When we arrived at the Cock’s Spur for the second time that night, Holgren didn’t make any jokes, and nobody else felt like trying their luck.
Chapter Nineteen
Holgren just sort of blasted the door off its hinges and strolled in, swinging Bosch’s head back and forth in a bored, idle way. The scum and villainy that was the Cock’s Spur’s patrons wisely remained seated and avoided eye contact. Holgren climbed the splintered wooden stairs to Guache’s office. I followed.
Holgren blasted the office door, too.
Guache was sitting at his table, eating a very late dinner. Pork pie, from the smell. My satchel full of gold was still in front of him. He didn’t look up, didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge Holgren in any way. He just went about shovelling pork pie into his mouth like he hadn't a care in the world. When Holgren tossed Bosch’s wrapped head onto the table, Guache finally glanced at him, and that glance was pure contempt.
These two men truly hated each other, and one of them would kill the other, and probably sooner rather than later. That much I felt in my gut.
“You sent word to Bosch as soon as we left,” I said.
“Before that, actually,” replied Guache.
“Well there’s his head.”
Guache leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth with one sleeve. “I had a cat that used to bring me dead things too. Are you applying to be my pet, Amra Thetys?”
Holgren cursed and slammed Guache out of his chair with one fist. Guache was up again in an instant, knives out, and Holgren murmured some harsh syllable and suddenly Guache Gavon was spread-eagled against the wall. His feet did not touch the ground. Strain as he might, Guache Gavon was pinned to the wall, utterly helpless and in thrall to Holgren’s magic. He looked bored.
“I’ve brought you Bosch’s head, Gavon. Now my partner is taking her ten chains back.”
Gavon opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was, was lost as a little black nightmare exploded through the window shutters.
All teeth and claws, and reeking of rotting blood and charred flesh, it was a little smaller than Bone. It smashed through the wooden slats as though they were made of paper and landed on the table, hissing and lashing a barbed tail. It had the head of a boyne beetle. If boyne beetles grew to dog size.
Holgren dropped his cousin and started another spell.
Too late. The thing snatched up Bosch’s head and was out the window again before he had got two liquid syllables past his lips. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even get a knife out until it was gone.
“By all the dead gods, what was that?” I said.
“Daemonette.” Holgren spat. “We definitely haven’t seen the last of that foul daemonist.”
Gavon started laughing. Genuine, humor-filled laughter. I swear, tears started in the corners of his eyes. After a few seconds it seemed he was having trouble catching his breath.
“Looks like I’ll be holding onto your gold for a while longer,” he finally managed, then started up laughing again.
Gavon was still chuckling as we left. His mirth followed us down the stairs and out the door.
#
False dawn was scratching at the sky by the time Holgren and I made it back to his sanctum. He wasn’t in much of a talking mood. He flopped down on his dusty couch and Bone sauntered over to him and put his heavy head in Holgren’s lap. Holgren rubbed it idly and stared off into nothing.
“We know Bosch was–is–working for this Elamner, besides being friendly with creatures from hells,” I said. “It only stands to reason that his boss is the one behind everything. Corbin’s death. The contract on my life. The only problem is, I think the Elamner might actually be dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s right. I never told you about breaking into his villa.” I told Holgren about the corpse I’d seen, the knife sticking out of his chest, the magic that had infused the room.
Holgren gave me a flat stare. “Just to make sure, you are aware that I’m a mage, correct?”
“I know sarcasm fits you like a tailored suit, but I’m a little tired. Can you get to the point?”
“What you saw wasn’t a murder scene, ritual or otherwise. It was a containment ritual. A brutal one, from the Ardesh steppes. The man you saw wasn’t dead. He was just... paused.”
“Paused? What the hells does that mean?”
“Paused. Suspended. Taken out of time. Put on ice. Take the knife out of his heart, and his life resumes. It’s a rather tricky bit of magic, actually. You’ve got to slip the knife in precisely between heartbeats.”
“Shit. So Bosch really is just a flunky for the Elamner?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know how you come to that conclusion. Just because he didn’t murder his employer doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone rogue. Or don't you think a daemonist would be capable of lying to, cheating on or stealing from his employer?”
I waved that away. “No, listen. This Elamner, Heirus, hires a mage, gets him to perform this ritual. It sure as hells didn’t look like something you could surprise somebody with.”
“No. It would require willing participation.”
“What sort of person would want to be taken out of life like that? Suspended?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I do. Somebody who doesn’t have much time left. Someone who needs to ration it. Somebody who is sick, maybe. Dying. Maybe in constant pain. Somebody waiting for a Kerf-damned cure.”
Holgren smiled. “Oh, you are clever, Amra. Perhaps a cure from the Age of the Gods?”
I stood up and walked to the door. “Don’t melt that toad down yet, Holgren. I think we need to know a little more before we do anything that can’t be undone.”
“Probably wise. Where are you going?”
“There’s a nobleman I need to visit on the Promenade.”
“I should probably say something amusing, but all that comes to mind is ‘huh?’”
“It’s Corbin’s long-lost brother. If we’re going to make a social call on the Elamner, we’re going to need some hired blades. I haven’t got any more money, but Baron Thracen does. And he’s got a good reason to spend it.”
“If you have time, perhaps you could visit Lagna’s temple as well and see if that old man knows anything about the toad.”
I groaned.
“What?”
“I don’t like him. He’s smelly and makes me feel like an idiot.”
“He makes everyone feel like an idiot. He’s the high priest of the god of knowledge.”
“Fine. But you’re going to have to lend me some money for his fee.”
“It’s not a fee. It’s an offering.”
I snorted.
“Anything you’d like me to do?” he asked, passing me a few marks.
I stopped. “Actually, yes.” I fished Bosch’s hair from the button I’d wound it around, handed it to him. “Do you think you can find Bosch with this, even though he hasn’t got a body anymore?”
He took it and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. “Oh, certainly.”
“If Baron Thracen agrees to help us, I’ll have him send a runner to you. I want to move tonight. Or even earlier.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a plan.”
“No, it sounds like a steaming hot mess. We’ll see if it improves.”
Chapter Twenty
Osskil wasn’t home.
The gate guard at the Thracen manse didn’t want to tell me even that much until I gave my name, then after a muttered conference with his partner who then disappeared inside, someone higher up the servant’s ladder came out and informed me that the baron was breakfasting with Lord Morno, and would be pleased to see me in the early afternoon. I guess Osskil had left instructions.
I was a little surprised that Osskil was important enough to be having meals with Morno. Lord Morno, the governor of Lucernis, generally has his hands full, what with all the po
litical manoeuvring that comes with ruling the largest city in the West. Morno’s a law and order man to his black, shrivelled soul. Governing Lucernis must be enough to make him dyspeptic. I doubt he gets much sleep.
For decades, the hereditary rulers of Lucernis were so inept and bumbling or corrupt and cruel that the king finally had to eradicate their line and appoint a governor. Morno was unlucky enough to be competent and loyal and, rumor has it, one of the queen’s favorites. King Vos III is no idiot. With a queen twenty years his junior, Morno was handed the high honor of restoring the rule of law to Lucernis, which just happens to be some four hundred miles from court. Was Morno her lover? Who knows? But he’s been taking it out on the city ever since.
Pirates no longer linger just off shore, and riots are a rare thing nowadays; fewer starve and many even pay at least token taxes. Morno keeps the largest city on the Dragonsea from coming apart at the seams.
Doesn’t mean I like the bastard.
With a few hours to kill, I set off for Temple Street to talk to the grumpiest, most knowledgeable person in Lucernis.
#
“I’m old and I’m tired and it’s time for my nap. Go away.”
He was the high priest of Lagna, god of knowledge. Which meant he was a jumped up librarian, since Lagna happened to be dead.
Lagna's temple was big, with big glassed windows and a huge main room, or chapel, or whatever it was called, but it had seen better days. It hadn't seen a good cleaning in decades, most probably. Offerings, it seemed, were scarce. Maybe that was because people didn't value knowledge as much as they should. Or maybe it was because Lhiewyn, the high priest, was an extremely grumpy bastard with a tongue sharper than any of my knives.
I couldn’t argue that he was old; his wrinkles had wrinkles and his hair was little more than a silver net across his spotted pate. He leaned on a crooked cane, and one leg looked like it was just so much dead weight. The young acolyte who had directed me to his cell in back of the book-crammed temple was probably as much a servant to the old man as he was to Lagna.
“I need your help, priest.”
“That you need help is bleeding obvious,” he said, taking in my appearance. “I doubt there’s any help for you, though.”
“How much for a little information on pre-Diaspora artefacts, specifically golden toad statuettes stashed away in ancient temples in the swamps of Gol-Shen?”
“Oh, that won’t cost you anything, because I know piss-all about them. I serve the god of knowledge, not trivia. You nitwit. Jessep, show this bald, brainless twit out.”
Gods, but I hated talking to this old codger. Sometimes I had to, though, when I took a more esoteric contract. It was never much fun.
“What about a goddess who casts eight shadows? Also likes knives or blades or some such?”
His eyebrows rose. “You want to know about the Eightfold Goddess?”
“No. I thought I’d ask just so you could feel superior some more.”
“Now there is an interesting deity. Very few know about her, actually. Or rather, that her eight aspects are just that, and not—”
“So I’ve found one of your favorite topics. That’s great. I’ve actually got somewhere to be today, though.” All right, that wasn't particularly fair. I'd brought it up. But he looked like he was settling in for a long, long monologue.
“Well, then, we should start with those weapons you mentioned. I bet you like to stab things, so this should hold your miniscule attention.” He sat down carefully on a three-legged stool that stood next to his pallet. They were the only furnishings in the room, so I stood. He heaved a pained sigh and straightened his dead leg out before him. Jessep stood in the corner and tried to hide a smirk.
“Some say She fashioned Her Blades from bits of the other gods,” he said, “from gobbets of immortal flesh and bone that lay scattered about the battlefields of the Divine during the Age of Chaos. Thus is truth distorted over millennia.
“The truth is She was taken by Shem, Low Duke of the Eleven Hells. Her father sold Her to Shem, to be his handmaid. That one tried to rape Her eight times, but each time She left a piece of Herself behind for him to sate his lust on. Seven times he was not sated, but on the eighth his strength was spent along with his seed. And then the One Who Is Eight tore Shem to pieces with eight pairs of hands. They say that She made the Blades from his horns, his bones, his scales and claws and fangs.
“She is terrible, and beautiful, and no god or demon fucks with Her, for She is as mad as they come and eight times as nasty.”
“Are priests supposed to curse?”
His bushy eyebrows went up. “What, did I offend your delicate sensibilities? I’m too old to worry about what other people think.”
“Why have I never heard of this goddess?”
“You mean besides being generally ignorant? Probably because there aren’t many daft enough to worship Her. She might take notice. At best, some might say a prayer to one of Her Aspects. I hear the Fraternity of Blood, that band of assassins up in Pinghul, hold Kalara as their patron deity. They aver that Red Hand is actually her consort, which if you ask me is utter tripe. Anyway, She’s supposed to be dead. Not that that ever means much where gods are concerned.”
“Who is Kalara?”
“The Eight-fold Goddess has, try to imagine it, eight aspects. Kalara, Goddess of Assassins, is one. Let me see if I can remember all the others. Abanon, Goddess of hate. Moranos, deity of desire, Ninkashi, worker of retribution, Heletia, font of true sight and clarity. How many is that?”
“Five.”
“Then there’s Husth, goddess of deception and shadows. Very popular with thieves in Bellarius.”
“I’ve actually heard of that one. But go on.”
“Xith rules death and rebirth. And that leaves Visini, goddess of decay, inertia, chaos and despair. That’s eight, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mind you, together they make one. The Eight-fold Goddess.”
“Which is all very interesting, but what about these blades?”
“I knew you’d like the stabby bit. I’ll tell you what I know, but it isn’t much. I’m a priest, not a weaponsmith. Each one has some function pertaining to its particular aspect-Goddess. So Abanon’s blade will use or feed on hate in some fashion, and Moranos’s dagger will in some way be connected to desire. And so on.”
I waited for him to continue, but apparently he was done. “That’s it?” I asked.
“Well, in the presence of one, I’d rather be on the end that you hold. And given the choice I’d rather not be in the same country as any of them.”
“Thanks so much for that useful bit of advice.”
“They’re the tools of an insane goddess, forged from the body of a demon lord. What did you expect? ‘Weapon A can cut through armor as though it were butter, and weapon B lets you walk on water?’”
“Well, yes. Sort of. But I guess I see your point.”
He shifted on his stool and his watery brown eyes got sort of glinty. “You came seeking information, but let me give you some advice. The world is still littered with artifacts left over from before the Cataclysm. None of them are safe to play with. I don't know why you want to know about the Eightfold's Blades, nor do I much care. But if by some mad chance you find one of Her Blades, or one finds you, remember one thing: Such tools want to be used, and to them, any mortal hand that wields them is a tool in turn. Be very, very careful. And leave your offering in the box in the foyer. Silver is good, gold is better. If you want more information you can go dig in the stacks. Jessep will help you since I very much doubt you can read. I’ve got to take my nap.”
I turned to go. Turned back.
“One more question,” I said. “A quick one.”
He sighed, and gave me a long-suffering look.
“Is the Guardian of the Dead in the Necropolis real?”
“Of course it's real, you ignoramus. It's real, extremely nasty, and very
unhappy with its job. I shudder to think what would happen if it ever escaped the Necropolis. Gods willing, it would stumble across you first. Now piss off.”
I followed Jessep out to the stacks, which were just that—stacks and stacks of books, parchment, papyrus, scrolls and scraps. There was some sort of mad order to it, I could feel it in my bones, but it eluded me.
“So, Jessep, is there anything not unpleasant about that old codger?”
Jessep stopped to consider. He was a long time about it.
“Well, he makes a beef stew you’d slap your mother for,” was all he eventually came up with.
Jessep did indeed help searching through the mad mess, and I did need him to read for me. What we eventually found was in a language that I’d never seen before. He’d found what I was looking for in a box of scrolls mouldy with age. Much good it did me.
On a scrap of papyrus that Jessep said was part of a chronicle of the War of the Gods was a prayer. Or a poem. Or maybe a prophecy. I’m not sure which, since the last bit was missing. Anyway, it listed the Goddesses’ Blades by name. I had the youngster copy out a translation for me. Jessep was a damned good translator. He even made it rhyme:
Abanon wields the Blade that Whispers Hate,
Moranos holds the Dagger of Desire,
Ninkashi grips the trembling Blade of Rage,
With which she pierced the heart of her mad sire.
Heletia grips the Knife called Winter’s Tooth,
Visini wields the Blade that Binds and Blinds,
Husth fights with the Kris that Strikes Elsewhere,
And woe betide the soul it finally finds.
Kalara hones the Knife that Parts the Night,
Grim Xith commands the Dirk that Harrows Souls;
Eight blades the Goddess has, and one
From eight will ren—
And then the rest was so badly rat-gnawed that it was useless.
My gut told me I’d just picked up a piece of a puzzle. What puzzle, and where it fit, I had no idea.
Thief Who Pulled on Trouble's Braids Page 12
