by Jon Sprunk
"Who are you working for? Whoever it is, I'll see that you receive more if you will just release me."
Caim scratched the man. A bead of blood trickled down into Parmian's collar.
"Frenig despised the theocracy!" Parmian said, almost shouting.
"Quietly," Caim admonished.
Parmian drew in a long breath, but shallow so as not to impale himself on Calm's knife. "If you had known the late earl, then you would know what I say is true."
"I knew him." Josey came over to stand beside Caim. "Very well, in fact. And you're right. He despised the Church and what it had become, although he didn't air his grievances in public. How did you know him?"
Parmian took in Josey with a long glance. "The late earl was a family friend. He'd known my father many years ago. He helped me achieve my position in the treasury. I visited him on a social call."
"From what I've been told"-Caim leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper-"it didn't sound very social. It sounded like an argument."
When Parmian didn't reply, he moved the knife point to the groove of the man's neck, where the big artery throbbed. "I'm losing patience, Master Parmian."
Something changed in the man's eyes. A bulwark of resistance crumbled and he collapsed against the wall. Caim pulled the knife point back to avoid killing him by accident.
"I went to warn him."
"About what?"
Parmian's eyes shined as he lifted his head. "The Elector Council was moving against him."
"That makes no sense," Josey said. "He was retired, a hero of the realm. Why would they want to kill him?"
Parmian hesitated a moment, until Caim caught his attention with a pinprick. "They'd found out about his activities."
"What activities?"
Parmian drew in another deep breath. "Earl Frenig was the head of a secret society sworn to restore the empire."
The words hit Josey like a runaway coach.
She reached for the alley wall, forgetting for a moment about the crud and grime coating the bricks. "You're wrong," she said. "My-the earl withdrew from politics after he resigned his post."
If Parmian caught her slip, he gave no indication. "I'm sorry, but it's true. My father was a member of the same society before he passed."
No, no, no! The denial echoed in her mind, but deep inside she knew it was the truth. After all, she had seen it herself.
Hubert whistled. "No wonder the Council did him in. They've got enough trouble on the streets without the nobility trying to bring back the old regime."
"Shut up!" Josey shouted, much too loudly, but she didn't care.
She spun away as Caim looked at her. She couldn't face him like this. Cold splatters fell on her face like the pieces of her world falling apart. The hidden chamber beneath her family home appeared in her mind, just the same as it had looked all those years ago. The hooded participants of the bizarre ritual stood in a circle in the dim light. Their chanting echoed across the gulfs of time.
Her hand crept up to the cool talisman dangling between her breasts. Her father had said it was the key to his heart, a sentimental gesture she had thought little of over the intervening years, but it had been more than that. She knew now what the key truly was, what it would unlock.
Calm's voice intruded on her thoughts. "So you were their spy."
"No," Parmian answered. "I never wanted any part of their schemes. I'm little more than a glorified accounting clerk, but I see everything that crosses the keeper's desk, and everything that happens in the city eventually makes its way through the treasury. We control the funding. When I saw the indications of a coup, I went to warn the earl. For my father's sake, I felt I owed him that much."
"I don't buy it," Caim said. "Why try to resurrect an extinct regime? What's the point? The emperor and his family were killed when the Church came to power."
"I was just a kid," Hubert said, "but I remember. They called it an execution, but it was murder, true and simple. Anyone related to the imperial family was either eliminated or forced to show their support for the prelate."
Parmian's voice regained some of its initial confidence. "When I spoke with him, the earl said he possessed a secret, something so powerful that if it was revealed, it would bring down the Church."
"What secret?" Josey blurted before she realized what she was doing, but she had to know.
Parmian shook his head. "He never told me. He said it would be safest if kept to himself until the time came to unveil it. Those were his exact words."
"What else?"
He lifted his empty hands, but dropped them as Caim applied more pressure with his knife. "That's all. I urged the earl to leave Othir as soon as possible."
"What do think, Caim?" Hubert asked.
Parmian perked up. "You're Caim? The one they're searching for?" He looked at Josey. "Then you're…"
A bevy of whistles split the night. A cry went up from a nearby roof as hard footsteps pounded on the cobblestones. Josey wrapped her arms around her body, but her shivers had nothing to do with the cold. She couldn't catch her breath. She felt like she was running, so fast her lungs might burst, but her feet never moved.
"We're done here," Caim told Hubert. "Take your men and disappear."
"Sure. I'll go rally the rest of the boys. Once word of this reaches the streets, every hand will rise against the Reds."
As Hubert disappeared into the night, Caim turned back to Parmian. The man stood up straight, his shoulders squared as if expecting the worst.
"What do you intend to do with me? My family will-"
Caim stepped back. "You can go."
The man didn't move. "Just like that? I know who you are. I could have every able-bodied soldier in the city searching for you."
Caim sheathed his knife. The whistles were getting closer. "Can't you hear? They already are. Go home, Ozmond, and think about taking your own advice. Things are heating up. Othir's going to be a very dangerous place, no matter which side you support."
Caim turned away, but Parmian stopped him. Josey watched a host of emotions play across the treasury man's face. He grimaced, shook his head slightly, and then settled into a look of resignation.
"Wait. There's something else."
He looked at her. "The order to have the earl killed came from the highest level."
Icy fingers constricted around Josey's windpipe. She couldn't breathe. What did he mean, the highest level? The Church hierarchs? The prelate himself? They killed Father, and now they want to kill me.
She gasped and shook. Then, Caim put an arm around her and the air rushed once more into her lungs.
"Come on," he said, pulling her away. "We have to get out of here."
Josey leaned into him and felt his warm breath against her cheek. She needed the contact, to feel the touch of another living person. She felt like she was surrounded by ghosts. She looked back over her shoulder, but the alley and Parmian were gone, hidden in the night. For the first time, she realized it was raining.
"I know," she said. They hurried through the slick, black streets. "I know where we have to go to find the next piece to the puzzle."
Caim regarded her with an amused expression. Something flickered across his eyes, too quick to follow. A blossom of heat spread through her chest as she realized she trusted him.
She turned her head as the warmth spread into her face. She gazed into the sky, into the rain and gloom, to the heights of Esquiline Hill.
"I have to go home."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
shadow crouched by the riverbank where a gentle breeze pushed through the riparian jungle of rushes and cattails. Dark masses of silver-black clouds scudded across the starless sky. Somewhere an owl hooted, and the shrill howl of a coyote carried on the wind.
Amid the Memnir's sleepy currents, where the river slid past the fortified walls of Othir, Castle DiVecci perched on a spur of bare rock. The castle's white parapets loomed over the water like cliffs of alabaster in the waning moonlight. Banners
hung slack from the sturdy towers.
A stone span joined the isle to the mainland, guarded at both ends by a gatehouse manned by soldiers of the Prelate's Guard. Othirians called it the Bridge of Tears for all those who had crossed and disappeared into the dungeons beneath the castle, never to return.
The shadow had no need of bridges. One moment it stood on the riverbank. The next, it appeared inside the castle's mighty donjon, in a hallway on the top floor.
The shadow listened as its sandals touched down. The rhythm of the castle was slow and steady, like the heartbeat of huge slumbering beast, broken only by the discordant groans of the damned far below in the catacombs.
Content, the shadow began to hunt. It crept past rows of closed doors and paused as it came around a corner. Firelight spilled from a doorway at the end of the hall. Two bodyguards in white-and-gold livery stood outside, leaning on the polished shafts of their immaculate halberds.
One of the guards looked up as the shadow approached, but too late to give warning as a swarm of inky globules dropped from the ceiling. The men jerked and tried to shout as the shadows wrapped them in tight cocoons, but nothing emerged from their straining mouths. The little darknesses devoured them in silence.
The shadow stepped over the dying men, through the doorway. Shelves of books lined the chamber walls from floor to ceiling. Logs crackled behind an iron grate in the broad hearth. A water clock on the mantelpiece dripped out time's passage. Above the fireplace was mounted a graphic bronze sculpture portraying the Prophet of the True Faith. The half-starved demigod hung by a noose on a twisted rope with an expression of supreme sorrow etched on his long, pained face.
The crackle of paper drew the shadow's attention as a thin hand, spotted with age, appeared over the arm of a massive cushioned chair beside the fireplace. It turned the page of a large tome before sinking once again out of view.
Levictus pulled back his cowl. There was no one else in the room. The darknesses, finished with their meal, pooled around his feet. He shivered as they scaled the hem of his long black robe and vanished within the garment. A long knife appeared in his hand. For many long years he had waited for this moment. He wanted to make it last, to savor this thing that had consumed his thoughts since the day, long ago, when armed soldiers came to his family's home and took them away, depositing them into cells under this very castle. His parents, both elderly and in failing health, had died under torture on the first night. His brother expired a few days later. Only he had survived.
A voice rose from the chair. Perhaps once strong with authority, time had left it weakened and wavering. "Gunter? There's a chill in the air. Could you bring us another warm brandy?"
Levictus crossed the intervening distance as a bald pate leaned around the side of the chair, followed by rheumy eyes and a wide nose. He made no attempt to hide, but strode purposefully toward his prey. The old man's rubbery lips formed a hollow 0 as the knife rose. The blade's dark surface drank in the light of the fire.
"Mercy!" the prelate cried. "Mercy in the name of Almighty God."
But Levictus had none. The knife sliced through the man's wrinkled flesh. Thick streams of blood poured down the breast of his snowy robes. It splashed on the book that fell from his hands. The firelight caught the spine and illuminated the golden words printed there. By Fire and Blood: Bringing the True Faith to the North.
As his victim tumbled to the floor, Levictus opened the folds of his robe and brought out a wooden box. He set it on the floor as he knelt beside the prelate's corpse. Blood pooled beneath the body while he worked.
When the deed was done, as Levictus stood and put away his prize, he studied the man at his feet. No archangels had rushed in to defend His Sublime Holiness; no thunderbolts had fallen from the heavens. For all his majesty, the prelate had died like any other man, less well, in fact, than most. So much for the vaunted power of the True Church.
A strangeness passed over Levictus while he stood over his victim. Something buzzed in his ear like a flying insect. He made a pass with his hands, whispered a sibilant phrase, and the sensation fled on soundless wings.
Levictus went to a cabinet on the wall and rifled through its contents. Leaves of parchment fell to the floor. Then, he held up a sheet to the flickering light. His eyes followed the neat handwriting down to the surprise at the bottom, stamped in a blob of old wax. He stuffed the paper into a pocket. Then, he stepped into the dark space between two massive bookcases and vanished.
He reappeared inside the city, speeding through the slumbering avenues, just another shadow under the sequestering cover of the night.
Caim pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he hunched on the rooftop. Below him, a blanket of silver fog shrouded the street in front of the Frenig mansion. Moisture dripped from the iron spikes atop the walls.
At least the rain had stopped.
Josey sat beside him, her arms propped on upraised knees, her chin resting on her forearm. He watched her in silence, studying her profile, not wanting to break the spell of her beauty. After Parmian's interrogation, Josey had been convinced that the answers to their problems lay within her father's house. Caim had given all the reasons they couldn't return to the scene of the crime-it wasn't a smart move, the place would likely be guarded, it was precisely where he would expect them to go if he were behind this whole charade-but his arguments had withered under her intense stare. Somehow she convinced him.
He almost suspected witchcraft.
Since then, she hadn't said much. Sitting beside him in the dark, she could have been a thousand leagues away.
Caim tried to put himself in her place. To find out that her late father had been the ringleader of a rebellious cult couldn't be an easy thing to swallow. It was simple for him. You lived and you died. What you did in the time between was your own business. And yet, how much of what he believed had been shaped by the uncaring world into which he had been thrust, a world that ground the weak and helpless into grist beneath its colossal wheels? Would he be so nonchalant about existence if his own past weren't so mired in brutality?
Caim sighed and concentrated on the silent house across the way. By his reckoning, they had been hunched up here for almost two hours. Dawn would come soon. If Josey was serious, they had to go now or never.
He whispered her name. When she didn't respond, he nudged her shoulder. She blinked as if coming out of a deep sleep.
"You sure you want to do this tonight?" he asked. "We could come back tomorrow."
"No." Her gaze returned to the spaces below. "Is this where you watched our house before coming to kill my father?"
Caim swallowed. He would have rather not answered, but figured he owed it to her. "Here and a couple other places." He indicated a flat-roofed brownstone down the street, and a pair of alleys with good vantage points of the mansion.
"Have you killed many people?"
"I suppose."
"Tell me how you do it. How do you kill people day after day, without regard, without feeling?"
He took in the meager offering of stars strewn through the overcast sky and the gulfs of darkness between them. "You think I like what I do? I didn't ask for this life."
"Then why-?"
"Because killing is the only thing I've ever been good at." The answer rung hollow in his ears, but damn her. He didn't owe her anything, didn't care a whit for what she thought of him.
"How old were you when you first… did it?"
A cloud passed across the moon, hiding Josey's expression, but he felt her gaze in the dark. "I'm not sure. Fifteen, maybe sixteen."
"What happened?"
"I was passing through some little thorp in Michaia. I forget the name."
He wasn't sure why he lied about that. The town had been called Freehold. It looked and smelled just like any of another score of settlements scattered across the dusty plains of Michaia, just a place to wash the road from your gullet and maybe find a woman before moving on.
"Anyway, some men started
a fight in an ale hall. Things got out of hand. By the time it was over, I'd killed two of them."
"So you were defending yourself."
"I guess. I had to run after that, but I learned a lesson. There's always someone looking for trouble. You try to avoid it when you can, but-"
"But sometimes it finds you anyway," she finished for him.
"Yeah, well. Now it's just another trade to me, the same as a butcher or a carpenter."
Josey's face lifted out of the shadow. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory in the moonlight.
"But pigs and wooden beams don't have feelings," she said. "People do. Everyone you've killed had a family who cared about them, who grieved for them after they were gone."
He shifted a foot that had fallen asleep under him. "That makes no difference to me. I do a job and I get paid."
"Don't you ever want more from your life? Something bigger?"
"Like Hubert? You've seen his band in action. A bunch of shopkeeps and pot-boys spoiling for a fight they can't win. That's not me."
"Why not join the army? You're good with your hands. You could lead men."
He didn't try to hide his disdain. "Why is it that if a lord or a king sends you to kill a man, it's somehow noble? But if you do this for yourself, it's murder. Explain that to me."
Josey's eyes glistened. Was it the onset of tears, or just the way the light touched her emerald irises?
"If you asked me, I'd say you were afraid."
He recoiled as if she had stabbed him. The soles of his boots scrabbled on the hard shingles as he got his feet under him.
She kept going before he could muster a reply. "You're afraid to let people get close to you. So you keep them at a distance, pretend that they don't matter to you. But it's just a ruse."
He peered over the side of the roof. "You don't understand the least thing about me or what I do."
"Fine."
She pulled away and sank into herself like a flower folding its petals after the sun went down. For a moment, she sounded just like Kit and he realized how much he missed his friend. Where was she?
