A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1)

by REEVE, LAURA E.

  Draius found Ponteva had arrived early for his shift. No one else was in the office, so she told the grizzled veteran everything she knew regarding last night’s attack. She also told him about the connection between Taalo and Usko.

  Ponteva started growling.

  “Take Usko into custody. I’ll need to question him, so just confine him and—I mean it—don’t hurt him,” she admonished Ponteva.

  “I’ll restrain myself, ser. How is Officer Lornis?”

  “Last I knew, he was alive, but Gaflis is sending for the Phrenii.”

  Ponteva nodded, obviously understanding the implication. One didn’t call the Phrenii until death was imminent. If the Phrenii arrived before the moment of death and the patient had the will to live, the creatures could heal them. There were just those pesky side effects that everyone whispered about: the crippling empathy, the loss of your soul, and other, even worse, superstitions.

  Lornis’s condition was foremost in her mind; questioning Usko could wait. Draius left the office feeling confident that once the clerk arrived for work, Ponteva would take him into custody. She waved down a coach and told the driver to take her to the hospital.

  The air in the hospital was sharp with bitter medicinal herbs. She found Gaflis in a hallway between wards, speaking in low professional tones with an orderly. She stood a discreet distance away until he noticed her.

  Once he finishing speaking, the doctor walked over. His face always molded into a bland expression of reassurance, but she caught the crinkle of stress at the corners of his eyes. “Did you get some sleep?” he asked.

  “A little. I feel better now.” She blatantly lied. “How is Officer Lornis? May I see him?”

  “I don’t think so.” The lines on the edge of the physician’s eyes deepened. “He lost a lot of blood. We tried to stop the bleeding and stitched up what we could, but his wounds are deep and the damage is extensive. He never regained consciousness. Dahni is with him now.”

  The words hit her and opened a yawning well of fear and panic. She leaned against the wall, while Gaflis watched her with increasing concern. “But will it be worth the price?” Her voice rose.

  Gaflis motioned for her to lower her voice and walk with him away from the ward. “The Phrenii can save him. I’ve seen them heal before, and I assure you I’ve seen them work wonders. I’ve heard the superstitions, but they’re absurd.” He stopped at the sounds of ringing hooves on marble, coupled with tinkling notes.

  Draius watched the bright-eyed Dahni walk down the hall toward them. Superstitions! We all swear by the Healing Horn, yet we fear that healing, afraid to become indebted to the creatures. Her head filled with the well-worn phrases: “Saved by magic, owned by magic! Phrenic healed, but never the same! They heal your body, but own your soul!” My mother didn’t want elemental healing and she got her wish.

  Dahni’s green eyes pierced her, then the creature turned to Gaflis. She looked down, ashamed of her thoughts. Saving Lornis’s life was important, given the prediction she’d learned from Rhaffus.

  “Lornis is asleep. The bullet is gone and the tissues appear to be healing, with no Darkness. He will need several days rest. Where is his family?” The creature assumed the family had given their approval, otherwise how could the Phrenii have been called?

  “Captain Rhaffus has been given approval for any type of healing by the matriarch,” Gaflis replied. “To notify her, we’ve sent a messenger by horse to Plain’s End. The news will get to her faster than the mail coach.”

  Draius watched Gaflis, who seemed too smooth. It was unwise to lie to the Phrenii, or to withhold information.

  “We’re in your debt again, Dahni. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll check on the patient.” The physician quickly bowed his head to the creature and left her standing there, wondering how Gaflis could be on a primary name basis with the Phrenii.

  The creature turned its attention to her, but kept an appropriate distance. “We have more information for you, Officer Draius.”

  “Yes?” She watched Gaflis enter the ward.

  “There was another attempt last night. The same male as before is attempting to wield a shard of the Kaskea.”

  “You’re sure?” It was a habitual response, but rhetorical. Of course they’re sure. “Do you know who he is?”

  “He attempts to hide his identity from us, which is a sure path toward madness. If he drops into true rapport with us, his mind may break from the stress.”

  She suppressed a shudder, but still avoided looking at Dahni’s face or eyes. “When you have information regarding his identity, will you notify me?”

  “As a matter of course,” the creature replied gravely and turned away.

  “Officer?” The timid question at her elbow caused her to jump. A young orderly stood beside her. “Norsis is down in the morgue. He’d like you to identify a body, if you’re well enough.”

  Draius knew the way to the morgue, where the coroner waited. There were several bodies covered with sheets, lying on wooden tables worn smooth by years of scrubbing. A sharp caustic smell similar to concoctions Maricie used on laundry day filled the room, not quite covering a semi-sweet, rank odor that she naturally flinched away from. “What body do you want me to look at?”

  The coroner took a solemn look at her face, shook his head, and quietly clicked his tongue.

  “I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “Gaflis has seen to my face and shoulder. They will mend.”

  The coroner gestured at one of the covered bodies. “This floater was found this morning, down by the docks. He has a stab wound in his side that could have come from a saber. He has slashes in his leg, as well.”

  “You think he’s one of my attackers. If so, I didn’t see his face.”

  “That’s not the point.” Norsis pulled back the sheet to show her the battered head and face of the corpse; the rustle when he replaced the sheet seemed loud in the small room.

  She gulped, but her voice was steady. “When it comes to size and weight, he’s similar to the man I wounded last night.”

  “His face and head were battered after death. Before he was thrown in the canal, he was stripped.” Norsis pointed to the body’s lower right arm. “He has calluses and indentations that indicate a long use of wrist guards and sword work. This man was a professional.”

  “You think someone’s trying to hide his identity?”

  “I can’t make assumptions, I only record facts,” Norsis said. “Motives are your business.”

  Their eyes met, but neither of them said the name. Haversar. It was the signature “death rite” of the most powerful criminal in the sister cities, but why would someone who worked for Haversar be interested in jumping a couple of Guard officers in an alley?

  Draius, unfortunately, knew more about Haversar than she’d like. Something didn’t make sense here: he always kept a low profile with the Guard. “It wouldn’t be wise to jump to conclusions. Not yet.”

  “Not when someone may have usurped the famous signature.” Norsis nodded. “For instance, consider this floater who I classified as nunetton. He was found in the canals two days ago.”

  The coroner went to another table and pulled back the sheet. She wasn’t ready for what she saw: only a boy, with his head and face bashed up. After wincing, she forced herself to look more carefully and saw he was more than a boy, perhaps sixteen years old—old enough to never touch the Phrenii again. The body was bloated.

  “Can you tell when he died?” she asked Norsis.

  “Hard to say. As early as Fairday, as late as Kingday. What’s unusual is the age—can’t be more than sixteen.”

  Yes, that was strange. Usually only the hardened, experienced criminals warranted disfigurement upon death. In theory, this meant the criminal was notorious enough to be recognized by his or her face.

  “Stranger still, he’s a tradesman. Or more likely apprenticing to be one.” Norsis showed her the fingertips of the corpse, which were blackened. “This looks like solution of silver
nitrate. The discoloration is harmless, but the solution is quite useful. It’s made from—”

  “This could be the missing apprentice to the apothecary, the aspiring chemist.” She remembered Taalo’s discolored hands. “If we could only find someone to identify him. How long can you keep him here?”

  “I shouldn’t keep his body any longer. He must be wrapped and burned as nunetton, with no one to light a funeral flame. Too bad.” Norsis shook his head.

  “Can’t you keep him just a day longer? We still might get him identified.”

  Grudgingly, Norsis agreed to keep the cadaver one more day.

  She had one more subject to talk about with the coroner, remembering “only protectors for the named,” the muttered words burned into her memory last night. “Norsis, how complete are your records? Do you record every body that comes here? All the details?”

  Norsis had never shown surprise in the past four years of their working acquaintance. Now his face elongated and his eyes widened. “Are you asking me if I keep records on nunetton, Officer Draius?”

  She hesitated. The forgotten nameless were supposed to be just that: forgotten and nameless, bereft of support and help, beyond anyone’s concerns. Most Tyrrans thought nunetton chose their path consciously, an entrenched belief reinforced by the Tyrran matriarchy. Neither Erik, nor any OICs of Investigation before him, had ever asked Norsis to tally the bodies of nunetton going through the morgue of the sister cities.

  “This may involve more than normal murder,” she said cautiously. “Something evil may have been loosed, and this evil may prey upon nunetton.”

  “What can be worse than the evil mankind deals to his own brethren?” Norsis asked. “But it’s not unseemly to be concerned about the nameless, especially lately. I’ve recently seen some markedly strange bodies.”

  “Any examples?” She glanced about the morgue.

  “No, not here, not now. I’m referring to six nunetton, and all within one eight-day in the previous erin. I’d never seen anything like it. Their throats were slashed, and all their blood seemed drained from them. Like empty husks…” His voice trailed away, then he shook his head. “But they were nunetton; nobody would be interested, would they? What could I do?”

  “Well, I’m interested now. Do you have any drawings or notes?”

  “I can send you my summaries. Meanwhile, see if you can find someone to claim this poor young man.” Norsis carefully replaced the sheet over the body.

  Draius bid him goodbye, her thoughts in turmoil. What role did the strange nunetton deaths play, if any? And the apprentice’s death was made to look like it was caused by Haversar, which could be dangerous. If Haversar found someone mimicking his methods, he might not appreciate the homage. Even criminals had a sort of honor code.

  As she found herself a coach, she tried to avoid the memories, and the facts, she couldn’t tell anyone. Haversar certainly did live by a code, and he owed life-debt to someone. Her thoughts quickly skittered away from that possibility. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions…

  When she arrived back at the City Guard Headquarters, the watch shifts were changing and the watch commander drew her aside. Several muskets were missing from the Guard armory located at the stables, managed by Horsehead. Whether this was the result of an accounting mistake or a theft, no one yet knew. There was no sign of a break-in, but the watch shifts had been doubled and given orders to be on the alert for the missing powder guns.

  Horsehead might have come under suspicion but many decades of service to the Guard kept him from being a serious suspect. She thought about the other City Guard Officers who had access to the armories; inventorying supplies for wartime fell under the Office of City Defense.

  The watch commander wanted to issue her a musket.

  “What would I do with that?” She didn’t want to lug the heavy weapon everywhere.

  “The captain is giving all officers the option of carrying a powder weapon, if they need protection. The watch is required to openly carry muskets now.”

  “The King’s Law—”

  “Changed, ser,” the watch commander said. “We got the edict from the King only an hour ago.”

  She watched the activity, seeing the watch check out muskets, as well as powder and bullets. Previously, powder weapons had been optional but rarely carried. The muskets, powder, and bullets now added to the knife, club, and sword the Guard already carried. “We need all this against our own citizens?”

  “The King and his captains are making a statement that the Guard are not to be fired upon.” The watch commander looked sideways at her, and she caught the implication. Guard Officers, especially Meran-Viisi, shouldn’t come under attack. For a moment, she wondered if King Perinon would have reacted the same if only Lornis had been the victim. She hoped her cousin would be more objective than that.

  Refusing the offered musket, Draius walked toward her office, trying not to limp. Miina and Ponteva were waiting, glowering about Usko’s treachery.

  “He’s locked up, separated from the petty criminals. The watch is under orders to treat him well. Not that he deserves it,” Ponteva said.

  Draius gingerly sat down. She was so tired…

  “Usko may know where the missing muskets are,” Miina said.

  She shook her head. “I doubt he knows anything about that. Let him rest in a cell over Ringday—questioning him will wait. I need you two to get more background on Vanhus.”

  Was it already Fairday afternoon? An eight-day had passed since the murder of Councilman Reggis, and they had made such little progress. Miina, Ponteva, and Draius spent time exchanging facts and notes, trying to organize their meager leads.

  When Draius left work for Anja’s house, she paid the driver an extra tenth to get her home as fast as possible. As she climbed down from the carriage, she grunted. Her injuries became more painful with every passing moment.

  “You have a package from Lady Aracia,” Maricie said, as she gently helped Draius out of her cloak and belt.

  The package contained the Meran lineage records she’d asked for. Predictably, the curt letter accompanying the package admonished her to protect the privileged information.

  Draius didn’t feel like digging into the records. Instead, she went to the kitchen where Peri ate a light meal of bread and cheese after his lessons. There could be no hugging until her ribs and shoulder were better, but she spent a quiet hour talking with her son in the warm kitchen that still smelled of the day’s baking. Then she went upstairs, crawled on her bed and fell dead asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Second Markday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471

  I heard about the attack on Officer Draius and her deputy from my employer. Until that point, he’d had me under guard and I wasn’t allowed to read the H&H, nor could I hear any criers.

  “Why didn’t your lackeys finish the job? She should be lying in the hospital, not her deputy.” The woman was irritating; how could she survive both my charms and hired street toughs?

  Maybe she had a protective benefactor. I’d never really believed in ancestral intercession—but after forcing the dead to give up their secrets, I’ve found I have much to learn about the afterlife, whether it be the Tyrran’s “Path to the Stars” or the Sareenian’s circular and incremental “Way of the Light.”

  “We had nothing to do with it. But whoever attacked them has thrown the City Guard entirely off our tracks. They’re busy issuing powder weapons to the watch and inventorying their armories.” My employer rubbed his chin.

  “But the Guard has detained my contact. He’s been comprimised,” I pointed out.

  “The important distinction being your Guard contact. Not mine.” My employer’s teeth flashed white through his beard. “The Office of Investigation and their OIC aren’t losing sight of their prime suspect, which is you. However, this attack created smoke on the battlefield, as they say. We’re taking advantage of the situation and moving our operation again.”

  I tapped my pen agains
t the inkwell. True, the clerk had been a source of information, but little more. I made sure he only went through me, and only knew my name. That meant I was still an outlaw that couldn’t show my face on the streets and I required my employer’s protection, facilities, and even his conspirators.

  Placing my pen carefully on the blotter, I asked casually, “So we’re going to try again tonight?”

  “It’s our only sensible avenue to finding the lodestone, isn’t it?”

  I suppressed a satisfied smile. There was an air of desperation about my employer that I’d never felt before. He had driven us to test the Kaskea through the night and into the early morning hours, pushing everyone to exhaustion. I didn’t know how much longer his assistant could attempt to wield the Kaskea and yet hold off the Phrenii when they attempted to enter his mind.

  But he was no concern of mine. My employer, his men, his assistant of diluted Meran blood, they were all expendable tools toward finding the lodestone. Once I knew its location, I’d be gone. There were risks, of course, to continually weigh and watch. For instance, I worried the Phrenii would find us before we find the lodestone, but I also used this concern to swell my employer’s paranoia and hate of the creatures.

  “This seems a piss-poor path to place our hopes upon,” continued my employer. “I thought the Void was supposed to show us what we needed to know.”

  “We’ve already surpassed the extent of Nherissa’s instructions. We can pull several people into the Void behind the wielder—surely that counts as progress.” I had discovered, unfortunately, that we were probably in what the sorcerer’s notes called the “Blindness,” so I had to perpetuate the little lie about walking the Void.