by Jen Williams
‘Very cosy,’ she said, and turned back to look at Sebastian and Frith. The young lord was standing in front of one of the portraits. His face was very still.
‘That was my father,’ he said. The painting depicted a middle-aged man with nut-brown skin, dark hair swept back from his forehead, and a long, regal nose. Cool grey eyes stared out of the picture, wise and solemn. Frith nodded to the portrait next to it. ‘And that was my grandfather, and his father next to him. They must all be here.’ He swallowed, and Wydrin clearly heard the catch in his throat. ‘We had portraits like these in the castle, but they seem to have one of everyone here, too.’ There was a space on the wall next to old Lord Frith’s painting, where presumably his sons’ portraits would have hung. She could see Frith’s face in his father’s portrait, and like an echo, she could trace it back through all the paintings of his ancestors. What must it be like, she wondered, to have that much history behind you and to see it all scrubbed away?
Knowing it would do no good at all but needing to do it anyway, she rested a hand on his shoulder briefly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Frith looked away from the wall, saying nothing.
They searched the vault, and eventually Wydrin did find the gold she was after, in several ornate chests at the very back of the room. Sebastian watched her run her fingers through the coins with a wan smile on his face. Frith was sorting through piles and piles of documents and maps, most of which looked fragile and yellow under the strong lights. The room smelled of dust and old paper, the accumulated scent of forgotten things, with a sharper tang underneath which Sebastian didn’t recognise.
‘There are coins here from all across Ede,’ said Wydrin. ‘And there’re an awful lot I don’t recognise. Your family has been hoarding for a long time.’
‘The Friths are as old as the Blackwood,’ replied Frith in a distracted voice.
‘It’s good to know we won’t be beggaring you by collecting our fee,’ said Wydrin dryly. She wandered over to one of the hessian sacks and pulled it open. A strong scent of bile and rotten eggs filled the room.
‘Urgh. Whatever this was, I think it’s gone off.’
Frith glanced at the sacks, and nodded with recognition.
‘My father was a skilled alchemist. It seems he kept some of his most valuable and dangerous ingredients out here, where they cannot cause trouble.’ He gave Wydrin an appraising look. ‘Best wash your hands as soon as you’re able.’
Sebastian walked around the room, running his eyes over the crates and chests and sacks without really seeing any of it. He felt too warm, though when he placed his hand against the wall, it was cool under his fingers. It was difficult to think, to concentrate. The question was, of course, what were they going to do next? Frith had recovered at least part of his family’s legacy, although what that was worth when his lands were still under the control of murderers and bandits, Sebastian wasn’t sure. The young lord still had to take back his castle and have his revenge, whatever form that would take. He and Wydrin could leave now, he supposed. Take what they were owed, the copper promise fulfilled, and head off across Litvania to the distant coast. Take a boat from there over the Stoney Sea to Crosshaven, find another job and another willing employer, since that was what his life had become …
But that wasn’t all, was it? What of Pinehold? And what of the dragon’s daughters? He could feel them now, a hot stone deep within his chest, like a fever brewing.
He crouched next to Frith. The young lord had spread several yellowing maps on the ground in front of him and was peering at each closely.
‘What now, my lord?’ asked Sebastian eventually. Frith did not look up. ‘I know that you have the means to pay us, and you are a step closer to regaining your lands. It may be that it is time for us to part ways.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But by the code of the Ynnsmouth knights, I cannot, in all good conscience, leave this land while there are innocents being killed and tortured in the name of tyranny and demon-worship. I must return, and I hope that—’
Frith held up one of the maps.
‘Does this look like a river to you? There’s no key on this drawing, I think it is unfinished.’ Frith sat back on his haunches, frowning. ‘All the secrecy, all the conspiracies. By all accounts there should be some sort of huge revelation here, some reason that the vault has been so closely guarded. Yet all I see are maps, documents, and bags of gold. Nothing worth dying over, surely.’
‘What?’ Sebastian glanced at the map, and scowled. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘The people, yes, the torture. You know, I believe this is my father’s own hand. Where did he get this?’
‘Frith,’ Sebastian stood up abruptly. The fire in his chest was making it hard to think. ‘How can you sit there talking about the jottings of dead men, when your own people are being massacred? To keep your secrets!’
Frith finally looked up, his eyebrows raised at the volume of Sebastian’s voice.
‘These are maps,’ he said, gesturing to the parchments. ‘Not just of Litvania and her towns and villages, but of the lands beneath.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘The tunnel that Crowleo showed us is but one of many. Pinehold is riddled with them.’
Wydrin appeared at Sebastian’s elbow.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, but they appear to be ancient. There are maps of the tunnels, all over my lands. It looks as though my father was investigating them.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ said Sebastian. His head was pounding now, and he thought he could smell smoke again.
‘I have a plan,’ said Frith, regarding them with his serious grey eyes. ‘A plan that, if it succeeds, will release Pinehold and destroy Fane and his pet monsters.’
28
They were on the border of Relios now. The Thirty-Third knew this because the Ninety-Seventh had found a picture in the book she’d taken from the library, and the picture showed the lands they were crossing. After a moment or two of staring at it, she’d remembered it was called a map.
The village they were at now was apparently too small to be shown on the map, so it had no name. She sat on a low scrubby hill outside it and watched for people escaping. That was her job today; some of her sisters were inside the village, running through the streets and breaking into houses, chasing down the humans inside and killing them. She could hear the screams, and, every now and then, laughter. Her sisters were enjoying themselves.
It was a hot day and the sun had warmed her golden armour until a human wouldn’t have been able to touch it without getting burnt. She shifted on the ground, comfortable, content, but alert. The idea of a cat occurred to her, but she wasn’t entirely sure what that was.
‘Let me see it.’
The Thirty-Third looked sharply to her left to see two of her brood sisters approaching. One was the Ninety-Seventh, walking stiffly with her arms at her side, and the other was the Twelfth. The Twelfth was slightly larger than her sister, a little broader across the shoulders. She was following the Ninety-Seventh closely, her yellow eyes half shut against the sun.
‘It’s mine,’ replied the Ninety-Seventh. ‘You can’t see it.’
The Thirty-Third stood up as they approached.
‘What is it?’
The Ninety-Seventh looked up. The book she’d taken from the library was tied to her back with twine, next to the sword. It couldn’t have been comfortable – their armour and swords were as much a part of them as their green skin, grown alongside them in the birthing pits – but the Thirty-Third had seen her carrying it around everywhere, even in the midst of slaughter, and then leafing through the pages late into the night when it was too dark to see.
‘She has this book,’ said the Twelfth. ‘And she won’t let me look at it.’
‘It’s mine,’ said the Ninety-Seventh. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘She can get her own book.’
The Thirty-Third frowned. In the brood army, all were the same, and they sh
ared everything. No one had anything the other did not, because they were all the same. But were they? I am the Thirty-Third, she thought. I am not the Ninety-Seventh, or the Fortieth, or the Hundred and Eighth. I stand apart from them, with different words in my head. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly to try and block some of this out.
‘We are all the same,’ she said, although she was no longer quite sure she believed it. ‘What does it matter who holds the book?’
The Ninety-Seventh stuck her lower lip out.
‘I got this one myself. It’s mine.’
‘I only want to look at the words,’ said the Twelfth. Her broad face was creased with the same confusion the Thirty-Third felt.
‘There will be other books in the village,’ said the Thirty-Third, suddenly certain of this fact. ‘Or other things with words on, at least. We should go in there and look for them.’
The Ninety-Seventh looked back to the village. One of the small buildings was on fire already.
‘But Mother said to stay here,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘Not to go in the village.’
And why was that? It wasn’t as though Y’Ruen usually worried about survivors. They caught them all eventually.
‘It won’t hurt to look,’ she said. ‘Then we can all—’
A sudden furtive movement caught her eye; two humans running from the outskirts of the village. At first they made for the low hills, before they caught sight of the brood sisters standing on the thin grass. They turned and ran to the east.
‘Humans,’ she said, and the three brood sisters moved as one, all thought of books and words and disobeying Mother’s orders immediately forgotten. The Thirty-Third shot down the hill, drawing the long crystal blade as she did, hearing the soft, sonorous sighs as her sisters did the same. The humans were young, male and female, both fit but neither fast enough to outrun the brood sisters, and soon the Thirty-Third was on the heels of the young woman. She’d pulled her skirts up to her knees to run faster, and the Thirty-Third could hear the high-pitched keening noises humans sometimes made when they were frightened. She lashed out with a clawed hand, dragging it across the young woman’s back until she stumbled and fell. At the sound of her distress the man stopped, perhaps to help her back to her feet, but the Ninety-Seventh took his head off with one powerful blow from her sword. It shot into the air and fell to the dirt some feet away.
The woman screamed for a long time. The Thirty-Third found she tired of it sooner than usual, and when she looked into her sisters’ faces she saw the same fatigue reflected there. Instead of playing with the creature for a few hours as they usually might, she pushed her sword into the woman’s mouth, silencing her for ever.
‘Let’s search her,’ said the Twelfth eagerly. ‘She might have words on her.’
‘That is silly,’ said the Ninety-Seventh. Her voice was tight and sour. ‘She is not a book.’
The Thirty-Third licked the blood from her fingers and went through the woman’s clothes. In the long skirts there were a number of pockets, and she emptied the contents out onto the grass; three buttons carved from bone, a fabric packet full of seeds, a small knife, blunt and well-used, and a lock of blond hair, tied with a red ribbon. She held this last item out to her sisters.
‘What is that?’ asked the Twelfth.
The Thirty-Third placed it under her nose and sniffed. It smelled of milk and vomit.
‘It belonged to a human infant,’ she said. An item precious enough to keep in your skirts next to you at all times, but where was the infant now? She remembered the family she’d spoken to in Krete, and how the desperation to save their boy had been pouring out of them like sweat. She couldn’t imagine that this woman with her buttons and seeds could have left the child. Unless the child couldn’t be saved any more.
She turned the lock of hair over in her fingers. It was very soft.
‘Mother is coming now,’ said the Ninety-Seventh, pointing up into the sky. A great black shape as familiar to the Thirty-Third as her own hands drifted in front of the sun. Y’Ruen had come to destroy what was left of the village.
As the fire began to rain down, the three of them walked away, retreating back to the low hills.
29
It was laughter that told Crowleo they were coming.
He was in one of the topmost rooms, sorting through his mistress’ papers when he heard it; high and girlish, and somehow cruel. He crossed to the window and saw a group of men emerging from the treeline beyond the rocky ground. One of them was tall with dark hair, and although it was difficult to make out his features at this distance, Crowleo knew his face would be scarred and raw. The men who walked with him were slim and blond haired, and as he watched they doubled from two, to four, to six. The Children of the Fog were laughing.
Still holding armfuls of the old woman’s designs, he flew down the stairs and nearly collided with Holley, who was coming up them. In here she looked to be in her mid-thirties, the first laughter lines creasing her eyes.
‘Woah there, boy, you can still break these bones you know.’
‘They’re coming!’ gasped Crowleo, shaking the papers at her. ‘He’s looking for them! And you know they won’t go away without answers …’
To his irritation, the old woman nodded slowly.
‘I know, lad, I know. Listen to me now, close like.’ She produced a contraption of leather and glass from her apron and pressed it into Crowleo’s hands. He glanced down at it briefly to see a smudged inscription on the fabric: For The Copper Cat. Truth, for what good it’ll do you. ‘Take that, and go out the back way. Don’t stop to take anything else, just go. I want you to go down the Sheer Steps, and wait there. You understand me, boy?’
Crowleo nodded numbly. The Sheer Steps were a series of rough handholds cut directly into the cliff behind the Secret Keeper’s house. Halfway down was a ledge, hidden by stubby little trees that grew out of the craggy rock.
‘But what …?’
‘I’ll just have a chat with them, that’s all. Now go, or you’ll feel the back of my hand. And keep what you’ve got there safe.’
Crowleo went, although he only made it as far as the backyard. He could hear them coming up to the front of the house, chatting and laughing as though they were on their way to market. Despite Holley’s instructions, he found he wanted to get a closer look at them so he edged over to the wall at the side and peeked cautiously around the corner. There had to be ten Children of the Fog now, ten grinning, chuckling ghouls with blond hair and sharp smiles. Why were there so many? What was Fane expecting to find?
‘Come out, old woman!’ bellowed Fane. He was grinning, and Crowleo could see the raw parts of his flesh twisting and stretching. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Had any interesting house guests lately?’
Crowleo couldn’t see her from where he stood, but he heard Holley’s voice. She sounded unreasonably relaxed, just as though there were no murderous thieves outside her house.
‘What’s it to ya?’
‘A girl, red hair, bit scrawny for my liking but with a reasonable pair of tits, a big man from the mountains, and another one, a skinny streak of piss with white hair and a grudge. Sound familiar?’
Amazingly, Holley laughed.
‘I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Fane nodded, as if he expected nothing less.
‘Your boy was recognised, old woman. People saw him fleeing with my prisoners.’
‘My boy?’ Holley shrugged. ‘My boy has been working non-stop for the last three days, he’s had no time for dallying at Pinehold. What’s the matter? You killed everyone in the town and now you’re looking for fresh peasants to torture, is that it?’
‘Roki, bring her to me.’
Crowleo tensed, took a few steps towards them, and stopped. What could he do? He was one man, and unarmed. His heart thudded sickly in his chest and he bunched his hands into fists, crumpling his mistress’ papers. One of the blond men came forward; he disappeared from sight for a
few moments, then reappeared dragging Holley towards Fane. Beyond the enchanted light of the windows, she was ancient once more, and it was clear she could do little to resist.
‘I’ll ask you again,’ said Fane, pleasantly. He pulled a knife from his belt as he spoke. Crowleo saw it glint in the late afternoon light. ‘These people. The man calling himself Frith. Where are they now? Have you seen them? Are they hiding in this house of yours?’
‘By the gods, but you’re ugly,’ said Holley in a conversational tone of voice. ‘Is that why you keep cutting bits of your face off?’
Crowleo saw the twitch of rage that twisted Fane’s face from where he stood. He swore softly under his breath.
‘Let me show you,’ said Fane. He put on the battered half-helm, and it began to glow as Roki and Enri’s armour glowed. He held up the knife, and the approaching storm-light ran along its surface in a flash. ‘I make this offering to Bezcavar, he who hungers for suffering, and he who gives us power.’ He brought the knife down, but rather than attacking the old woman, he cut into his own arm. Blood welled up, painfully bright against his skin. Fane grinned, stretching the scars on his face. ‘Only for Bezcavar will my blood be spilt.’
Hidden behind the house, Crowleo shivered. The temperature was dropping unnaturally fast, although whether that was just the storm approaching, he couldn’t have said. He knew he was frightened, possibly more frightened than he’d ever been, even when he’d watched both his parents sicken and die in the plagues. He’d thought the Children of the Fog were terrifying, but there was something else here now, something worse. His skin was crawling.
‘Filthy demon-worshipper!’ Holley tried to pull away then, to fight. Three more of the Children of the Fog came forward to hold her still.
The anger left Fane’s face. Now he looked exalted. He reached out and grabbed Holley by her apron, yanking her off her feet and thrusting her into the air. The Secret Keeper was an old woman and no doubt a lot lighter than she’d been in her youth, but the ease with which Fane dragged her off the ground was still unnerving.
