by Kevin Hearne
“Föstyr, in those records you found: Did he come to Pelemyn from Festwyf this way?”
“Yes,” the lung replied. “At least, we think so. The wheelchair got a mention.”
“But the Brynt man who went to the Mistmaiden Isles one hundred twenty-seven years ago couldn’t have been in such poor shape.”
“No.”
“He would have been strong and powerful when he set out. And then the Wraith possessed him.”
“Yes, but the possession didn’t damage the body. Look at the woman you call Approval Smile: Ysabel du Köpen. Her host body is perfectly healthy. Ursen du Mylseböck’s body, on the other hand, is suffering from irreversible lung damage. The kind you take on when you nearly drown. He can’t get as much oxygen per breath as the rest of us, so he stays nearly immobile by choice to make sure he doesn’t damage the brain. We figure that Ursen tried to fight his possession on the Mistmaiden Isles by jumping into the sea—or perhaps he preferred death to being possessed, or it was accidental. However he wound up in the water, he didn’t quite finish the job. We figure that Ysabel, whether she was possessed or not at the time, was able to swim out and rescue him, thereby saving Ursen’s body and the wraith inside him. We are fairly certain that this is what happened.”
“Only fairly? They haven’t confirmed it?”
“More or less. We’ve inferred that the possession isn’t an instant process and that the wraith and the human fight for control for a while. That’s why they were raving when they got back to Festwyf. But it’s been a long time now. The wraiths are in full control, and if Ursen and Ysabel are still in there, they’re shadows of their former selves.”
“Can’t you simply ask them about it?”
“They’re not answering many questions. Maybe they’ll answer yours.”
“What have they been doing the past couple of days?”
“Trying to escape, mostly. They’ve given up for the moment. Biding their time.”
“I’d like to send them both to the abyss,” Nara said, in a tone so low I almost missed it. Rölly caught it and looked at her.
“If that is truly your wish, I might let you,” the pelenaut said. “When the time comes.”
“What do we do now?”
“Follow me.”
The pelenaut led us around the cell to the entrance, which was a gap in the glass filled with a suspended curtain of water, floor to ceiling, held there by the Fourth Kenning.
“Either Second Könstad du Böll or I must maintain this door at all times. It’s extremely effective so long as we’re around but dangerous otherwise. Ultimately unsustainable, and they know it. So they’ve decided to wait us out.”
“What did they try to do?”
“Ysabel du Köpen tried to walk through it. But she found that the water followed her. Her host body would drown and then her wraith form would follow. Only when she went back into the cell did the water leave her alone. Once she understood that, there was some spirited cursing.” He stopped in front of a small writing desk placed near the entrance. It held paper, quill, inkpot, and a silver tray. The cell, I noted, had a similar setup inside. “Write your questions and place them on the tray and I’ll send it through.”
We took turns. Nara went first and wrote only a single question, then folded the note and placed it on the tray. I wrote a two-parter: “Did Clodagh order my wife’s death, and if not, who did?” I placed it on the tray next to Nara’s.
I already knew the answer to the first one, because Rölly had read the journal and said there was nothing of the sort in there. But I wanted to see if the Wraith had lied about it and if he’d lie again.
Rölly took the tray and brought it to the shimmering door of water. It rippled at hip height and a slot appeared, the water flowing according to his wishes. He placed the tray in the slot; the water supported the tray’s weight, pushed it through, and then closed behind it. This continued until the tray passed through the wall and Ysabel du Köpen could take it. She did, with distaste, and walked it over to the Wraith. She picked up my note first, unfolded it, and held it in front of his eyes. They scanned the question quickly and his face broke into a grin. He barked out a “Ha!” And then he shook his head, that horrible smile remaining. He either did not know who killed Sarena or he wouldn’t say.
He likewise gave Nara little satisfaction, only chuckling and shaking his head again. Ysabel du Köpen tossed aside the tray with a loud clang and then made a rude gesture to us that suggested we perform biological impossibilities. Our reaction to that only caused the Wraith to laugh louder.
What an evil creature. I mourned for the good Brynt man that he had possessed long ago.
If Clodagh hadn’t ordered Sarena’s death, then who had? I was back to knowing nothing. And the pain of that amused him. All of our pain did.
“Why don’t you just kill them now, Rölly?” I asked.
“Because we still don’t know who he was writing to or who was supposed to pick up the dead drop. The site might be compromised now, but no one has come to check for a letter. We want to know who’s on the other end of this traitorous correspondence. And who’s their courier.”
“It could be someone different every time,” Föstyr said. “Someone who owes a favor who’s told to do this one thing this one time, like you, Dervan. Or—this is what really worries me—these two weren’t the only possessed Brynts who came back from the Mistmaiden Isles.”
I frowned at the lung. “Didn’t you say only those two returned from the expedition, raving in another language?”
“Those were the records we found, yes. Two of the ten returned. But there could have been other incidents over the years. These two could have arranged many such incidents themselves, considering the place of power they were in. We don’t know, except that it’s a possibility we never considered before. Now we need to consider it. Who knows how many of them walk among us?”
“Rölly. This narrative the bard’s following about events up north—what if he knows something about the Bone Giants there?”
The pelenaut nodded. “I’m sure he does. I’ve been getting reports from the quartermaster at Fornyd, but there’s probably more happening than she knows. Still, I asked Fintan if he had anything important to share a few days ago, and he said he didn’t. Why don’t you ask him, Dervan? You got this Gondel Vedd information from him. Speaking of which, Gerstad, since the questioning did not go well, you’d better be on your way to fetch him. Föstyr will give you the letter we need translated.”
“Aye, Pelenaut.” She saluted and departed with the lung, leaving Rölly and me behind in front of a rippling wall of water. It reminded me of standing in front of his water wall in the Wellspring, when he first asked me to work with the bard.
“I still don’t want to be a spy,” I told him.
“I didn’t want to be the pelenaut on the verge of tumbling into the abyss with all his people. I had plans for a golden age, you know, when I took the throne. A great flowering of Brynt culture and commerce. Now I’m just trying to make sure we don’t starve to death. So here we are, in a position to do something for our fellows. Our country needs our help. The only question that remains is whether or not we will give it.”
“Chum and shit!” I said, clenching my fists. “Why do you have to be so good at moral clarity?”
“I know. It’s annoying,” he replied, and clapped me on the shoulder. “We both have work to do. If you find out anything, please let me know.”
“I will.” We walked away from the prisoners without giving them a farewell glance. They were a problem solved for the moment; we had others to address.
Though I couldn’t think of any way to broach the subject cleverly with Fintan once I met him for our scribe session. Bringing up the remaining Bone Giant army would just be so completely obvious that we were worried about the north and knew something he didn’t. I had
to protect my knowledge of the Wraith’s betrayal until the pelenaut made it public. I resolved to let the matter rest for a day, hoping it wasn’t a crucial day lost that would turn things one way or another.
When the bard got on top of the wall, he told everyone that his song for the day was popular in the river cities of both Brynlön and Ghurana Nent, since they all had small bands of rangers that would go into the Gravewood for a few miles on hunting and foraging expeditions. It was high-risk employment but very lucrative.
“Soon you’ll know why I remembered this song and thought it would be a good day to share it.”
I got a band of rangers and bellies to feed
And the forest has food, whatever you need
Fruits and meats and veggies and nuts
But danger too, let me tell you what
There’s teeth and beaks and thorns and spines
And everything is hungry all of the time
But my rangers and I know how to survive
And more than that, we know how to thrive
(Chorus)
We’re just kickin’ around in the Gravewood
Stickin’ around in the Gravewood
Playin’ around in the Gravewood
Stayin’ alive in the Gravewood
I’ll sell you furs and I’ll sell you game
I’ll tell you lies to increase my fame
I’ll show you my scars and my chewed-up ear
’Cause I’m a ranger and I have no fear
If you wanna join my band there’s always room
’Cause every trip out, someone meets their doom
I’m not sure if this is gonna be my time
But regardless I think I’ll have more wine
(Chorus x 2)
“Today we’ll hop around a bit,” Fintan said after the break. “First, a return to Khul Bashab and the beleaguered viceroy, Bhamet Senesh.”
This was my first look at him. As suggested by Hanima and others, he was carrying some extra pounds and they appeared in the jowls and neck, though he dressed to hide the rest of it as best he could. He had small, hard eyes and a bulbous nose, and a chin that sort of got lost in the surrounding flesh. His hair, of course, was long and impeccably kept.
“The key to succesfully ruling people,” my father explained when I reached my majority, “is to find an intelligent asshole who enjoys hurting people for money. That asshole will in turn find other, dumber assholes with a similar avarice for gold and pain, and together they will form your city watch. They get to tell people—and themselves—that they are upholding the law and protecting the population.”
He waggled a finger at me in admonition. “You need to tell them too, Bhamet. This is an important fiction to reinforce with medals for their service, publicizing the punishment of the occasional criminal or the slaying of some dangerous animal near the city. The people must be shown, repeatedly, that they are being protected by your city watch. But the true purpose of a paid squad of assholes is to secure your power and protect the city’s business interests. Don’t skimp on assholes, is what I’m saying. There are always plenty around.”
Father was full of good advice like that. At least regarding matters of statecraft, which is essentially manipulation of funds and perceptions. He hasn’t been wrong yet in that field, so I follow his advice faithfully. But he lacked judgment in matters of the heart, since he died unexpectedly one morning when Mother poisoned him. Surprise! He managed to stab her in the throat for her treachery before he perished, and they died together, facedown in their scrambled eggs. It remains the most spectacular argument against marriage I’ve ever heard, and I tend to favor oatmeal now.
Sambhav Khatagar is my well-paid captain of the watch. He’s been a good one, ruthlessly efficient and effective, until now. He even looks the part of an intelligent asshole, with a high forehead, dark glittering eyes under a thick brow, and a perpetual sneer on his face. But his inability to find these beast caller kids is trying my patience.
“You know what I’m hearing, Sambhav?” I call him that in private, and we are in private at the top of my tower, looking out a window at the city sprawling beneath us.
“No, Viceroy.”
“There are dissidents gathering to discuss alternatives to our regency.”
“Where are you hearing that?”
“I have some spies in my own purse. You know, barkeepers hear all sorts of things in passing. Not names—they never seem to catch their customers’ names—but they hear snippets of conversation.”
“There are traitors talking treason in pubs?”
“No, they’re talking in the pubs about meeting somewhere else to discuss treason. And I take exception to that.”
“I imagine you would.”
“We can’t have people thinking there are alternatives to the king and his viceroys. They might start demanding such alternatives at some point. And what’s driving all this is those kids. Tell me why you haven’t found them yet.”
“My spies haven’t heard anything about them.”
“Nothing? Not a whisper?”
“Nothing at all. And our searches so far have yielded nothing. You said you wanted to keep those low-key, not let people know what we’re looking for.”
“Yes, and that needs to continue. I don’t want to legitimize them by publicly saying what we’re after. We need to make them go away as quietly as possible. Focus on your spies. They are either terrible at their jobs or they’re lying to you. Because people are talking about them in the pubs and markets and everything.”
“They’re talking about them, sure, but not their whereabouts. Nothing specific about them, if you get my meaning. The talk is more about the kenning and what it could mean.”
I spit out the window, frustrated. “And the Khatri kid hasn’t led you to Hanima or the others? You’re still following him, right?”
“Right. Nothing so far. We thought he might be contacting them through beggars in the market, but he gives to different ones every day, nothing but the same coins, and there’s no pattern.”
“So how do we make a breakthrough? What do you need? More muscle?”
“No. More spies like yours. The ones in pubs who can infiltrate these meetings you’re hearing about.”
“So: more money.”
“Yes.”
“Very well. See the bookkeeper. Plus I’ll give you a bonus personally when you get these kids. A full year’s salary.”
“Thank you, Viceroy.”
“Stay on the Khatri boy. He’s part of this and he’ll slip up eventually.”
Captain Khatagar promises to do so. He leaves and I take a more practiced spit out the window. There’s a balding beggar to the northeast who sets himself up near a fruit stand, and when the wind is right, my carefully launched payload of phlegm can score a direct hit on his crown. If he ever gets a hat, I’ll be supremely disappointed.
I’m not worried too much about Tamhan Khatri’s father when we finally do find evidence to pin treasonous charges on the boy. He’ll weep over his poor misguided son and beg me not to hurt him, but ultimately he will agree that Tamhan deserves whatever he gets. His fortunes are too tied up with mine to do anything else but wail.
Gold can sometimes imprison a man more effectively than iron. Father taught me that one as well. I have most of the wealthy citizens of Khul Bashab imprisoned that way, and once I get rid of this threat, I’ll be able to replenish my coffers at their expense.
* * *
—
“I have a new Brynt character to introduce today,” Fintan said after dismissing the viceroy’s seeming. “He was a mercenary gerstad in Grynek who contracted with the quartermaster there for years. And once, about twelve years ago, he published a small chapbook of bawdy poetry. You may have heard o
f him if your tastes run that way. And if you haven’t, meet him now: Gerstad Daryck du Löngren.”
The man who emerged was a clean-shaven, well-muscled Brynt man in middle age, wearing ranger armor—by which I mean he wore a helmet with a curtain of chain mail falling down the back and sides to protect his neck from predators. His nose had been broken multiple times, if the shape of it was telling any tales, but otherwise he was handsome, with laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.
When he spoke, it was a wry tenor with briars and thorns in it, the result perhaps of inhaling the smoke of too many campfires.
You would think the sound of a city dying—dying fast in blood, not slow with discontent and dilapidation—would be so terrible that it could not fall on deaf ears. It would insist on being heard, a terror to harrow the soul, like the joke you once told to people you wanted to impress but no one laughed at the punch line, and it haunts you, the ghost of a terrible moment, long after its sound has faded.
But we never heard Grynek fall.
We were so deep in the Gravewood, seeking predators, that we never heard a single scream as some army of predators fell upon our families and friends and neighbors while we were gone.
When we were nearly home after two weeks in the forest, drawing close to the bridge over the Gravewater, the cook was the first to notice something was wrong. Gyrsön du Neddell had a nose the size of a rock pigeon roosting on his face; an upside-down carpet of hairs protruded from his nostrils like the baleen of a whale, filtering scents out of the air with every breath. He could smell better than anyone I’ve ever met, identify hints of berries in the breeze and lead us right to the bushes, name the variety of hops used in Fornish ales, even tell us what the squirrels had been eating by simply breathing near a pile of their pellets on the trail.
