The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1

by Sam Bowring

  Besides, Yalenna flipped a couple of coins onto his counter.

  ‘Well, miss,’ he said, swiftly palming the money, ‘that is very generous. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Have there been any assaults in the last day or so?’

  ‘Ah …’ the man frowned. ‘Couple of fellows beat each other pretty bad over at the Curdled Sow …’

  ‘Involving women.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, nothing like that. Saphura may have a colourful reputation, but there are plenty of well-paid guards around to make sure nothing happens to its folk! No matter what line of work they’re in.’

  ‘In that case, where’s the best whorehouse in town?’

  His eyebrows only went up slightly.

  ‘That depends. What kind of … taste … needs to be catered for?’

  ‘A man’s taste for beautiful women.’

  ‘I see.’ He eyeballed her in a different way now – perhaps he thought she meant to seek employment. ‘That would be The Silken Glove. It’s a little further on, on the right – look for the sign, you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and popped some berries in her mouth.

  True to the storekeeper’s word, The Silken Glove wasn’t far at all. The sign was a beckoning hand with the name in silver, the door an elegant steel frame carved with spirals, and there weren’t any windows on the ground floor. She approached the heavyset doorman who stood outside, a crossbow on his back.

  ‘May I enter?’ she asked.

  He looked her up and down. ‘The mistress does not currently seek any more ladies – though one of your quality shouldn’t have trouble finding work elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m not here for work – I’m looking for a friend of mine, maybe you’ve seen him? He dresses very well, like a courtier –’

  ‘People dress all kinds of ways,’ he interrupted, ‘and we do not disturb our clients in their rooms for any reason, social visits included.’

  His tone had turned a little nasty, and she did not feel he deserved his blessing – may you never get sick again. With a subtle flick she seized hold of his boots, and he grunted in surprise as, seemingly of their own accord, they marched him out of her way.

  ‘What?’ he said, then realisation dawned. ‘You’re a thr—’

  A little wave, and his lips snapped shut.

  ‘Just you stay out here a while,’ she told him, ‘and be silent.’

  Moving past, she pushed through the door.

  Inside was a dim area lit by lanterns and candles, lined with soft couches where men sat meeting prospective partners. Overseeing it was a high desk, behind which sat an older woman in a frilled violet dress, still with a touch of glamour about her, though painted lips and cheeks could not disguise her sagging skin.

  Her eyebrow quirked as Yalenna approached. ‘Hello. You’re not one of ours?’

  ‘I’m looking for a man.’

  The madam frowned. ‘Why did Gosk let you in? He should have explained that we do not cater for –’

  ‘A particular man,’ said Yalenna. ‘A tall fellow, thin, probably well dressed, with a taste for fine wine.’

  The madam’s eyes glittered – she knew something. ‘I must ask you to leave,’ she said, and glanced towards a dark corner where another brute waited. Yalenna slipped a hand over the desk and seized her by the wrist.

  ‘Do not summon him,’ she said in a low voice. A blessing transferred to the woman – may you never feel the cold of your morning bath. ‘Listen to me. I am a powerful threader. If you do not tell me what I wish to know, I will cause you a great deal of trouble.’

  If the madam was afraid, she hid it well.

  ‘There are threaders in the town guards, you know,’ she hissed. ‘You cannot do as you like just because you have magic.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll be here in the time I need to collapse this musk-smelling hovel.’ Yalenna released the woman’s wrist. ‘Come, this is only one man. He isn’t a good man, either – trust me when I say that your establishment is better off without him.’

  The madam tried to rally. ‘We pride ourselves on the privacy we provide.’

  ‘There won’t be much privacy to be had when the town dogs wander freely through the rents I’ll leave in your walls.’

  ‘Everything all right here, ma’am?’

  This from the brute, who had wandered over.

  ‘Er … yes, Terrik.’ The madam was growing spooked now. Yalenna did not like having to use force, but there was an urgency to her task. ‘Please leave us.’

  Terrik withdrew, back to his post.

  ‘Well?’ said Yalenna.

  ‘All right. I think I know what fellow you mean … though in truth, the description you gave could fit many round here.’

  ‘He wears lots of rings.’

  The madam sighed. ‘First floor. Room sixteen. Are you his wife?’

  Yalenna gave an unladylike snort and made for the stairs. At the top she found a well-groomed landing, carpet plumped up and lewd tapestries hanging. Do they want to think they’re in a castle? she wondered disdainfully, as she moved swiftly along the corridor to the door marked sixteen.

  She flung it open.

  A naked girl tangled in sheets sat up with a gasp, as an open window banged in the breeze. From the street below came the sound of commotion.

  ‘Who are –’ the girl said, before time froze.

  Despirrow had woken with a start. As one in tune with the threads of time, he’d felt a vibration he knew all too well – a warning, of bad things on the way.

  He sat up, causing the girl beside him to groan. He could have groaned himself, for he’d had much wine the previous night. As his eyes fell on the sleeping whore’s rising bosom, there came an insistent urge to set about her again – but the feeling that put him on edge superseded it. He rose, and opened the window.

  Voices came from the street below.

  ‘… a friend of mine, maybe you’ve seen him? He dresses very well, like a courtier …’

  Despirrow flattened against the wall. All too well, he knew that voice. Had she come alone, or did she have company?

  Carefully, he peeked through the window again. She was in the process of moving the doorman, and before he could summon the focus to bend her skull inwards, she departed from view into the brothel.

  He ran to his pile of things and pulled on clothes and boots. Back to the window he went and, as he hastily fixed rings onto his fingers, he scanned the street.

  There.

  So, it was true – Karrak had gone over to the enemy. He saw his old ally only for a moment, entering a tavern across the way. Hatred suffused him, but there was fear also, enlivening his body and clearing his groggy head.

  Yalenna was somewhere beneath, and Karrak nearby, but for a moment the street was clear. Scrambling through the window, Despirrow dropped feet first, sending influence ahead of him to soften the cobblestones to mush. He landed, feet sinking into the street as if it were mud, and people who saw him blinked in surprise. With stinging soles he spun about, spied the doorman standing rigidly with his mouth firmly shut.

  ‘She worked you over, eh?’

  He noted the crossbow on the man’s back. He might have use for such a thing, for, if he had to stop time, neither he nor anyone else could use their magic. An actual weapon might not go amiss.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ he said, moving behind the fellow to pull the crossbow free. The man, stuck as he was to the spot, could still move his arms, and tried to grab at Despirrow.

  ‘None of that, thanks,’ said Despirrow, and with a waggle of his fingers, ripped the man’s throat out. Blood arced across the thoroughfare, splashing people nearby.

  ‘Murder!’ someone shouted, and people began to scramble in a panic.

  On the opposite side of the street he saw Karrak dash out of a tavern with sword drawn, looking about wildly for the source of the commotion. Despirrow smiled at him, waiting to be seen, scraping mashed cobblestone off his heel.

  Rostigan s
aw the body first, led there by a trail of people dashing away. A man stood next to it, under the shaded eaves of a whorehouse, and Rostigan recognised the cruel, angular features, the sunken cheeks, of Despirrow. The Warden grinned at him, reached out – and Rostigan readied himself to unthread any spell flung at him – but instead Despirrow attacked nearby townsfolk. A merchant fell with blood squirting from his ears, his head misshapen as if hit by a hammer. Further away in the crowd – far enough for the attacks to seem random, to confuse everyone – two women suddenly smashed together as if crushed in an invisible vice. People began screaming, fleeing.

  Rostigan ran towards Despirrow, and was instantly caught up in the frightened crowd. He ducked and wove as best he could, elbowing and pushing when necessary. The next moment all went silent, as everywhere people froze in place. A man who would have moved out of the way if time had been running naturally instead remained, and Rostigan charged into him. The impact was hard and jarring, akin to smacking headlong into a tree. Despirrow laughed as Rostigan staggered backwards, and time started again. As Rostigan appeared unexpectedly to those around him, people ploughed into him from different directions, knocking him to the ground.

  Time stopped again, and he opened his eyes. Through the sea of statues sauntered Despirrow, raising his crossbow at Rostigan as he gained line of sight. Rostigan raised a hand instinctively, but threading was impossible in the suspended world. The bolt whizzed through the air, and went straight through his palm.

  ‘Despirrow!’ came a voice from above. It was Yalenna, standing at a window in the whorehouse above street level. From somewhere else in the still town came a raging roar.

  ‘Ah,’ said Despirrow. ‘So dear old Braston is here too?’

  He loosed a bolt at Yalenna. She ducked from sight, and it bounced off glass that it should have shattered.

  Despirrow dashed away, and Rostigan tried to rise. Time unfroze and again the crowd closed in, trampling him as he appeared under their feet. A boot landed square on his chest, its owner crashing down after.

  ‘Keep away from me!’ he wheezed, loudly as he could, threading his words. The crowd began to recede, leaving him an island in the turmoil. Then a firm grip took his arm and hoisted him up.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  It was Braston, looking wild. He shook Rostigan, though he probably didn’t mean to do it so savagely.

  ‘Damn you, Karrak, where?’

  Rostigan held out his punctured hand, the dripping bolt still lodged there.

  ‘That way.’

  Braston released him so suddenly he swayed, taking off in the direction he’d pointed.

  Steadying himself, he took hold of the bolt, and pulled it out with a grunt.

  Yalenna appeared. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He began to move after Braston, wondering if he could yet break into a jog.

  ‘Come on – he’s getting away!’

  The crowds thinned as people ran for cover, and Despirrow ducked into a deserted side street lined with moulting trees. Where did he want to go? Briefly he wondered if he could take on all three of his pursuers, and end the threat to himself here, today. The thought was tantalising – if he succeeded, there would be no one to stop him doing whatever he wished for the rest of time, however long that ended up being.

  Instincts of self-preservation quieted the fantasy. Much as he admired himself, his foes were formidable, and to be respected. He needed to get away, and find somewhere he could hide long enough to threadwalk. He decided to make for the southern path back up the hill to the bridge, where woods and caves would provide good hiding spots.

  ‘Despirrow!’

  The bellow followed him up the street, and he felt a chill at the anger it contained. Braston would always hate him the most, for they had been friends, once. After the change, they had gone back to Althala Castle together, and Despirrow had thought he could hide his new self from the king, and have his way with all the prissy, stuck-up noblewomen who had previously refused his advances. He did not have to stop time in order to rape them – just seal them in their rooms against intrusion and, afterwards, kill them, or tangle their minds until they could no longer speak sense. He had not counted on Braston’s new talent, however, to see the lines of injustice wavering from Despirrow’s victims, and understand that his old court threader had taken a sinister turn.

  ‘Can you catch me again, oh King?’ he called over his shoulder.

  The answering roar was closer now.

  Subtly Despirrow manipulated the air, sending up a breeze.

  Leaves began to lift behind him.

  Rostigan picked up speed as he followed Yalenna, his body gradually correcting some of the hurts he’d garnered from being stomped and winded, his stubbornness overriding the rest. The pain in his hand was the worst and would probably take some days to heal, but as long as he had his legs, he could run.

  Ahead Yalenna was spry and sleek, and further on Braston tore into a side street. Rostigan entered after them to see trees along the pavement swaying slightly, fallen leaves on the ground stirring. Behind the fleeing Despirrow more leaves swirled, as if he’d kicked them up behind him.

  Rostigan realised what was about to happen.

  ‘Yalenna,’ he tried, but breath was short – maybe he was still a little winded after all. He reached out, attempting to take control of her boots, and instinctively she undid his influence. She did stumble a little, however, and she turned to jog backwards for a moment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop,’ he wheezed.

  Braston pounded the cobblestones, eyes fixed on his fleeing adversary. Mocking cackles bounced back to him off buildings, maddening him further. Despirrow could not be allowed to exist, his presence in the world was a mocking insult – a grave injustice. There was nothing left of the person who had been Braston’s friend, the familiar face naught but an illusion to cover the foulness that now possessed him. Braston sent spells after the man, but each and every one was adroitly unthreaded before it reached him. Despirrow was the better caster, whereas Braston preferred strength. If he could just get the little rat in his hands, he could break him like a twig …

  A leaf stuck to Braston’s forehead, and absently he brushed it away. How to halt Despirrow, how to get close enough to seize him? Maybe he could use the wind that whistled down the street, channel it to slow Despirrow. As he reached out to harness the breeze, though, he realised it was not a natural one.

  Time froze.

  Leaves hung in the air all around, immovable and razor-thin. Braston, already moving at speed, ploughed into them directly. They sliced through him smoothly, his flesh offering all the resistance of warm jelly. One passed through his arm, half-severing it, while another caught him on the neck, barely affecting his momentum as it cut muscle and artery with equal ease. He tried to stop, but had little control as his legs were shredded underneath him. A leaf scraped along his shin, peeling bone like curled apple peel. He fell upon more leaves and slid downwards. A bright agony blossomed as one passed through his gut. As it was about to reach his spine, he slowed to a stop – not all the leaves lay at cutting angles, and a few now cradled his doubled-over torso, so that with knees bent and arms hanging loosely, he could not make it all the way to the ground.

  His anger became muted, as if it poured from him with his blood. The leaves embedded in his body were sickening presences, tearing him further every time he shuddered. If only he could lift himself off them, but with so many nerves and muscles damaged, so much flesh hanging from him loosely, he could not make his body respond.

  Yalenna stopped, ashen-faced, on the edge of the cloud of leaves.

  ‘Careful,’ said Rostigan, arriving by her side.

  Braston was bent over and sagging in the air, though something had stopped him from collapsing entirely. It had been so fast and brutal, and already an impossible amount of blood was pooling around him, and dripping from nearby leaves that had been showered in the spray. Beyond it
all, Despirrow disappeared around a corner.

  Carefully Yalenna made her way into the leaves. At one point she had to get down on her hands and knees to crawl, under the swirl and into the warm redness. Grunting from behind told her Rostigan followed, but she paid him no mind – all her thoughts with Braston.

  Is he alive? Please, let him be alive.

  Tears threatened to prickle forth, and she blinked rapidly, willing them away. He must be alive, she told herself, though at best he would be terribly, terribly hurt. Closer up the damage that ravaged him was all the more shocking. She crawled underneath him, to see if the eyes in his head would open.

  ‘Braston?’

  After a moment they did, moving towards her slightly.

  ‘Get …’

  As he tried to speak, a slop of blood spilled from his mouth, drowning his words.

  Suddenly, mercifully, time started again. Braston pitched forward as the leaves supporting him went back to weightlessness. She narrowly avoided his bulk as he hit the ground with a thud, and rolled onto his side.

  ‘Despirrow’s on the move,’ said Rostigan grimly.

  Yalenna did not care. Braston needed help.

  His face twisted with pain. He worked his tongue, trying to clear his mouth.

  ‘Don’t … let him get away.’

  ‘But you –’

  ‘Leave me! I will … live.’ He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. ‘We might … not get this chance again.’

  ‘Braston –’

  ‘Go!’ The effort of speaking made him wince. ‘Please!’

  ‘Come,’ said Rostigan, pulling her to her feet. The wind was gone, and all around leaves were landing in the scarlet tide. ‘We must do as he says.’

  Yalenna tore her eyes away.

  ‘We’ll return for him,’ Rostigan promised. ‘Now come, Yalenna … come.’

  He got her moving, and they cut through streets in the direction he’d last seen Despirrow heading.

  Find a man running, he sent out, and several dark presences stirred nearby. They were lazy to his call, however, rustling their feathers but settling again, trying to ignore him.