by Darian Smith
Brannon kept his eyes on Tommy and ran toward him. The boy was frozen on the spot, blood dripping from his hair. The only chance to save him was to get to him before the Risen did, pick him up, and run. Latricia and Fressin had already shown that blades wouldn’t stop the thing. If they could keep it trapped inside the building, perhaps the fire would destroy it.
His lungs strained against the smoke and every step jolted his aching head, but he ran as fast as he could.
It wasn’t fast enough.
The Risen caught up and shoved him aside. It was like being nudged by a falling tree—solid and unstoppable. Brannon fell and slid across the floor, the carpet burning along his back.
He struggled to stand up, but fell back again, elbows hitting the floor hard. His body refused to obey him. The smoke was smothering him and the pain in his side and back was like being crushed beneath a boulder.
His eyes took in their first decent view of the Risen. Smoke obscured the face but the shape of the body was distinctly male. Tall, not built like a soldier, but not like a scholar either. It was a naggingly familiar shape. All he could do was watch as it drew closer to Tomidan Sandilar.
Its hand was about to close on the back of the boy’s neck when it jerked back its arm and screamed.
Brannon blinked. Ula was there. She raised her arm and threw one of the little spirit bags at the Risen. It struck the thing and it recoiled as if burned.
“Leave here, kaluki,” Ula called. “Spirits no want you here.”
She threw another one, then another. The Risen turned and fled back down the hall, toward the burning room.
Brannon let his head fall back. They’d done it. The thing was on the run. Tommy was safe. He let the smoke settle into his lungs like a fine cigar and felt himself drift. It was warm now. So warm. A good place to sleep.
Something cold and wet drifted over him, pushing through the drowsiness. He raised his hand to try to push it away but there was nothing there. He coughed, suddenly aware that the air was fresher than he’d been breathing, more pure.
He pulled his eyes open. The smoke was gone. The flames were gone.
Magus Draeson crouched beside him, wearing only a bed sheet draped around his waist. The dragon tattoo circled one of his nipples. Behind him, in the doorway to his room, Mayor Shillia was similarly wrapped in a bed sheet. The mayor refused to meet his eye.
Brannon sighed. “Really, Draeson?”
“The fire’s out. Everything’s safe now.” The magus’s voice was quiet. “I was late. I’m sorry.”
“Latricia’s dead. She trusted you to keep her safe.”
“I know.”
Brannon tried to lift himself up, tried to say more, but darkness was faster and he slept.
Chapter Thirty-six
“So what do we do with him?” Brother Taran pointed to the captured man who was bound to a chair in the corner of the bedroom. Ula, Draeson, and Mayor Shillia looked to each other or the floor. Fressin, a bruise beginning to swell on his face, showed no expression at being discussed.
Brannon turned away. He wished he had a good answer. Instead he squinted against the morning sunlight spilling in through the window and studied the room. His head still felt like it was threaded with hot wires. He’d fortunately not felt ill or overly sleepy, so suspected any concussion he may have sustained was probably minor. Jessamine, who insisted on providing a second opinion, was not so sure. But given the urgency of the situation, he overrode her, made himself some willow bark tea laced with cinnamon, feverfew, and ginger, then put her to work looking after the other guests.
This was one of the rooms unaffected by the fire. They had pushed the bed hard against the wall and brought in more chairs for the interrogation. A painting of a meadow hung above the writing desk. A coil of leftover rope, several knives, a razor-edged throwing star, and a garrote were piled in the corner, having been taken from Fressin before he was restrained.
It seemed strange to be carrying on with the investigation at the inn after the events of the night, but the flames had ultimately only destroyed Latricia’s room and the ones to either side. Smoke and soot stained the walls of the hallway and many of the other rooms, but not as badly as Brannon had expected. Draeson’s magic had pushed the smoke back like a blanket and stuffed it out the window in Latricia’s room, smothering the flames completely as it passed.
Brannon, who had seen buildings destroyed by fire many times during the war, found it strangely unnerving to have the blackened hole, like a rotted cavity in a tooth, in an otherwise untouched inn.
Untouched, that was, but for the blood. Morning’s light ripped the modest cloak of darkness from the red that stained the floor and walls of the hallway. The bloodstains were a harsh herald, screaming the news that Lady Latricia was dead and Tomidan Sandilar now an orphan. Her body was laid in one of the other bedrooms for now. It’d seemed wrong to leave her in the hall for people to step over.
“I could send for Morgin.” Mayor Shillia was now fully clothed but still had trouble meeting Brannon’s eye. “He can take away the, uh, the folks who didn’t make it. Get them ready for burial.”
“No,” Brannon said. “We need to examine them first. See if there are any clues about where the Risen is hiding.” He’d rather dig latrines or lance boils.
“Of course,” Shillia said. She glanced at Draeson, then looked away again, fidgeting.
Brannon sighed. “You could go and find him anyway, if you like. And let him know what’s happened. I’m sure there’s a lot he could get prepared ahead of time. Tools and coffins and so forth.”
She nodded with such speed that it made Brannon’s head hurt just to look at it, and made for the exit. “Good idea. I’ll do that.”
“Well, there’s an awkward morning after, if ever there was one,” Fressin said, as the door closed again. He let his head roll back as if to stare at the ceiling, watching his captors through the corner of his eyes. “I hope it wasn’t a performance issue.”
Draeson said nothing, but glanced toward Brannon.
“Ah,” the spy said. “Different kind of performance issue. Someone was late to the party and didn’t do his job. Oh dear.”
“Shut up,” Taran said. “Speak when you’re spoken to.”
Fressin lowered his chin and looked at Taran directly. “Uh-oh. Someone else didn’t do as he was told. It’s hard to keep hold of a child in a crisis, though, isn’t it? What, with them being all small and weak and whatnot.”
Taran’s fists clenched at his sides. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to speak again but Brannon interrupted him.
“Don’t let him get to you, Taran. It’s what he wants.”
Fressin smiled. “Ah, the Bloodhawk joins the fray.”
Brannon gave a small, mocking bow. “You’re talking a lot. Have you decided to start your interrogation without us? How novel.”
“I was getting bored,” said Fressin. “Just trying to help.”
“Really? You seem confident for a man tied to a chair. Why don’t you tell us why?”
“Perhaps I have faith in your justice system.”
“Good,” said Brannon. “Because so far, the evidence is that I saw you attack Lady Latricia Sandilar, heard you threaten to kill her, and now she’s dead. It doesn’t look good for you.”
The smug expression on Fressin’s face faltered. “I didn’t kill her. You know that.”
Brannon shrugged. “Do I?”
“Of course you do. You were there.”
“I was there fighting to protect Lady Latricia from you,” Brannon said. “Then I got hit on the head and next thing I knew, she was dead. That looks pretty guilty to me, wouldn’t you say?”
“Mmm,” said Taran. “Very guilty.”
“Rubbish,” said Fressin. “You know full well that freak Risen killed her. I’ve got nothing to do with that.”
Brannon laced his fingers together and stretched. “Maybe. Maybe not. You could be working with the Risen. By the Wolf, you could be a
Risen yourself, for all I know.” He paused. He didn’t think for a moment that Fressin was a Risen, but he needed to have the man shaken. “Ula, do you think he could be one?”
The Djin woman scrunched up her face and leaned forward. Her dreadlocks fell from where she’d tucked them over her shoulders, to swing loosely, beads clacking. “Kaluki very strong to kill like that. Very strong. Maybe even in living body.”
Brannon blinked. “I thought you said that was impossible?”
“Not impossible. Bad. Very bad thing for everyone.” She spat onto the fingers of her right hand and reached out to rub it onto Fressin’s forehead. He pulled back but her other hand snaked around and held him fast. She stared into his eyes for a long moment, muttering under her breath.
Finally she let him go and Fressin slumped down in the chair, breathing fast.
“Is not dead,” Ula said, taking her seat once more. “Not know more than that.”
Brannon frowned. “Well, then how would we know if he was a kaluki in a living body?”
“Strong,” Ula said. “Hard to kill. Stab or hit and he not hurt. Kaluki in a living body bring much power into this world. Too much. Plenty to keep host body from harm.”
Brannon scratched at his scar. The idea of a living Risen was enough to form a lump of ice in his gut. He’d seen the Risen that had killed Latricia take a knife to the chest and keep coming. And it’d had the strength to pull the widow’s head right off her body with no difficulty at all. Whatever was in that body was very strong. If they were looking at a live person possessed by a kaluki then the suspect list could be very, very long.
“I’m not a kaluki or whatever she’s saying,” Fressin said. “If I was superhumanly strong, do you really think I’d still be tied up talking to you?”
“One way to test it,” said Brother Taran. He stood, picked up the chair he’d been sitting on, and swung it at Fressin. The chair legs collided with the bound man’s face and shoulder, the force of the blow rocking him in his own chair.
“Blood and Hooded Tears!” Fressin spat red from his bleeding lips and turned a dark scowl on the priest. “What did I ever do to you?”
Taran raised the chair again, and Brannon moved quickly to grasp it and take it from him.
“That’s enough, Taran. Step back. He’s bleeding. You’ve made your point.”
The young priest nodded, his jaw set tight.
“Ula, would you say that’s evidence enough that he’s not a living Risen?”
Ula nodded, beads clacking like a miniature hailstorm. “Yes. He is not the one.”
“By the Wolf,” said Fressin. “I could have told you that. Do you people go around beating everyone you meet with furniture, just in case?”
“You’re the reason a child saw his mother’s head being torn off,” Taran said, his voice very quiet. “Be grateful you didn’t get what you truly deserve.”
Brannon gave them both a stern look. Taran stared at the floor. Brannon glanced around to see if Draeson had anything to add, but the mage was silent. He too looked mainly at the carpet.
“So, Fressin, now we know you’re not a Risen. But that still leaves us with a lot of questions. We don’t know if you’re involved with the Risen, but we do know you were involved in the murders in Alapra and the sabotage of our boat on the way here.” Brannon paused. “Everywhere something bad happens, there you are. Would you care to explain that?”
There was a long silence as everyone in the room waited. Brannon watched Fressin closely, noting the cut on his lip that could probably do with a stitch, and the way his breathing was swift and shallow as he wrestled with himself. His eyes flicked to the side, then back to meet Brannon’s.
“I had nothing to do with the murders in Alapra,” he said.
“You were there. We saw you in the garden at the Sandilar townhouse.”
“Yes, but I didn’t kill anyone.”
Brannon spread his hands, palms up. “Then tell us.”
Fressin sighed. “My employer is a man with singular needs. He is a tradesman who invests a lot of money in his deals. He likes to ensure that they go the way he wants them to go. And I am a man with a special skill set that is useful in these kinds of situations.”
Brannon rubbed at his scar again. “Your employer is Duke Roydan Sandilar?”
Fressin shook his head. “No. One of his competitors. Don’t ask me which one, I won’t tell you. That’s part of our deal.”
“Then how did you manage to become the steward at the Sandilar manor?”
“Forged papers and stolen pigeons. It’s easier than you think.”
Brannon leaned back, shaking his head slowly. If it hadn’t ached before, he was sure it would do by now. “Between that and getting on board the boat, it’s pretty clear you’ve had training in infiltration. Ex military?”
Fressin tilted his head and gave him a flat stare. “You know I’m not.”
Brannon nodded. In that, at least, the man was being honest. Only one kind of person carried throwing stars and garrotes. “You’re a Child of Starlight. From one of the Assassin Houses.”
“Correct.”
“And you think this is something that will help you convince us that you weren’t involved in the murders?” Brannon raised his eyebrow.
Fressin shrugged. “I’ll kill someone if it’s part of the job, but in this case, it wasn’t. The assignment called for more subtlety than that.”
“What was the assignment?”
Fressin licked his lips. “Can I get a drink? I’m a bit dry after that fire.”
“You can have a drink after you tell us about your assignment.” Brannon told him.
The assassin took a deep breath. “Fine. You already know from digging into Prince Keldan’s death, that there’s a bidding war going on with the Nilarian Ambassador. Well, the maneuverings for that particular deal have been going on for much longer than you might think. Cornering the market for Nilarian silk in Kalanon will make somebody a fortune.”
Brannon nodded. “Keldan and Roydan were both front runners for the deal but there were others we don’t know.”
“Several others,” Fressin agreed. “And many of them felt that the Sandilars are wealthy enough by virtue of managing the gold mines. They felt that someone else should have a chance at this new venture. One of these people employed me to even the playing field. They hired me to spy on the Sandilars and sabotage their efforts where I can.”
“Killing Keldan Sandilar was a pretty effective sabotage,” Draeson said quietly, looking up at last.
“It was,” Fressin agreed. “But I didn’t do it. I didn’t even have eyes on him that night, so I can’t give you any more clues about who did. I can tell you that if I’d killed him, I wouldn’t have done it in such a flashy, obvious way. He’d have had an accident or been mugged in a bad part of town and no one would be any the wiser.”
He shifted a little in his bonds, straining against the ropes in an effort to get comfortable. “What I did do,” he continued, “was spy on your investigation. I knew it would lead you to the silk deal and so I needed to know what you were doing and how you might be messing it up for my employer. That’s why I was in the garden at the Sandilar townhouse. That’s why I was following you in Alapra. I needed to know how your investigation might affect my employer.”
“And?” Brannon asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“And it wasn’t good. Somehow Keldan’s deal went to his widow and all the action was moving here, to Sandilar. I did what I could to slow you down by sinking the River Queen, then managed to get to the manor in time to disrupt Lady Latricia and Ambassador Ylani’s visit. I hoped the rude welcome would break up their bond, but that didn’t seem to work. So last night I broke in to threaten her. I figured, if I could scare her and her son enough, she’d run back to Alapra and forget about cementing the deal with Ylani. What I didn’t count on was some crazed Djin shaman sending a Risen here to kill her.”
“We don’t think it was a Djin,” Draeso
n said, with a glance at Ula. “Just someone who learned their secrets.”
Fressin rolled his eyes. “Oh. So much better.”
Brannon found himself scratching at his scar again. He pulled his hand away and laced his fingers. Something horrible was stirring in his mind. “What if one of the other traders hired someone as well? Your employer hired an assassin to spy and sabotage. Could one of the others have hired a Djin to use a Risen to eliminate the competition?”
“If they did . . . ” Fressin paled and licked his lips. “You saw that thing,” he said, his voice quiet. “However it got here, it’s loose now. May the gods have mercy on us all.”
Brannon felt as if a chill breeze traced over his skin. Behind him, Draeson shifted in his seat and coughed. Brannon touched his sword hilt. Somehow this closed room felt vulnerable and exposed.
“Okay,” he said. “We need to take some action. We now know the pattern of victims. That gives us an advantage. They’re going after Tommy Sandilar, but also anyone else with the same bloodline. We need to bring anyone who could be a target here so we can protect them. Who do we know of?”
“Morgin Vere,” said Draeson. “The rumors are right about who his father is. No doubt Roydan has other bastards up at the manor as well. He’s never been shy about dallying with parlor maids.”
“Fine,” Brannon said. “We need to round up as many of them as possible and get them here. Then we need to fortify the inn. Draeson, I want your wards at every entrance and exit and scattered throughout the inn. Set them to recognize a Risen if you can, otherwise set them to bark at anyone who isn’t one of us, staff, or someone we specifically introduce to them. And when they bark, you take action. No more distractions. Deal?”
Draeson nodded. “Deal.”
“Ula, your spirit pouches—they seemed to work but someone moved them. How do you keep them in place back in Djinan?”
“Not pouches in Djinan,” Ula said. “Make spirit bricks and build them into the house. Hard to do here—building already made.”
