Buried Truth

by Frank Hurt

  “The Viceroy sponsored you for an Ascension Test, but then attempted to block you.” Barnaby pointed a bony finger in her direction. “He did not expect you to pass the tests.”

  “That’s my conclusion, too. But here’s the thing: the entire story the Viceroy told was true until he said his name. He was lying about his name.”

  “You identified that specifically?” The ghost tilted his head back, his blank eye sockets watching her appraisingly. “Only a Fifth-Level Inquisitor can detect specific elements of a story to be true or false.”

  Ember smiled. “I know. You’ve told me that before. You’ve told me that Fourth-Level Inquisitors can interpret truth solely by sound, even without the benefit of witnessing body language. Fifth-Levels can go a step further in detecting specific statements as lies. There’s something you didn’t tell me, though: what are Sixth-Level Inquisitors capable of with respect to Prevarication?”

  Sand slid over metal as his voice filled her head. “The skills of a Supreme Inquisitor are more nuanced, intangible. Tell me, do you know what makes certain people such convincing liars?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Practice. Experience lying. And some are just naturally better at it than others, I suppose. Con artists, scammers. Sociopaths and psychopaths.”

  “You are not wrong. Talent can be cultivated, even in skills such as lying, it is true. But what you neglect to recognize are the most exceptional lies humans tell: those lies which they tell themselves: self-delusions. If someone believes something strongly, then to them at least it is not a lie.”

  She thought on his statement. “That makes sense. I recall Wallace once saying something similar. But what does this have to do with Supreme Inquisitors?”

  Barnaby said, “the ability to see through a self-delusion is the most difficult. If a witness himself believes he is telling the truth, then they do not convey the subtle signs of a liar.”

  He continued, “a Supreme Inquisitor can detect a self-deluding lie. Not only can she see when a person is being delusional, but she can see through what a witness thinks is the truth, to find out what really is true.”

  “How is that even possible?” Ember chewed her bottom lip as she shook her head. “You’re saying that a Sixth-Level Inquisitor can find the truth from a witness even when they don’t know it themselves?

  “Correct. But shattering a delusion is a dangerously unpredictable act—to the witness and Inquisitor alike. The delusions people create for themselves allow them to function. There is a reason people wrap themselves in blankets of lies big and small: it protects them, it shields them from themselves. Deny them that blanket and they might not like what they see.”

  “Ember Wright, you have proven to be a Grand Inquisitor such as I. I am suspecting you may be even more than that.” Barnaby stepped forward, his transparent figure looming above her. His harsh voice dug into her skull like fishhooks. “I warn you though, that if ever a time comes where you are tempted to reveal a delusion to someone, tread carefully. Monsters do not like being shown what they are.”

  4

  Bloody Tired of Killing My Friends

  After the late-night graveyard visit, Ember returned to her apartment with the intention of squeezing in another hour or two of precious sleep. She was just starting to drift off when her cell phone rang.

  She groaned a protest, reached for the Motorola Barrage, and flipped it open. “Investigator Wright speaking.”

  “It’s so lovely, sis! Where on Earth did you find such a thing?”

  In her semi-comatose state, it took a moment to recognize the voice, even if she didn’t comprehend the subject. Finally, Ember said, “oh, good morning, Cyn. You might have to give me a clue.”

  “Good morning. Did I wake you? Oh, I forgot about the time difference. Seven hours, is it?” Cynthia Leigh was energized and unapologetic.

  Ember yawned. “It’s fine. I couldn’t sleep. I was actually just back from a drive in the country.”

  “At night? Is that wise?”

  “Probably not. It’s more effective than staring at the ceiling though. What were you talking about?”

  Her older sister didn’t miss a beat. “Right, I was asking about this rustic farm toy set you sent for Abby and Matilda. ‘Handmade by Anna’ it says. Where on Earth did you buy this? It’s clearly not mass-produced.”

  “It arrived already? That’s supposed to be their Christmas pressie. I didn’t know Anna would get it finished and posted so soon.” Ember glanced at the calendar on her apartment wall. It was exactly two months early. Anna didn’t waste time getting her first paid order out.

  “Anna? So this Anna is a real person, not just a store brand? She does brilliant work. The details, I mean, even the little people have little faces with teeny-tiny noses and eyes painted on. The little cows look like they’re going to moo at me. And the chickens—Emmy, the chickens have their own little house!”

  “She’s got a gift, I agree.” Ember reflexively touched the carved coyote pendant she wore around her neck. “She’s actually a friend of mine. A changeling, as it happens. She’s from a town called Plaza. Her whole family—the Schmitts—they’re good people. I’m actually going to their farm today to join them for their Sunday brunch.”

  “Sunday brunch? My sister, hanging out with changeling farmers. You’ve gone native, haven’t you? Next, you’ll be wearing a ten-gallon hat and saying ‘yee-haw’ and ‘howdy.’”

  “They don’t really talk that way in North Dakota. They’re more like ‘you betcha’ and ‘how’re you doing?’” Ember stretched and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. “Though I am driving a pickup now.”

  “A pickup? As in a truck? Emmy, your hired car is a truck?”

  “I had to get rid of the hired car, actually. The Toyota was good, but it didn’t survive the prairie hailstorm. Cyn, you should’ve seen it: ice chunks coming in sideways.”

  “Good God! And you were in it when that happened?”

  “I’m just lucky that way, yeah?” Ember closed her eyes and silently recalled the storm, how she drove through it despite the danger. The only fear she had at the time was that of not getting to Rik and Arnie before it was too late. She chose not to tell her sister about those details.

  “These toys are almost too good to have the girls play with them.” The soft clink of wooden objects traveled over the Atlantic through the phone lines. “They should be on a shelf as decoration.”

  Ember paced her bedroom, kicking laundry toward the wall. “They’re meant to be played with. Let my nieces create memories with their toy animals and barns. That’s what it’s for.”

  “If you’re seeing Anna today, you’ll express my appreciation for her craft, won’t you?”

  “I shall. She’ll like hearing that.”

  “I’m going to send you another care package, Emmy. Marmite and crisps from home.”

  “You do know the way to my heart, Cyn.”

  “On that subject, our dear Mummy has been telling anyone who listens about her youngest daughter’s promotion to Senior Investigator. Youngest ever to be tested, never mind pass. Don’t be surprised if you get a ring on your mobile from Malvern Hills’ most eligible bachelors.”

  Ember clenched her teeth. “She’s been giving my number out to people?”

  “Oops. Um…you didn’t hear that from me, yeah? She’s just eager to get you in the dating pool. You know, there are a lot of really lovely, upper-class mages who would kill to make you theirs. It’s important that you do your part for the Malvern population, after all. Our population’s been sharply declining for the past century. There’s only a limited window of time for you to help—”

  “Bollocks, not you, too! Can’t everyone just back off and let me live my life? I don’t have time for dating, and I sure as bloody hell don’t need Mum or anyone else setting me up.”

  “Okay.” Cynthia pronounced the word cautiously. “A nerve’s been touched, message received.”

  Ember pinched the bridge
of her nose and exhaled. “I’m sorry, Cyn. I’m just knackered. I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”

  “Working too many hours? You know you need to take some time for yourself.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “What then, Emmy?”

  Chronic fatigue made the emotional shell thin and brittle. Hearing the genuine concern in her sister’s voice was just enough to make it crack. Unexpectedly, Ember began sniffling.

  Cynthia spoke softly. “Oh, Emmy. Sis, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Ember stared out the window of her apartment at the sleeping city of Minot. She breathed deeply as she reined in her emotions. “I’m just…I’ve had these terrible dreams. Nightmares that wake me up. Almost every night.”

  “What kind of nightmares? You know I like analyzing dreams. Maybe I can help.”

  “Maybe. They’re just…you have to keep this to yourself, yeah? No telling Mum or Daddy. They’ll only worry.”

  “What has you so gutted?”

  Ember censored herself carefully. There were some aspects of her psyche she just wasn’t ready to share with the living. Some things were better kept concealed. She filtered her dream’s contents, painting the picture for her sister using broad strokes. “You know how I got promoted, right? The case I solved which led to the Ascension Trial?”

  Cynthia’s tone was somber. “It was a serial killer. The Changeling Hunter. Everyone knows about that case, even here in England. Everyone knows how you hunted the hunter and…finished him off. I’d be surprised if there’s a Druwish person anywhere in the world who doesn’t know about it. To be perfectly honest, I’ve even been a bit envious of the attention my little sister has gotten.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve been cursed to relive that moment every time I close my eyes.”

  “Your nightmares are of him?”

  “No, not him. Not the Changeling Hunter. Not exactly. I mean, it’s the same dream every time: I’m lost in the fog, then someone I know and trust leads me out of the fog and to the shed where I encountered the Changeling Hunter. I find a gun and draw it. Other people I know are there, and the conversations are weird, but…basically some of those people are telling me to shoot, others are telling me not to. I always end up shooting the gun, but the target isn’t him, it’s friends of mine. Anna, or her brothers Arnie or Rik. Other times it’s her parents or her sister-in-law. Always one of the Schmitts.”

  “That’s horrible. No wonder you aren’t sleeping.

  “You’re telling me.”

  Cynthia said, “let me summarize. So the people in your dream are trying to convince you to take action one way or another, and you always end up shooting, but the person who you shoot is always one of the Schmitts?”

  “Yeah. And the victim is always in his or her animal subform too.”

  “Interesting. Do you want to know what I think?”

  “Other than the fact that I’m slowly losing the plot?”

  “Other than that, right.” Cynthia forced a laugh. “For my two pence, I would say you’ve got an unresolved issue that you’re not dealing with. Hear me out. Think of the people in the dream as representing different aspects of your life, right? They might be your conscience, telling you to make a choice one way or another. You follow?”

  “Okay. Sure.” Ember cradled the cell phone against her shoulder as she paced her bedroom. “So, what about the victims?”

  “You said you’re friends with the Schmitts, that they invite you over regularly. That they are welcoming to you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So maybe they represent happiness? A feeling of comfort?”

  Ember frowned. “What, and I’m choosing to kill happiness?”

  “Or maybe you’re worried that no matter what choice you make, you’ll hurt the people you care about.” Cynthia sounded inspired by her own assessment. “Some part of you thinks that you’re going to harm your friends.”

  “Right. Doesn’t that just make me a proper nutter.” Ember leaned against a window to study the first hints of dawn arriving on the horizon. “How do I stop these nightmares?”

  “You just need to figure out what your unresolved issue is, and, frankly, resolve it.”

  “And how will I know what the problem is?”

  “I don’t know,” Cynthia admitted. “Maybe you just have to pay attention. When you’re ready to receive the answer, the universe will send you a sign.”

  “Brilliant. I hope that sign comes soon because I’m getting bloody tired of killing my friends every night.”

  5

  Perverse Source of Pride

  The Schmitt family kept a tidy yard at their farmstead north of Plaza. The grasses within the rows of mature trees forming the shelterbelt along the north and west border of their yard were kept mowed. Ponderosa pine mingled with Hackberry and American Elm within the inner rows, while the outer rows were hedges of caragana and golden currants. It was the perfect playground for imaginative young children, which was exactly where Maxim and Marta were.

  Ember tapped the Ranger’s horn twice to greet the kids. They waved back when they recognized who had spotted them. The small, dark red pickup continued down the driveway, bounding over the gravel surface between the outbuildings on its way to the farmhouse perched on a low hill.

  A figure stepped out from the left side of the driveway. Boniface Schmitt waved to get Ember’s attention. When he had it, he gestured for her to park next to the Quonset.

  “I was wonderin’ who was tootin’,” Boniface said with a grin. “Where you headin’?”

  “Good morning, Boni,” Ember mirrored the old man’s expression. “I was going to the house of course. Sunday brunch.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to go up there, not yet. If you get there too early, they’ll just put you to work in the kitchen. Step into my office instead.” He held open the steel walk-in door to the convex building, waving her inside. “Quick, before they see you!”

  Ember glance around for dramatic effect. She crouched low and hurried through the door and into the petroleum-scented building. “Think anyone noticed me?”

  Boniface stepped over the low threshold and swung the door shut. “I think you’re in the clear. Hey guys, look who I found! She said she’s going to hang out with us so she doesn’t get put to work making breakfast.”

  Ember playfully slapped the back of her hand against Boniface’s shoulder. “Traitor! You’ve revealed my most devious of plans.”

  Two changeling men were working under the raised hood of a dark green John Deere 4630 diesel tractor. A red, steel tool chest stood nearby, the overhead halogen lights reflecting off chrome-plated wrenches in its open drawers. On the floor, a round, plastic oil pan shimmered as it collected used oil from the engine’s drain plug above.

  Boniface’s older brother was the first to respond. “Ember, how’re you doing? Feel like getting greasy? We’re just about ready to put the new oil filter on.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “Oh, I…might’ve left my mechanic’s overalls at home.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll find you a pair. Maybe Kenny’ll let you use his.”

  Kenneth Newman poked his head from the other side of the engine compartment. “Oh hey, Ember! I think my coveralls might be too big for you.”

  “What’re you talking about, Kenny?” Boniface snorted. “Your coveralls are too big for you, too. You’re just skin and bones.”

  It wasn’t a lie; even beneath the grey, oil-stained coveralls it was plain to see that Kenneth was an emaciated skeleton. Each of the ten Mandaree Incident scouts had dealt with their disabilities in their own ways. For Kenneth, his remedy was to self-medicate using whatever drugs he could find. The painkillers left track marks on his pale skin and robbed him of any desire for food. He was twenty-five years younger than either of the elder Schmitt brothers, but he was unquestionably in the worst health.

  “Hey, how’s the Ranger been running?” Kenneth asked. “Next Sunday after brunch I’ll check the torqu
e on those tires.”

  “It’s been humming along,” she said. The ten-year-old Ford Ranger had been something of a downgrade from the relatively high-tech, late-model Toyota Highlander she totaled out earlier that summer. But that was a rental, whereas the little pickup was hers. Her first pickup, her first American brand vehicle. “It rides rougher than my SUV did, and sometimes I have to be careful around corners on gravel roads. The back end wants to let go of the road.”

  Ronald frowned. “It’s fishtailing on you? That’s probably the light rear-end. Those little pickups are bad for that. Remind me later before you head home. I’ll fill a couple sandbags to throw in the box over the wheel wells.”

  Boniface nodded. “Definitely want to do that before winter sets in.”

  “Other than that, I’ve been loving my little red Ranger,” Ember beamed. “I’m so grateful to each of you for getting it for me.”

  “Rik’s the one who bought it off of that young roughneck,” Ronald scratched his grey scalp with the knurled end of a silver half-inch ratchet. “All we did was get it running.”

  “I still think it was wrong to let you pay for it. You should’ve let us give it to you,” Boniface added as the other two men nodded. “It’s the least we could do. Your Highlander was demolished rescuing Rik and Arnie.”

  “It wasn’t really mine; it was a hired car. Besides, it’s only stuff, yeah?” Ember shrugged. “Stuff can always be replaced. Your nephews can’t be.”

  Boniface gave her shoulder a meaningful squeeze. He didn’t have to say anything.

  The door to the Quonset burst open just then and in rushed two children and a dog. Nothing could cut through heavy emotions like the innocent laughter of two kids and the wagging tail of their German Shepherd escort.

  “Maxim! Marta!” Ember wiped at her eye, dismissing a tear that had somehow found its way out. “You found me!”