by Deck Davis
CHAPTER 62
“Got any salve?” said Witas.
“Check my shelves,” said Archibald.
While Witas grabbed a vial of slave and applied it to his burn, Jakub judged his sword into Archibald’s’ back and pressed him on.
Archibald led them outside and into the backyard of his shop and Jakub followed, with his three birds fluttering around him.
Witas emerged a few seconds later, his burned bicep covered in white paste.
Jakub stood over the discolored stone. “Open it.”
“Do you understand what you are doing?” said Archibald.
“That’s the whole point; I need to understand.”
“Little children shouldn’t play with matches.”
“And old artificers shouldn’t wave blaster staffs around, but here we are. Open it.”
“I don’t understand, Archie,” said Witas. “What is this? They were killing people under your shop. Were you part of this?”
“Killing people?”
Witas showed Archibald the pickpocket’s finger. It was a grey color now, a sign that his clericism magic was starting to leave it. “A boy got cut in fucking half under your shop.”
Archibald ran his fingers through his hair. “Killing…what?”
“Don’t act innocent now.”
“You two don’t understand; there is a cellar under here, and yes, I keep it hidden. But I only rent the space out. I keep it secret, keep it locked, and I don’t ask questions. I take coin to let people use it. It’s usually thieves looking to hide a few items until they aren’t hot anymore, or perverts looking for a safe space to indulge their tastes. Nothing like…murder.”
There was something in his voice; a tremor to it that Jakub believed. Archibald was either a convincing actor, or he was telling the truth.
Either way, it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was seeing what was down there.
“Open it,” he said.
Archibald kneeled by the discoloured stone, put his hand on it, and said, “Olieven.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s the Gellish word for open. Watch.”
And Jakub did; he watched as the stone rumbled and then slid to the side, revealing a set of stairs leading under the shop.
CHAPTER 63 – Hackett Lee
Why did he always have the knack of choosing the carriages with the least head room? Every bump in the road jolted Hackett in his seat, making his head hit the roof.
Well, he guessed the world had never been accommodating for a man his height, and that wasn’t about to change. Better to focus on what he could personally affect, on the plans, on the things still left to do.
He held a box tightly on his lap. It was sealed, but he knew that inside it were dozens of glyphline tattoos, each torn from a magic user’s body, each brimming with the mana ability Studs had expertly teased from them.
Without Studs, these would just be flaps of skin. Without Ella, too, they would be useless, for it took great pain to wrench mana from a person, and they always died before it was done. Without Ella’s ability to bring them back to life, Studs wouldn’t have been able to work.
Hackett reached to the wooden panel in front of him, the one that hid the carriage driver from view. He took a piece of chalk and traced a square on it.
“Bendeldrick,” he said.
The wooden panel changed in color and consistency, and soon an image appeared.
It was a liguana. Short, stocky, with a scaled face and one tooth sticking out from his lips, the other tooth chipped.
“I expected to hear from you before now,” said Bendeldrick.
Bendeldrick hissed his words; it was his liguana tongue, Hackett knew. Liguanas were rare in this part of the world, and they generally stuck to their own people, their own customs, their own language.
Common speak was difficult for them to master, simply because their liguana tongues were too long to wrap properly around the words.
“Things took a turn,” said Hackett. “I meant to contact you, but there’s been trouble.”
“Where are your friends?”
“That’s the problem. Ella went to get the necromancer, and she didn’t return. Studs and I worked on the chubby mage, but we needed her. Studs went to find Ella, but he was gone hours, and when he came back, he was covered head to toe in blood. He didn’t even say a word to me; I’ve never seen him so angry. He collected his tools and his weapons and then he left.”
“You don’t have the glyphline I asked for, then.”
“I have dozens,” said Hackett, tapping the box.
“But not a necromancer’s.”
“It was the only one we couldn’t get.”
“Fine. Bring the ones you have; the academy is weak, and if there was ever a time to…” He stopped talking for a second. “Is this one of your paintings, Hackett?”
“Yes; I’m miles away.”
“Then it’s not safe to talk too openly. How long before you arrive?”
“I’m on my way,” said Hackett.
“Any loose ends in Dispolis?”
Hackett thought about the necromancer and his friend, about Studs covered in blood, and about the mage boy in the cellar.
“Some loose ends, but not ones to worry about. I tied most of them as best I could.”
“Then I will see you soon, Hackett. I have my people waiting for the glyphlines, so take care not to damage them.”
“Thank you for the warning; otherwise I would have been tossing the glyphlines round like confetti.”
“Don’t get smart with me - this is a dark time. I have things on my mind.”
“I know; the academy will be well defended, but with the glyphlines…”
Bendeldrick waved his hand, and Hackett saw how long his claws were. “No, it isn’t that. My brother died recently.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be; hate can flow both ways, and it is stronger among siblings. We hadn’t talked in twenty years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel a cloud on his passing. Just hurry up and get here.”
CHAPTER 64
The stairs led down into a tunnel cut deep under Archibald’s shop. Torches lined the walls, and they illuminated when Archibald spoke a word. With the light, Jakub saw that the tunnel went on for twenty meters before meeting a closed door.
“Are there any traps down here?” he said.
“Why would there be traps?”
“The entry was sealed by mana, and you said you rent this out to some unscrupulous types. It’s not a stretch to guess it might be booby trapped.”
“You’re a suspicious one.”
“And you’re the one who’s going to walk in front. If any traps spring, they can go off in your face and not mine.”
He prodded his sword against Archibald’s back and urged him on. The artificer went ahead, not stopping until he reached the door.
“Is anyone down here now?” said Jakub.
“I rent the space; I don’t log their comings and goings.”
He turned to Witas. “Point your staff at the door, and I’ll keep my sword on our friend.”
“I don’t hear anything,” said Witas.
“If I was up to something dodgy down here and I heard footsteps, I’d be quiet. Just be ready.” Then he prodded Archibald again. “Open it.”
Archibald turned the handle and pushed the door open, to reveal a room with white walls made from crumbling plaster. There was a window running across the top of one wall, and it was set at an angle so that it looked out onto the alleyway behind Archibald’s shop.
Jakub stopped, rigid.
He knew that view. He knew these walls.
“This is from the Last Rites,” said Witas.
“Damn it, Archibald, do you know what you’ve done?”
“Done? I merely rented the space.”
“You stupid old bastard.”
Jakub stepped into the room, and then he got his second shock; to the right, out of view of the
doorway, there was a person.
It was Trout Wyrecast. He was strapped to a chair, bound by ropes around his neck, waist, arms, and ankles. He was naked, and his skin was covered in a crisscross of cuts, gouges.
Parts of his skin had been flayed off, and the red flesh was glistening with pus. Blood had pooled around his feet.
Jakub felt the blight work in him now; he sensed the sludge churning in his stomach. If he had anything left to vomit, he would have done.
As it was, all he could do was look away. His brain urged him to run from the room, but he knew that was just an instinctual response.
He fought through it, determined not to let Archibald or Witas see him shaken.
Why was it that he could have spent so much time around death, and yet it still found new ways to get to him?
He looked around the room. There were bloodstains all over the stone. The smell was cloying, and he felt it sneak into his nostrils, his mouth, down his throat.
So many stains. How many people had they come from?
He needed to get himself together. What else was there? Had they left anything behind?
Nope; all he saw was a suitcase on the floor. It was half open, and there was something strange about it, but he couldn’t figure out what.
What about the smell? Was that mana?
“Archibald, you sick son of a whore,” said Witas. “If the guardship weren’t looking for me, I’d be hauling your arse to them.”
Archibald looked at the dead mage impassively. “I didn’t do this.”
“You gave them the means, you fool. You rented them secret place to do this shit.”
“Does a blacksmith get the blame for what a man does after buying his sword?”
“Oh you…you fucker.” Witas’s face reddened. He breathed in once, twice, and fury sparked in his eyes.
He punched Archibald in the face, smashing his glasses, sending the artificer into the wall behind him.
Archibald landed on the floor, cracking his head against the wall.
Witas walked toward him, but Jakub grabbed him. “I need you to keep your head.”
“What I need is his head. I’ll stick it on a fucking spike. That poor pickpocket bastard…he was down here, right under Archie’s nose. And then this guy.”
“Trout.”
“You know him?”
“He’s from the academy. He only arrived this week.”
“Gods. Look at him; they tortured him and they slit his damned throat.”
“And they took his tattoo, as well,” said Jakub. He pointed to Trout’s left wrist, where a patch of skin had been ripped off. “See?”
“But why?”
“First Abbie, then they tried to get me, and then Trout. They took his glyphline…but why? The tattoo isn’t where our magic comes from; it’s just a focal point. A symbol that gives us something to concentrate on. Remove it, and it’s just a flap of skin.”
“Well they’re gone. Whoever the bastards were, they’ve left him. Did you see anything, Archie?”
Archibald rubbed his blooded nose. “I’m not their keeper. I have my own work to do.”
“You’re a fucking fool.”
“And you punch like a baby goblin.”
“I kick like a mule. Want to see me try?”
Jakub squeezed Witas’s arm. “Ignore him. We need to see what happened.”
Staring at Trout, Jakub cast Last Rites.
CHAPTER 65
Watching through Trout’s eyes, Jakub saw the same room they were in. A man was in front of Trout. He was tall, but still wearing his robes, and he had his back to him.
“Damn it,” said the man. “Where are you, Studs? This isn’t the time to screw around.”
Trout spoke now. His voice was almost a whisper, the pain etched in his tone. “Let me go. My grandfather, he has money. You’ll know him. His name is-”
“I know his name, boy. If I wanted gold, I’d go and round up a few whores and open a brothel.”
“What do you want? Please…what have I done?”
The man turned around. He wore his ceramic mask, though his eyes were clear behind it, and Jakub could see they were watering.
“Shit, it’s Baron Moneyfingers,” said Witas.
Jakub nodded. “Our old friend, and we’re standing in his murder pit.”
The man kneeled in front of Trout. “This isn’t about what you’ve done, lad,” he said, his voice almost tender. “It’s about what you have.”
“What I have?”
The man stood up and turned away from trout. “Damn it. This is why Studs says to never talk to them. They get you in the gut.”
“Whatever it is, my grandfather will give it you. Just…please…just name it.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man, with his back to him. “Time is fleeting, and Studs left our work unfinished. I have to go now; I’m already late.”
“You’ll let me go?”
“I’ll let you find peace, but I can’t let you go.”
The man took something from inside his coat. He turned around, and he was holding a dagger with a jagged blade.
Jakub could almost feel Trout’s fear as the man advanced on him.
When the man cut the blade across Trout’s throat, Jakub flinched as if he’d suffered the cut himself.
Trout screamed, but his screams turned into a gurgle, and then the vision darkened, and the Last Rites faded away.
CHAPTER 66
“I’m going to be sick,” said Witas.
Jakub felt fury course through him now. Screw his mental training; screw everything Irvine had taught him about staying calm. There was only anger now, and he realized that he needed it; anger would get him through his blight, force him through his pain and to the end of this.
“Then be sick, and pull yourself together,” he said.
“How can you be so calm?”
“Believe me, I’m the opposite of calm.”
“You, Ian, the other necros…you’re all the same. Death means nothing to you, does it?”
“Death is everything to us,” said Jakub. “Right now, Trout’s death is what we have. It’s a way we can end this.”
“What? More necromancy?”
“I can’t bring him back, but I can take him to the academy. If we can get him to the academy before his essence fades, instructor Irvine can watch his Rites. This is the proof we needed.”
“We’ve got a city full of guards looking for us. You think it’s going to be possible to wander through Dispolis with a mutilated corpse?”
“I might have the solution,” said Archibald.
“Shove your solutions up your arse,” said Witas.
“Go on,” said Jakub.
Archibald straightened up. “An artificer doesn’t hone his craft for years without knowing artificery when he sees it. The suitcase – does it seem strange to you?”
“I can smell mana. It’s artificed?”
“Much like the bag you carry around with you. Though I suspect the case has been artificed to hold a lot more.”
Jakub kneeled by the suitcase and put his hand into it, and he found that his hand sank deep into it until his whole forearm and half his bicep were inside.
“We can carry him out in the case,” he said. “Witas, do you know any carriage drivers who’ll keep their mouths shut?”
“All drivers keep their mouth shut, Jakub. It’s part of the job; they spend their nights ferrying nobles and guards around while they have their illicit romances and get up to shady stuff.”
“If we put Trout in the case and get to a wagon without being seen, we can get to the academy.”
“Wow, you’re cold. Stuff him in a case, are you serious? He’s not a coat.”
“Sentimentality won’t bring Trout back,” said Jakub. “Sometimes there’s no place for it.”
“Maybe it won’t, but sentimentality is what he deserves. A bit of respect.”
“Listen, Witas. Funerals, undertakers, the way they dress up corpses, make
them look nice. The poems we read at funerals, the wreaths we send; they’re for the people still alive. It’s so they can grieve, maybe feel better, maybe so they don’t feel guilty. That won’t help Trout now, and if we tread around him like his corpse is precious, all it’s gonna do is get us into trouble.”
Witas said nothing for a few seconds.
“Fine – we put him in the case. But getting through Dispolis and to a carriage - that’s still a tough ask.”
“I can’t see anything else.”
“We could always just leave,” said Witas. “You and me. Without having to lug a case around or get to where they park the carriages, we can get out of Dispolis easier. I know other routes through the Rats’ Palace, ones that’ll take us out of the city.”
“So, we just run? Look at him; whoever did this is still out there. You think it won’t happen again?”
“Damn it. A guy who deal with corpses lecturing me on morals. You dragged me far enough into your shit, Jakub. I’m out.”
“Again; you were the one who knocked on my door and asked for my help. If anyone’s got sore muscles from all the dragging, it’s you.”
“It’s too risky.”
Jakub didn’t see fear in Witas’s eyes. Instead, he felt like he had come upon an understanding of him, something deeper.
He remembered what Witas had told him about Ria, and how the academy wouldn’t resurrect her and how Ian had resurrected him.
“This is because you don’t want to see your brother, isn’t it?”
“All brothers fall out. I just don’t want to spend my life in one of the Queen’s lovely dungeons.”
“You’re worried about seeing Ian. You’re worried that…that you might have to stop being mad at him for bringing you back, and admit that if you were in his shoes, you’d have done the same thing.”
“You listen to my story and you think you know me?”
“You’re a mystery, Witas. I don’t know you. But you’re better than this. I saw how upset you were when you saw the pickpocket. If you don’t help me finish this, you’ll carry it around with you.”
Witas breathed out. It was a long trailing breath, and it was as if he breathed out all his tension, his fear, his anger.
