Blackthorne

by Stina Leicht

  “They were folded down at the top like yours,” she said.

  “You’ve just described hunting boots.”

  “Not black with tan tops. He’d covered the tan parts with boot black, but it’s easy enough to spot. The blacks didn’t match. And even if that weren’t the case, I could see where he’d removed the emblems on the sides. It left holes that scarred the leather.” She pointed to the outside and top of his right boot, where the two and a half inch–diameter silver Warden’s roundel was set. “He was disreputable-looking for a Warden. Poor. Wardens aren’t low-class, I know, but those boots were Warden boots.”

  The rogue is a nonhuman passing for a Warden? Caius swallowed. Impossible. No nonhuman could penetrate the ranks of the Brotherhood. None of it made any sense. Even if it were possible, why would a nonhuman do such a thing? How?

  Magic, that’s how.

  Nonsense. In six months of working around nonhumans, have you witnessed such powerful magic? The rogue had to be a human pretending to be an elph. There was a motive behind the action, a message. But what? The risks were too high. Rogues were clever. They rarely did anything without reason. Whoever it was had taken the boots from a dead Warden. Oh, Mithras. What if it’s a nonhuman rogue that hunts Wardens? He felt suddenly cold at the thought.

  “Is that all?” she asked, her bored, spoiled mask slipping back into place. “I’ve things I’d much rather do.”

  THREE

  “Do you know a man by the name of Andrew Blackthorne?” Caius asked.

  The alehouse floor was sticky beneath the soles of his boots. He hated to think of what he was standing in. It had been raining. He hoped it was only mud from the road outside.

  Touching his bulbous nose, the landlord sniffed and blinked. His scarred face was spotted with boils, and his voice was hoarse. His breath stank of sour ale and garlic. “Why do you ask?”

  “I wish to speak with him regarding an ongoing investigation,” Caius said.

  The air was thick with the merry roar of drunks, an out-of-tune fiddle, and the usual low-class alehouse stink. He’d ordered a drink, hoping this would help facilitate cooperation from the landlord, but now regretted the purchase. He set the mostly full glass down on the bar and swallowed the awful, watered beer, vowing to abandon it. The public room was cramped, made even more so by the rows of shabby, private snugs. The place overflowed with the pox-scarred, ragged, lame, and unwashed. Still, here and there, one could catch a flash of a bright silk waistcoat and white wig, or a cultured Regent Street accent. Headley Street was one of the areas frequented by rich young ruffians. Dueling was common and legal in Acrasia, provided one had a license. For those who didn’t, or those who wished to gamble on them, the Golden Swan was rumored to host unlicensed duels.

  “What kind of investigation is this?” the landlord asked, suspicious.

  “One having nothing to do with you or your establishment, I’m sure, good sir,” Caius said. He then paused, considering how much to reveal. “It is a matter related to the Brotherhood.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and showed the man his badge. “May I have your name?”

  “I’m human. Got the papers to prove it,” the landlord said. “And I support the Brotherhood and the Census. Everyone knows it.”

  “As I said, neither you nor your business are a part of my investigation,” Caius said. “I only need your name to confirm who I’m speaking with.”

  “Name is Reggie Meade. I’m the landlord. You need to see my license?”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “The Golden Swan is clean. I don’t rent rooms to elphs,” Meade said. “They can drink or fight, but only if they got the money, and they speak the Emperor’s Acrasian. I’m no elph sympathizer.”

  “Noted,” Caius said. “Now tell me what you know of Mr. Andrew Blackthorne.”

  “He’s a duelist. One of my regulars. Fast,” Reggie Meade said. “Not the best, mind you, but he’s smart. He isn’t in it for more than what he needs to get by, not like some of them others. Fools think fighting here will give them an advantage in the arena. Guess that’s right enough, if you got training. Most don’t, though. Most are the sort that can’t afford dueling lessons, you know?”

  Caius knew. Only the desperate resorted to the arena to gain citizenship.

  “Is it my fault they die before they even get to the arena?” Meade asked. “I don’t force them into it. They pay me for the privilege. Their choice to die. Not mine.”

  Caius felt uncomfortable about Meade’s declarations but couldn’t have said why. “So, Mr. Blackthorne is a citizen?”

  “Don’t know. Never asked,” Meade said. “Easy to see by his fighting he comes from money, though. Must have fell on hard times. Happens often enough.”

  Getting out his graphite holder, Caius made notes. “What else do you know about him?”

  “He’s tricky and quick. Doesn’t cheat, and he isn’t a brute. Isn’t in it for the kill. Doesn’t prefer those sorts of fights. He doesn’t do those unless he has to.”

  “Is he here?” Caius asked, scanning the room.

  “I wish he was. Got a couple of matches I wouldn’t mind having him in. Helps the odds.”

  “Any ideas of where I might find him?”

  “Not really,” Meade said. “He comes and goes. No timetable to it. Works as a Retainer, would be my guess.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Wears a lot of black. Moves like one of them.”

  Good Retainers were highly valued by the wealthy. Caius didn’t understand why someone with the skills wouldn’t have a permanent patron. He wrote: Has training. Lacks guild membership? Talk to Retainer’s Guild. on the blank page.

  Meade continued. “Oh. And he keeps one of those little books with him. The one all the Retainers have. Thumbs through it a lot. I’ve seen him.”

  Caius felt the skin on his arms bunch up and his guts grow cold. It’s a coincidence. Severus isn’t the only person to own one of those. He asked the question anyway. “Does he have a scar in his eyebrow? Shaped like this?” He drew an L on the page and showed it to Meade.

  Meade’s lumpy face bunched up in concentration. “Could be he did.”

  He’ll say anything to make me happy at this point. “How long ago would you say that Mr. Blackthorne left?” Caius asked.

  “I don’t rightly know,” Reggie Meade said. “I just know I haven’t seen him in a while. A long while.”

  “A month? Two?” Caius asked.

  “Two. Maybe three,” Reggie Meade said in his gruff voice. “He’ll be back, but not until spring.”

  “What makes you say that?” Caius asked.

  “He always comes back. There’s a grand lady left something for him,” Reggie Meade said. “Paid me to look after it.”

  “A lady? Did she leave a name?”

  “In this place? I think not.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Women like to watch the fights sometimes. Some of them like what they see and want to get an even closer look, if you know what I mean. Mr. Blackthorne impressed a few of them. He didn’t go for that. She was different, though. He let her get a good look regular-like.” He made a show of gazing upward at the ceiling. “Can’t blame him. Pretty little thing. Good form. Dressed fancy but not too fancy. Don’t know the color of her hair. She was wearing a real nice wig. Had dark eyes. Talked Regent’s, like. Wore a mask. Most do around here.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She had one of those little things on her face,” Meade said. “A spot.”

  A patch, Caius thought.

  “Was shaped like a heart,” Meade said. “Had it high up on her left cheek, close to the corner of her eye.”

  Caius paused. He wasn’t all that well versed in court styles. They changed with each season. However, his mother had taught him certain things to watch for in a woman’s dress—things she felt would protect her son. Patches on the face were often used to hide blemishes—except when they weren�
��t. The location and shape of the patch was often used to indicate a lady’s politics or qualities she wished to display. He wasn’t familiar with all the meanings. He didn’t attend lofty social gatherings. Thus, he had no need to know. However, that particular combination was one that he did understand. He wrote out the word and underlined it before continuing with his questions: whore. And a high-priced one at that. It might explain Mr. Blackthorne’s employment habits. Retainers did not regularly employ whores. They weren’t known to form relationship bonds. At least not the ones who held guild membership.

  “Interesting. And what did she leave for Mr. Blackthorne?” Caius asked.

  “A chest.” Meade finished pouring a pint of beer and passed it to one of the patrons in exchange for a few coins. Another patron requested and paid for a fresh pipe stem and tobacco.

  When Meade was finished Caius asked, “And what’s in the chest?”

  “Don’t know,” Meade said. “Was told not to open it. Figured it was no business of mine. Since the lady paid me to make certain it stayed locked, figured it even more so. I’m an honest man.”

  Having tasted Meade’s beer, Caius had his doubts regarding that statement but kept his opinions to himself. “May I see it?”

  Meade’s face acquired a thoughtful look. One of the barmaids, a tall woman with short curly hair and dark skin, signaled a need to place an order. “A moment, sir.” He went to the end of the bar.

  Preparing himself to make another investment, Caius reached again into his pocket.

  “You don’t have to pay the man,” a woman’s voice said in a familiar, bitter tone. “He’ll do it for nothing. Just to be helpful to the Brotherhood. Don’t they teach you cadets anything?”

  “I’m not a cadet.” Turning, Caius saw it was Captain Drake. He moved his overcoat out of the way and tugged at his uniform collar. “I’m a full Inspector Warden now.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked

  “What does it look like?” Drake asked. “I’m drinking.”

  “Why would you drink here?” Caius asked. “The beer is terrible.”

  “I know better than to order the beer.” She swallowed the last of a short glass of what smelled like whiskey. “Don’t let on you know it’s bad. He’ll only spit in whatever you order later. Pour it out on the floor or give it to someone else while he’s not looking.”

  “Oh.” That explains the state of the floor, Caius thought.

  “If you’re here for the fights, nothing starts until after dark,” she said. “Makes it less likely the Watch will raid the place.”

  “Aren’t you a Watch captain?” Caius asked.

  “Not here, I’m not,” Drake said, turning her back to the bar and propping her elbows on it. “Not for what I’m paid.” She showed him her teeth.

  Meade returned. “I see you finished your beer. Would you like another?”

  “No, thank you,” Caius said. “I’m on duty.”

  “Oh, I see,” Meade said. “I suppose there’s no harm in showing the chest to you. You being a Warden and all. It’s me being a good citizen, like. I am one, you know.” He signaled he was leaving to the dark bar maid. “Come with me.”

  Drake winked. She mouthed the words: I told you so.

  In stark contrast to the public room, the alehouse office was tidy. It certainly smelled better.

  “It’s over here,” Meade said and opened a large cupboard.

  Inside, Caius saw a small, dark brown wardrobe trunk bound with sturdy black leather bands. Although not new, it didn’t appear to be that old, either.

  “She brought this in by herself?” Caius asked. “It looks heavy.”

  “She had a servant do it for her,” Meade said. “I should return to my customers. If you wish, you may stay and … examine the chest. Just let me know when you leave so that I might secure the door.” He placed a key on top of the trunk.

  “Thank you,” Caius said.

  Meade left. As soon as the door closed, Caius knelt down on the floor and used the key. Inside, he discovered men’s clothes of various styles, most were of the make those of the middling sort tended to wear. All in muted colors. Nothing too flashy. What was unusual was what he found in the bottom, buried beneath the clothes: jars and tins of different-colored pastes. He opened the first, dipped a finger into the greasy, black substance inside, and sniffed it. The scent brought up memories from childhood school holidays.

  He’d hated doing so, but his mother had insisted he attend Church-sponsored theatrics. Caius muttered his surprise out loud. “Actor’s pigments? Why would a duelist have need of actor’s pigments?”

  NELS

  ONE

  THE HOLD

  GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN

  NEW ELEDORE

  THIRTY-FIRST OF VERIKUU, 1783

  With no free hand to open the door to the infirmary, Nels kicked it open. He was met with the scent of distilled herbs, soap, and medicines. Westola was right behind them, her surgeon’s bag in hand. Nels staggered into the room and got the semiconscious Blackthorne onto the examination table with Private Filppula’s help. It was then that Nels noticed that Ilta had anticipated their arrival. Everything had been readied. The kettle she used to boil water was hanging over the hearth flames. The unwelcome thought that Suvi had once been bitten by a malorum and had survived without the aid of the Silmaillia cropped up in Nels’s mind.

  Blackthorne saved us. I should be grateful. What in the abyss is wrong with me? Ashamed, Nels didn’t like the person he was becoming, but he didn’t know what to do with the unwanted emotions. They were too intense to ignore. That had been the reason he’d hesitated to stop Nurvi. War meant that no one came away clean. Ever. Atrocities had been committed on both sides of the fight. War changed people. It left scars. He knew this. He also knew that seeing past the damage done was the only way forward. Eledore could not continue to exist without the Acrasian refugees. Nurvi will have to be reprimanded. Publicly. And soon.

  Ilta crossed the room with a bowl filled with steaming bandages. Her lips were tight, and she didn’t meet his gaze.

  Bemused, Nels watched her cut the leg of Blackthorne’s bloodstained trousers up to the hip with a pair of scissors. Blackthorne was unable to protest, nor was he able to hear a word she said, for which Nels was profoundly grateful.

  “Nurvi behaved like a bully,” she whispered.

  Her anger was so quiet that none of the others could hear.

  He said, “I know. I’ll handle it.”

  “Good.”

  Nels’s thoughts raced back to those who’d died. I’m in charge. The troops look to me for a standard of behavior. An undisciplined mob would be a disaster. Like it or not, Slate made the right choice to bring Blackthorne here. We need him. But can we trust him?

  Do we have a choice?

  “Give me that cloth,” she said. Her tone had softened. She’d switched her focus to her patient.

  “This one?” Nels asked, lifting the bandage with the tongs resting on top.

  “Yes. And then wash your hands and those tongs. Take off that filthy coat. I need an assistant,” Ilta said.

  “Isn’t that what Westola is here for?” Nels asked.

  That earned him another glare. “She’s finishing the antidote. Bring that basin on the table there. And that tray,” Ilta said, pointing. “Hurry up.”

  He did as he was told. It wasn’t the typical role of a soldier, but it wasn’t the first time he’d assisted her, nor was it the first time he’d handled a bandage. Since he didn’t have the standard powers of a leader, he collected every useful skill he could. However, that didn’t mean he was comfortable. He hadn’t had time to perform a cleansing ritual. The thought of tainting her work when Blackthorne’s life depended upon it worried Nels.

  After washing and shedding his coat, he returned. His left arm was now bare to the cool room. Feeling ridiculous in a one-armed shirt, he rolled up his right slee
ve. Ilta used a damp cloth to clean Blackthorne’s wounds in deft, expert motions. Unconscious, Blackthorne muttered something.

  “What did he say?” Nels asked. He could’ve sworn it was something about eyes and blood.

  “I didn’t catch it,” Ilta said. “He’s delirious. It’s not important.” She seemed to finally notice Nels’s missing sleeve. Her gaze traveled to the once-white linen scrap that had been knotted around Blackthorne’s thigh. She blinked.

  It wasn’t until this moment that Nels understood he might’ve done otherwise.

  Ilta laid her hands on Blackthorne’s bare thigh and closed her eyes.

  Immediately, Blackthorne sat up with a violent jerk. “No!” He would’ve fallen from the examination table if Nels hadn’t caught him.

  “Hold him!”

  Blackthorne fought for freedom with all his strength. It was all Nels could do to keep him on the table. If Viktor hadn’t grabbed the man’s legs, they’d have landed on the floor in a heap. As it was, it took him, Viktor, and Westola to keep the ex-Warden stretched out on the table—and still he fought.

  “Relax. You’ve been hurt. You’re safe. I’m only checking your condition.” Ilta spoke to Blackthorne in soothing tones. “You’re going to be all right. But you must let me examine you.”

  “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” Blackthorne’s unbruised eye was wide and unseeing. He didn’t seem to understand. His face was at once gray and feverish. “Let me go!”

  “It must be the poison,” Westola said. “He’s out of his head.”

  “Keep him still,” Ilta said. “I can’t do anything with him like this.”

  Westola grunted as she caught a knee to the face. “We’re doing what we can.”

  Nels lay across Blackthorne’s chest, anchoring him with his weight. Westola moved to Blackthorne’s free arm and applied what force she could on the man’s shoulders. Viktor had Blackthorne’s legs. Still, he struggled to buck them off. Nels was stunned the man had that much strength left.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” Ilta said. “I won’t amputate. There’s no need. Can you hear me? Please don’t worry. You won’t lose your leg. Relax. Everything will be all right.” She replaced her hands on his bare skin and made another attempt to read his condition.