by Kat Ross
Crates sat stacked against the walls. The air held a whiff of the Senne, fishy and foul. Balthazar swallowed a bout of nausea.
“He’s awake,” someone remarked.
Two of them laid their cards down and rose, vanishing into the darkness. The others ignored him, but Balthazar sensed their watchfulness. After a few minutes, he heard footsteps approach and managed to turn his head a fraction, though it sent a bolt of agony down his spine.
Jorin Bekker, with Constantin Andreae trotting at his heels like a faithful hound.
Bekker’s cheeks glowed with the bloom of youth. He looked barely old enough to shave, a slender boy with long brown hair worn swept back and an aristocratic delicacy to his features, but the impression of an indolent prince was betrayed by his eyes, which were utterly soulless.
The three necromancers at the table rose to their feet. They were joined a moment later by the first two. All uncoiled their chains and held them in readiness.
“You requested a meeting,” Bekker said, his high tenor voice disinterested. “And now you have one.”
Balthazar aimed for a light tone. “I thought it might be a bit more civilized—”
“Then you’re a greater fool than I imagined. We are not civilized men here.” Bekker stepped forward, his gaze dissecting. “But I am curious about something. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
Balthazar’s heart sank.
“Sebastian Ainsley. He was found dead in London four days ago. Most of us had already left England, but not you, Balthazar. Ainsley was valuable to me. I’d be most annoyed at the person who disposed of him.”
Balthazar returned Bekker’s cold stare, the wheels in his head spinning. Then he gave a slight wince.
“Oops,” he said.
Confess to the smaller crime and they’ll overlook the bigger one.
Bekker’s face was expressionless. “How?”
He knew the details, of course. It was a test to determine if Balthazar was telling the truth.
“Garrote. In a billiards room at a house in Pimlico. He was wearing a garish ensemble of red-trimmed velvet with a canary yellow waistcoat. Made one’s eyes water—”
“Enough. Why?”
Balthazar drew a deep breath. “Where to begin?”
Bekker made an impatient noise.
“I didn’t intend to, not at first. It was a chance encounter. But Ainsley had been indulging in absinthe. He was more forthcoming than usual.”
“About?”
“A plot he was hatching with Kir Nazari to allow you to reinstate the Duzakh and then stage a little coup d’etat.”
Bekker shook his head. “No. Nazari? They despise each other.”
Balthazar let the silence hang for a few moments. “Do they?” he asked softly.
And he could see it form in Bekker’s eyes, the tiny seed of doubt.
“Who better to conspire together than bitter enemies?” Balthazar continued. “No one would believe it.” He smiled. “I’m sure one of them would have done for the other eventually, once the alliance became tiresome. But Ainsley loathed you.” He frowned and added the very faintest note of pity. “You didn’t know?”
Bekker’s mouth tightened. “Of course I did,” he snapped. “I just didn’t think he had the courage to do anything about it.”
“Sometimes the cravens surprise you,” Balthazar replied. “In any event, Ainsley tried to rope me into his scheme. I agreed wholeheartedly. Then I took his head off.”
Bekker considered this. From the shadows, Constantin watched intently. He was a bull of a man, with a thick black beard and the shoulders of a blacksmith.
“I saw him kill necromancers at the Picatrix,” he rasped. “Cut them down with a revenant blade.”
Balthazar laughed in genuine mirth. “Ah, Constantin. It’s touching to see such innocence. Yes, I spilled blood at the Picatrix. Do I really need to bore you with the reasons for each and every one? That’s the way of the Duzakh. Survival of the nastiest.”
Constantin opened his mouth to reply, but Bekker cut him off with a gesture. As he raised his hand, Balthazar noticed the ring around his finger. Silver with a black stone. It was the same talisman Bekker had stolen all those years ago.
“Even if your claim is true, you’ve never come to me before. Why now? How do you stand to benefit?”
In Bekker’s world, no action was taken without an expected reward. And greedy men assumed others were just like them.
“I don’t care who leads us. Crown yourself anything you like.” Balthazar’s face took on an avid expression. “I want a piece of the Congo Free State. I want riches beyond imagining. And I’m not so foolish to think I don’t need your blessing.”
This was a motive that made perfect sense to Bekker. “And in return?”
“I’ll kill anyone you want. Follow your orders without question.”
Bekker’s reply was unenthusiastic. “I already have more than enough men who do that.”
“Can they get close to thousand-year-old necromancers like Ainsley? Close enough to loop a wire around the neck and draw it tight?”
A spark of interest.
“I know them all. Their strengths and weaknesses. My memory is long, Bekker. Don’t waste it.” Balthazar’s scornful gaze swept across the latest recruits. “There’s only a few of us left. These boys haven’t a clue.” He glanced at Constantin and shook his head ruefully. “My God, if you trust him, who betrayed his oldest and dearest friend, how much worse am I? At least you know exactly what you’re buying.”
Constantin looked murderous, Bekker thoughtful. Then he started to quietly laugh.
“You’re a snake, Balthazar, but so are we all. As long as you concede I’m the king cobra.” He made a small gesture and the big one moved forward to unlock the chains. Balthazar felt lightheaded with relief.
Then Bekker frowned. “Oh, yes. There’s one more thing.”
The necromancer paused just behind him. Balthazar had an uneasy feeling. “What’s that?”
“A daēva got inside my club somehow. Alec Lawrence. Formerly known as Achaemenes, among dozens of other names.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re following me, Balthazar.” Bekker gave a chilling smile. “I have to wonder if someone didn’t help him. And if so, who it was.”
Balthazar met Bekker’s stare. “Well, don’t look at me. I arrived with my secretary Lucas Marchand. He wore an eagle mask.”
“Mr. Marchand.” Bekker gave a thoughtful nod. “Let’s include him in the conversation, shall we?”
Two men emerged from the shadows, Lucas between them, hands bound behind his back. His face was bloodied. Balthazar felt a surge of anger.
“Really, Bekker, this is unacceptable—”
“Shut up.” His gaze fixed on Lucas. “Which one of my men searched you when you came into the club?”
Lucas gave no sign that the creature standing before him had ordered the slaughter of his entire family. He seemed only afraid, which was perhaps not entirely an act.
“He wore the mask of a red dragon, Mr. Bekker. I can’t say if he’s here or not.”
In fact, Balthazar had seen the man die by Gabriel’s hand at the Picatrix — hopefully before he told anyone he’d noticed a gold cuff around the wrist of Balthazar’s companion. But no, he couldn’t have or Bekker wouldn’t be bothering with this charade.
“And which one searched your master?” Bekker demanded.
Lucas studied the necromancers in the room. “That one wore a mask of scales and feathers, but he was much bigger than the others.” His eyes lingered on the necromancer who stood just behind Balthazar. “I would guess it’s him.” Lucas swallowed. “My master made a jest, but he didn’t find it funny.”
Bekker scowled. “Tell me everything you recall about that night. Everything.”
So Lucas dutifully described the club and recited all the parts of Bekker’s speech that Balthazar had managed to remember, what Gabriel had said when he was c
alled up to the dais, and what happened afterward. They’d rehearsed the story a dozen times on the train ride from Antwerp.
“I lost my master in the confusion, but when I finally found him, we escaped by gateway,” Lucas finished.
Bekker was silent for so long, Balthazar felt sure he was about to kill them both. He knew. Or suspected. Which would be good enough for Jorin Bekker to order their deaths and be done with it.
Plink, plink, plink.
The steady dripping was the only sound. It had been a monotonous backdrop to the proceedings for the last half hour and Balthazar had almost stopped hearing it. Now it dug into his skull like a dull needle. He was afraid to meet Lucas’s eye.
I saved you from Bekker once, only to deliver you to a far worse death. I’m a poor excuse for a guardian. Suppose I always have been. Bringing women home at all hours, drinking too much. Instead of fairy tales, I told you stories about the Duzakh. Made my cause your own. I could have lied and said I didn’t know who did it. I could have taught forgiveness. But I didn’t.
To Balthazar’s surprise, it wasn’t his own fate that made him feel the worst. It was knowing that Lucas would die hating him for being such a reckless fool.
“Could Marchand be the same man Borgman searched?” Bekker directed the question at the giant.
Balthazar would have given much to see if the hulking necromancer standing behind him was nodding or emphatically shaking his head. But then the deep voice rumbled assent.
“It could be.”
Bekker seemed to reach a decision. He turned back to Balthazar. “If I hadn’t lost so many men at the Picatrix, I’d kill you regardless. Just in case. But I can’t afford to waste resources at the moment and I think you might be of value. However, you will not bring the chains into my presence, or anything else that could be construed as a weapon.”
“Understood,” Balthazar said quickly.
“And if I decide I’ve made a mistake, I’ll have you staked out and the skin peeled from your body in inch-wide strips over the course of a week. That will be just the beginning. I have men who deal in pain like the Old Masters understand the play of light and shadow on a canvas. One in particular honed his skills in the Congo. You wouldn’t wish to meet him.”
There was no malice in the words, which made them all the worse.
“Point taken,” Balthazar said. “No need to go on.”
“Good.” Bekker gestured to the unseen giant. “Let him go, Lars.”
Balthazar rolled his aching shoulders as the chains were unlocked. He rose to his feet and gingerly touched the back of his skull, wincing at the clot of sticky blood.
“My man, Lucas,” he prompted. “Untie his hands, please.”
No one moved.
“You misunderstand,” Bekker said. “I only have one opening at the moment.”
Balthazar adjusted his tie, the movement slow and deliberate. He kept his eyes on Bekker, but in his peripheral vision, he quickly assessed the minions, deciding who would die first, second, third, and so on. Once he had a set of necromantic chains in his hands, the odds would improve considerably.
“Then I’m afraid we have a problem,” he said softly.
Something in Balthazar’s face seemed to give Bekker pause. Or perhaps he only realized he should have broken the news before unlocking Balthazar’s chains.
“Does he mean so much to you?” Bekker asked in an amused tone.
“Mr. Marchand is the best man I’ve ever trained. He’s irreplaceable.”
The first honest words Balthazar had uttered. Lucas remained still, his face pale. Even with his hands bound behind his back, Balthazar knew he’d give them hell if it came to that.
Again, the moment seemed to stretch out, balanced on a knife edge.
Then Bekker made an abrupt gesture. One of the guards produced a knife and Balthazar tensed, but he used it to slit the bonds, prodding Lucas toward the card table.
“Come to my office,” Bekker said to Balthazar. “We’ll talk in private.”
The others made way as Balthazar followed Bekker to a back room. Bekker sat down behind a desk piled with shipping and customs invoices, gesturing for Balthazar to take a chair positioned on the opposite side.
“Nazari will have heard about Ainsley’s death,” he said, as if they were carrying on a conversation already in progress. “What do you think he’ll make of it?”
Balthazar shrugged. “At first he’ll wonder who did it, of course. If perhaps you discovered the plot. And he’ll wait to see if you come after him. When you don’t, he’ll decide it was someone settling another grudge. I can think of a dozen promising candidates off the top of my head. Then Nazari will wonder if he should go ahead anyway. My guess is he’ll talk himself into it. In fact, he’ll probably decide it’s for the best since he would have killed Ainsley himself once you’d been deposed.”
Bekker gave a thoughtful nod. “I agree. Did Ainsley mention anyone besides Nazari?”
Balthazar met Bekker’s unblinking stare. The face was soft and callow, but the eyes belonged on a primordial reptile, lately crawled from the ooze and looking for supper. Up close, the combination was even more unsettling.
“A few.” Balthazar recited some names, all necromancers he hated.
Bekker absorbed the knowledge dispassionately. “I’m a respected man now. Leopold granted me exclusive mining rights in certain parts of his domain, along with other concessions. In return, I keep order among the savages.” He gave a thin smile. “Harsh methods are required, but the king understands and fully embraces the necessity.”
Balthazar nodded, his former apathy replaced by a strong desire to see this monster dead. “Of course,” he murmured.
“Once you’ve performed adequately, we can discuss terms.” Bekker studied him for a long moment. “You see the sort of men I’ve raised to the chains. They’re an uncouth lot. There’s a place for such men, but it’s not dining at the Palais Royal or attending political functions. You, on the other hand, are more presentable. With a little effort, you could rise high, Balthazar.” He leaned forward an inch. “But don’t get ahead of yourself. If you do anything to reflect poorly on me, our association will be at an end.”
“I understand. And I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
Bekker gave a curt nod. “First I have a task for you. Nazari is here.”
Balthazar covered his surprise. “In Belgium?”
“Here in Brussels,” Bekker snapped irritably. “He arrived two days ago. Bring me his head and we’ll talk more about the Congo.”
Balthazar smiled. “Just tell me where to find him.”
“He’s leased the Maison des Chats.” Bekker wrote down an address, folded the paper in half, and gave it to Balthazar.
“The House of Cats?”
Bekker shrugged. “It’s one of the new townhouses on the Boulevard du Nord.” His face took on a faint look of disgust. “Thank God they razed those old hovels. It used to be a cesspool.”
“Ah.” Balthazar vaguely recalled the massive engineering project to cover the Senne River, which had become a stagnant, open-air sewer that regularly flooded the surrounding areas of the city. Several grand new avenues were built atop the vaulted tunnels, and the Boulevard du Nord was one of these.
“Is Nazari alone?”
Bekker nodded and rose to his feet. “Do you want a landau back to your hotel?”
“Where are we?”
“The Quartier des Quais.”
“I can smell the canal.” Balthazar had no desire to get into one of Bekker’s carriages again. “Mr. Marchand and I will walk.”
“Suit yourself.”
They returned to the main warehouse and Balthazar collected Lucas. Bekker watched them leave without expression.
“That could have gone worse,” Balthazar remarked as they navigated the tangled streets adjacent to the canal, whose edges were crowded with boats of every size and description.
“Much worse,” Lucas conceded. He didn’t sound hap
py, but then he never did.
“How’s your face?” Balthazar took a handkerchief from his pocket and stopped to dampen it in a small fountain.
“Still have all my teeth. That’s something.”
“Let me see. Nasty cut there, but it’s stopped bleeding.” He dabbed at Lucas’s brow. “Did you fight them?”
“Naturally. I thought they were trying to rob me.” He shot Balthazar an accusing look. “You did this, didn’t you? Without telling me?”
“Events proceeded rather more swiftly than I anticipated.”
Lucas said nothing. He handed the bloody handkerchief back and pretended to study the shop windows.
“Don’t go all quiet on me. I hate it when you do that.” Balthazar gave him a friendly nudge. “Come on, I’m starved. Let’s find someplace to eat.”
They chose a corner table at a café on the Rue Royale and ordered plates of vol-au-vent, a puff pastry stuffed with chicken and mushrooms. Balthazar ate with gusto. The prospect of killing Nazari was not unwelcome. Since the Duzakh collapsed into civil war, the pickings had been slim. Necromancers scattered and went into hiding. Balthazar tracked a few to their lairs, but most of his efforts had borne little fruit. The ancient ones, Kir Nazari included, were too smart to stick their heads out. Now Bekker was drawing them flies to merde, despite the recent disaster at the Picatrix Club.
“You look cheerful, my lord,” Lucas said with a frown.
“Some things are worse than death,” Balthazar replied. “Idleness being one of them. You’ll understand someday.”
“I’m never idle,” Lucas said.
“No, but I am.”
“You go to parties.”
“That’s the precise definition of idleness.”
Lucas glanced around and lowered his voice, though all the nearby tables were empty. “So what did Bekker say to you?”
“He wants me to bring him Kir Nazari’s head.”
Lucas sighed. “Is Nazari here or do we have to hunt him down?”
“Oh, he’s here. Staying right in town. Not a hotel, which makes things easier.”
“Easier? I thought he hates you.”
Balthazar drained his wineglass. “He hates everybody.”
