he'd seen his little brother, Harald had only been three. Manx had a vague memory of a happy face, but that was all. And Petunia had been eight when he'd seen her last. He thought she had dark hair. That was as much as he could remember of either of them. But they were family. And that smiling man with the white beard had hurt them both. Killed Harald. But he'd done absolutely nothing to avenge the crimes committed against them. He'd failed them.
At least Walken was locked up – somewhere. He assumed it was the city gaol, but no one would confirm that for him. He wasn't sure why. Maybe because they worried that he might try and do something stupid. Though really he was too broken to do anything at all. Even while they'd been unravelling the dimensional knot in the heart of the city, he'd kept falling asleep. He was simply too weak to concentrate for hours on end. Hopefully tomorrow he'd be stronger. And more importantly Walken would remain locked up, no longer free to attack him or his family.
“You know,” Whitey interrupted his musing, “you could thank me.”
“Thank you?” Manx was confused.
“Well I did save your life. Protected you from that evil monkey man!” She stared up at him from his lap. “And so far you haven't thanked me at all!”
“Umm, thank you.” He wasn't quite sure what the cat wanted, but he knew she had tried to defend him. He did owe her some thanks for that.
“Now, say it nicely – with cream.” She licked her lips. “And liver. I like liver. And an apology.”
“An apology?”
“For all those horrible lies you've been telling about me! And the threats! So many threats!”
“How about we talk about that when we get to our destination. And then I'll find you some cream.” He wasn't going to confess to lies he hadn't uttered. Fortunately he knew he didn't have to and he quickly started petting her.
“Yes! Cream!” She licked her lips some more. “And liver! Lots of liver! And crackling!” But even as she said it her eyes were closing as she fell under his spell.
“If they have some,” he agreed.
“No! No “if”! There must be liver!” But already she was mumbling. It was hard for her to concentrate when she was being petted. And soon she was collapsing into a ball on his lap. Soon, he knew, she would be asleep and dreaming of cream and liver.
“You know, we can probably find a bag for her,” Larissa announced as she took her seat on the other side of the bench. “Then throw her in the back with the rest of the luggage.”
“No need,” he replied. “She's under control.” But really he had to wonder, was she under his control or was he under hers? Some days it wasn't completely clear.
“Oh … men!” the shaman exclaimed with an air of disappointment and a sorrowful shake of her head. “So easily led!”
Manx wasn't sure how to respond to that. Especially when Adern sitting on the seat between them was laughing like a jackass and trying to hide it. But in the end he decided it was best not to. He wouldn't win. Instead he just sat there in his seat, kept petting the cat and waited for the journey to begin. It wasn't long before they were once again in the air and flying at about waist height above the road. One day he thought, he was going to have to ask why they flew so low. But not today.
Today he had a cat sleeping in his lap. Wind flying in his face. And another city ahead of him. And of course, he was also alive. That was enough.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Was there a spider queen? Sorsha didn't know. But she did know as she sat in the back seat of a glider rushing south, that she had to find out. They all did.
It could be a trick. A lie to gain sympathy. But if it was then why would all the members of the Silver Order have the same scars in much the same place? Why would they all tell the same story? How would they even know what story to tell? But against that it simply sounded too outlandish. A half woman, half spider who drained the life out of people? Surely that was the stuff of story books!
But at least she felt strong. Physically she was finally starting to feel well. A little weaker than she had been, without the same spring in her step, but no longer ill. She had adapted to her new age, whatever it was. And her magic was once more humming within her. It had taken a long time, but it was back as it should be.
And among her people, life was once more improving. The party was once more out on the trail, liberating the prisoners from one gaol after another. Maxwell Smythe was undoubtedly hurting – why did everyone seem to get stabbed lately? – but he was recovering. And now every day another one or two thousand of their people were freed.
Meanwhile the remaining members of the Silver Order were either dying or behind bars. She'd lost count of how many of them had been taken prisoner, but it had to be forty or so. And probably a couple of hundred had died. Their mercenaries, however many remained in the secret prisons they guarded, had fled. And the city guards in every city their people visited, were doing their best to avoid trouble. It wasn't because word had come from King order
ing them to stand down. It had but they didn't care about that. It was because there were no so many spell-casters out in Redmond that they knew they would lose – and they simply didn't want to die. The world was changing and a new power had arisen. Or rather an old one was returning to its rightful place.
The cities were returning to normal as her people regained the control of their magic. Order was being restored. And best of all wherever a gaol was due to be liberated, her people were already there in advance, preparing for the arrival of the soon to be freed prisoners.
Things were going well. But still she had a knot of pure acid in her stomach as they raced over the roads heading south towards the Hammersmith Mountains. A feeling that all was not as it seemed. That they were heading into a trap.
“You look worried.” Peth told her as they sped along the roads. “Any reason?”
“It just doesn't make sense. None of this.” Or rather it made perfect sense, if she believed what she'd been told. She just didn't.
