Blackthorne

by Stina Leicht

  “With the cattle,” Viktor said. “I thought it’d be best, since he can control them.”

  “Good,” Nels said. Gazing at the night sky through the trees, he noted that the moon had already set. That’s good. “Viktor, you, Jarvi, myself, and Corporal Mustonen’s squad are with the treasury. Moller stays with the livestock. They’ll be on their own. I’m not risking what we got out of Merta for a few head of cattle. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Viktor said.

  “We’ll go with the usual. Give the order,” Nels said. “We’ll meet at Painted Rock tomorrow. Everyone knows what to do.”

  “Time to vanish without a trace,” Viktor said. “Got it.”

  After more than a year’s practice, Nels trusted his troops to handle the situation with efficient and, above all, silent grace. The camp was broken down, and the half-company that he’d taken with him from Merta divided into squads which, in turn, left the instant they were ready. All were on their way in less than a half-hour. In addition, he knew Master Sergeant Jarvi would see to it that there wouldn’t be so much as a smoking fire pit remaining by the time the Acrasians arrived. It was all standard procedure, also one of the reasons why the Acrasians called him the Ghost.

  In Eledore, ghosts were without power—ineffective, hopeless, and lost. In Acrasia, the word held more sinister meaning. Ghosts were ineffable creatures of unknown, uncontrollable power that came and went without a trace beyond that of the damage they left behind. In Acrasia, ghosts were the things that haunted the dark and fed on the living. Acrasians were superstitious, and Nels was more than willing to use that to his advantage.

  Leading Loimuta by the headstall, Nels made his way as quietly and quickly as he could through the surrounding forest. Rainwater dripped from a corner of his hat. He’d checked twice but couldn’t shake the feeling he’d left something behind. Shrugging it off, he continued. The sweat in his palms made the leather slick in his grip. It’s only the usual fear. No more. All is well. It didn’t matter how many times he encountered Acrasians; the terror of failure slammed him. He’d thought that the intensity of this feeling would fade eventually. However, he only got more practiced at pretending he wasn’t afraid.

  A line of thirteen men and women followed him, each holding the reins of a horse laden with valuables. Viktor stayed at the rear and used his powers to assure that they left no trace in the soft earth. A little more than three quarters of an hour had passed when an explosion brought Nels up short. Turning back, he caught a flash of Viktor’s pale smile in the predawn murk.

  “The Acrasians should learn to step more carefully when entering our camps,” Viktor said.

  Jarvi grunted. “As long as they don’t, I am happy to provide the lesson.”

  Nels looked to the things tied to Loimuta’s saddle and suddenly realized what was missing. “That was my dog tent, wasn’t it?”

  “What are you worried about?” Viktor asked. “You can buy another.”

  “And what am I to do for shelter until then?” Nels asked.

  “Don’t look at me. I’m not sharing mine,” Viktor said. “You talk in your sleep.”

  “Do I?” Nels asked.

  “And kick,” Viktor said.

  “And whose idea was it to use my dog tent for the trap?” Nels asked.

  Jarvi, Mustonen, and several of the others all pointed at Viktor.

  “Traitors,” Viktor said.

  “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘intelligent,’ ” Mustonen said.

  Private Horn said, “I prefer ‘honest,’ sir.”

  Viktor cut the next comment short with a signal for silence. Nels listened and thought he might have heard something to his right. He called a stop, holding up a hand then signaled to Viktor to investigate in that direction. In response, Viktor paused and tilted his head. He then vanished into the underbrush to the left. They all waited. Nels held his breath. A few moments passed before he heard a muffled noise. He drew his pistol and made it ready.

  “Viktor?” Nels whispered.

  No answer came from the woods.

  Nels tried again. “Viktor?”

  Two figures crashed through the foliage. Viktor parried two rapid blows from a smallsword and backed away from his shorter, more nimble opponent. In response, they leapt forward and executed a lunge. Viktor let out a yelp as the blade sliced through the fabric of his coat sleeve. His attacker didn’t pause. They lashed out with a kick, knocking Viktor down. Viktor grabbed his opponent’s boot, and they both tumbled across Nels’s path. The other troops approached, gathering in a circle around the pair with drawn pistols and muskets. Loimuta tugged at his reins. Nels calmed the horse and then returned his attention to the fight. He didn’t recognize the attacker, but whoever they were, they weren’t wearing an Acrasian or Eledorean uniform.

  Civilian. Kainen too. “Viktor?” Nels asked.

  “Busy now. Can’t talk,” Viktor muttered, rolling away from another blow that just missed his midsection. “Why not do something useful?”

  The fighters were moving too fast for guns. Nels was afraid of shooting Viktor. Never mind the noise. The pair rolled in the dirt again. Viktor ended up on the bottom. The stranger attempted another strike, two-handed. Nels took a chance. He kicked Viktor’s attacker in the side.

  “Ooof!” The stranger fell toward the blow rather than away.

  Jumping backward, Nels only just avoided a slash to his shin. Loimuta let out a squealing protest and stamped the earth near the attacker’s head. Momentarily distracted, they paused. Nels stepped on the stranger’s torso and used only enough pressure to hold them in place. He tensed up, anticipating a cut to his leg.

  Nels aimed his pistol. The others did the same.

  “Stop! Stop!” Viktor scrambled to his feet. “She’s a korva. Don’t shoot!”

  A korva? “Yield. Now.” Nels kept his finger on the trigger.

  Lying in the dirt on her back, the stranger dropped her blade. Now that she wasn’t fighting, Nels thought she was underfed, by the look of her. Her long black hair with its thick streak of white was bound in a disheveled braid. He guessed she was in her forties. Even covered in mud, he could see she’d been beautiful once and still would’ve been described as handsome. Something about her reminded him of Jami, his sister, Suvi’s korva. What is her family name? He couldn’t remember. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever known.

  “Your name?” Nels asked.

  “Natalia Annikki,” she said.

  “Your choice,” Nels said. “Come with us or die.”

  She glanced at Viktor and glowered. “You brought the Acrasians down on my campsite.”

  “For that, I apologize. In any case, there isn’t time to argue,” Nels said. “Your answer?”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “We’ll have to take your weapons. No insult intended,” Nels said. “It’s merely a precaution. Viktor?”

  Viktor took care of securing Annikki’s weapons. The process took some time, given that she’d secreted a large number of blades on her person.

  “I’d have had you, you know,” Annikki said to Viktor.

  “Does it actually matter at this point?” Viktor asked.

  “It does to me,” Annikki said. “And that’s all that counts.”

  Viktor pocketed the last of her knives. “Are you sure? Wrists, please.”

  She thrust her hands out, palms facing one another, and glowered.

  CAIUS

  ONE

  NOVUS SALERNUM

  THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA

  16 OCTOBER

  THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS

  Two second-year cadets shivered against a backdrop of waterlogged night on Caius’s stoop. Cold air drifted across the threshold, and Caius could already smell the sewer—one of the disadvantages of living where he did.

  The shorter cadet glanced at Caius’s unbuttoned shirt and bare feet before fixing his gaze to the ceiling. “Senior Warden Valariu
s Tolerans urgently requests that you meet him on Ironmonger Lane,” the cadet said. He lowered his voice. “It’s a dumped kill, sir.” In perfect Academy form, he then clicked his heels and tipped his tricorne. Rainwater poured from the front corner and splashed onto the dry floor just inside the doorframe of Caius’s apartments.

  The cadet’s companion gasped.

  Caius scanned the room for something with which to mop up the puddle and settled for the rag rug in front of the fireplace. “Very well. Give me a moment. Come in. And close the door behind you.”

  “Yes, sir.” The first cadet’s teeth audibly chattered as a fresh gust of wind blasted one and all.

  It was strange, being the target of deference from a cadet. Get used to it. Still, Caius felt uncomfortable. “There’s tea heating on the hearth. Help yourself.” He finished mopping the floor and draped the now-damp rug over the hearth screen. Then he went to his bedchamber.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the second cadet said with relief.

  Caius dodged the cramped furniture with practiced steps in the dimness, shedding his soiled shirt along the way. He’d completed his final pre-graduation cadet field tour a few hours before. His Letter of Assignment had been waiting for him. He was being transferred to Inspections. Not field duty. He assumed that was his mother’s doing. Again. He’d been home for all of a half-hour. Officially, he wouldn’t assume duties as an Inspector until next week, and if it had been anyone but Valarius, he would’ve told them he was off duty. He hadn’t even had time to swap out his cadet collar tabs.

  He changed into a dry uniform and then grabbed a last swallow of lukewarm tea before digging his discarded greatcoat from under a partially gutted pack. A shower of half-dried mud chunks clattered across the polished floor. He ignored an urge to stop and clean it. Carrying his boots to the drawing room, he saw the mantel clock read a quarter to two in the morning. Blinking, he pulled out his pocket watch. Half past four. Housekeeper must have forgot to wind the clock while I was away. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Please, sir, we must hurry,” the second cadet said, leaving an empty cup on the hearth. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

  Weary, Caius tugged his boots on and shrugged into his greatcoat. The instant he’d locked the door behind him, sleet slapped the top of his bare head. He considered going back for his tricorne but decided against it. If he didn’t hurry, not only would it be too late for the cleanup to finish before dawn, the weather would probably destroy whatever it was Valarius wanted him to see. Tugging up the collar of his greatcoat, Caius rushed down the slick stairs.

  The walk from his apartments to Ironmonger Lane normally took a little more than a quarter of an hour. He made it in half the time with the winded cadets in his wake. Valarius’s partner, Lucian, signaled from his post at the corner. Two hooded lanterns rested at his feet. The Watch wagon was parked nearby, and Sergeant Benbow scowled from his perch on the wagon seat. Watch Captain Drake nodded as Caius passed. She was leaning against the side of the wagon, and her eyes and upturned nose were red above the dark wool scarf covering her full mouth. He thought she must have a cold until he caught her sour perfume.

  Whiskey, he thought.

  Rounding the corner of the brown brick building, he spied the victim. She lay on her back. Bloody handprints, large and small, painted the bricks in runny streaks. The scene was too much like the previous one. He tried not to imagine desperate pleas for help and pitiful attempts at bargaining echoing off the windowless, unsympathetic walls. He banished unwelcome memories with a shiver and let himself think what he hadn’t upon reading his Letter of Assignment. No more fieldwork. For once, I’m glad of Mother’s meddling.

  Where’s your sense of duty? Have you become soft?

  “Thanks for coming.” Valarius’s breath fogged his words. He stood next to the remains, his thinning hair dripping. Shoulders rounded inward against the cold, he appeared old, nervous, and tired. He stepped back, allowing access to the body. “It’s against standard procedure, but … I thought I’d see if you’d returned from your tour.” He gave Caius a furtive glance. The supervising Field Warden would want an explanation of the delay, Caius knew. Valarius was risking his career such as it was. “Is it our North End friend, you think?”

  “Haven’t they caught him yet?” Caius asked.

  Valarius glanced to the end of the alley and shook his head.

  “Why not send for the Inspector on duty?”

  “You know what most Inspectors are like.” Valarius looked away. The answer was written in the sneer on his face. Corrupt. “Perhaps I trust you to follow through.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in my methods.”

  “This is the fifth,” Valarius whispered. “That’s a huge revenue loss. And no one’s doing a god damned thing about it.”

  “I’ll compare the measurements to my previous notes.” Caius reached into the pocket of his greatcoat for his sketchbook and then crouched next to the body. The eyeless face of a fifteen-year-old Eledorean stared back at him. Both forearms were slashed, and several of her fingers were missing.

  Valarius coughed and covered his nose.

  Eyeless face. “This hunter has similar habits, it seems,” Caius said, purposely not using the word “rogue”. “When did the rain start?”

  “Approximately some time around four.”

  Nodding, Caius made a note in graphite and then leaned closer. By the condition of the girl’s garments, he guessed she had been an orphan. As before, there was bruising around the neck and multiple stab wounds in the abdomen. He pushed away wet shoulder-length hair to check the rest of her face. Something was wrong with the shape of her mouth. He set down his notes, careless of the now-stained leather binding, and reached down to pry the jaw open.

  Valarius stepped closer. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Caius forced her mouth wider and pulled out a square of yellowed paper embossed with bloody teeth marks. The paper was cheaply milled and torn along the top edge. Unfolding it, he discovered words scrawled in red ink. Like the clock, keep a face clean and bright, with hands ever ready to do what is right. Each letter n was reversed.

  “Is it important?” Valarius asked.

  “Has a … rogue left a note before?”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the things rogue hunters do. A note would be the least of it.”

  “Interesting.” Caius said, flipping the paper over to look at the stained back—he recognized it at once. A portion of the alphabet was printed in black with spaces in between each letter. The print had been embossed into the paper with movable type.

  It was a page ripped from a child’s hornbook.

  TWO

  Sleet melted in Caius’s hair and oozed down the back of his neck. Hunching further into his greatcoat, he jogged across the Academy’s grounds to a palatial four-story building with white columns—the Brotherhood of Wardens’ Hall of Records. He took the marble steps two at a time, then tugged open the heavy door by its silver handle. His thoughts whirled in circles miles distant from his physical presence as he worked at the problem. Why do some hunters become rogues while others don’t? Why do rogues exist? Are they lunatics? Or is it an impulse related to cheating the Regnum of its due? Or is there another factor?

  What does that damned note mean?

  Upon entering the building, the scent of aging paper revived memories of the receiving station late at night. Cadets were often recruited for unpleasant or tedious duties. It was considered a test of character. Receiving at the Hall of Records was one of the more pleasant of such tasks. Guarding the entry involved hours upon hours of staring at flower-printed wallpaper. The resulting boredom often led to infractions. Caius, himself, had used the time to study for toxin and antidote exams while no one was watching. Currently, a female cadet sat at the big writing table while her male counterpart stood guard at the door.

  Women weren’t often admitted into the Academy. As a result, they tended to be fanatics. Caius could sympath
ize to a degree. His own father hadn’t wanted him to join the Brotherhood and had gone to much trouble to prevent it. This had resulted in a rift that had never healed. Caius’s mother, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more proud. She came from a long line of patriots, or so she claimed. Nonetheless, as he transitioned into active duty, Caius had begun to wonder if his father was right after all.

  You swore to protect the Regnum. That is what you are doing. Keep up this line of thought and you’ll end in the Reclamation Hospital next to Severus.

  Stopping at the checkin station, Caius flashed his identification then signed and imprinted the record book with his thumb. Wiping ink off his thumb with the cloth provided, he waited until the young cadet released him with a bored salute. He stepped through the door before recognizing Tolerans Cornelius. Cornelius had the same thick curly hair, the same scar on the bridge of his nose from the day Caius broke it during fencing practice.

  Cornelius gave him a nod and smiled.

  “What are you doing here? Didn’t you graduate last year?” Caius returned the smile. I wonder if he still hums while under pressure, he thought. It had been Cornelius’s most annoying habit during exams.

  “Ah, yes.” Cornelius’s tone was sheepish.

  “I see,” Caius said. “You’re still holding favor with the director?” Cornelius had been notorious for taking unnecessary risks.

  “I’m courting his niece.”

  “Ahhh,” Caius said. “Some things don’t change.”

  Cornelius shrugged.

  “And is that why you’ve been assigned such a challenging post?” Caius asked.

  “I—er—we haven’t done anything to warrant it,” Cornelius whispered. “On the other hand, we haven’t exactly had the opportunity. You see, for some reason, I seem to have drawn the evening watch until further notice.”

  “Good luck. Sounds like you could use it.”

  “Thanks,” Cornelius said. “Congratulations on the transfer, Inspector.”

  “You heard?”

  Cornelius winked. “Of course.”