“I’m to find their accomplice?”
“I am rather counting on it.”
The sorcerer opened his hands. “The Duke has a week to live, perhaps less.”
“You’ve been able to curtail some of the effects?”
“And mask others.”
The Iron Duke sat forward. “Primin, I shall reward you substantially.”
I admired the lack of concern in his voice, but I did not credit it to courage. The man just could not conceive of his dying in such a manner, so it would not be happening. Whoever had betrayed him would die, and the matter forgotten much as the death of my city had been.
“You most certainly will.” I slid from the chair and held a hand up. The Wurmhound lowered his muzzle to it, sniffed, then licked it in a manner that was so gentle, and such a sharp contrast to their tearing young dragons apart. “I’ll find your killer. I’ll stop him.”
I felt I had to.
After all, I didn’t want someone else doing the job I’d already set for myself.
Kellach and I made an unlikely pair. He, tall and massive, with raven’s-wing hair and emerald eyes, striding along fluidly. Men catching even a glimpse of him—hard men, with scars, beards, and ferocious attitudes—splashed through the open sewer to get out of his way. They stared at him slack-jawed and shuddered.
Each man shivering as if his shadow passed over his grave.
Trailing in his wake I passed unnoticed. Tiny and warped, with a gait best described as a lopsided skip, I tried to keep up with him. His long legs wolfishly devoured distance. That he didn’t turn and offer to carry me was a mark of respect. Others might pity me, or see me as a curiosity, but he took me as I was.
For that I was grateful.
He paused at the entry to the market. He wore a dark leather jerkin and pair of plaid trousers. I doubted they were his clan pattern, but they were of Cengar manufacture. A dagger topped each boot, and a short sword rode at his left hip. In Aviantis he’d preferred an ax or a mace, but here in the city, things sharp and pointy would serve him best.
He read the street names on the corner post, a finger tracing each letter of the Imperial High script. “Now where?”
I made a sign and parted the first of the Veils, allowing me to see more. One name on the signpost had been underlined with a glowing purple arrow. It pointed east. “That way.”
He headed off, but the set of his shoulders betrayed his displeasure. The Southerner could have thrived all alone for months in the Empire of Trees or the Carse-el-Dael; but being trapped here in a crowd wore on him as being trapped on the bottom of the Akkanean Sea would have me. I’d not seen him this discomfited in Aviantis, but the city was locked in war, to which he took even better than to the wilderness.
“Why did you remain in Dedecian? I had thought you had other plans.”
“There was work. Bandits.” His grin was predatory. “The Duke pays well.”
“You’ve had time to study the family. What do you think?”
The Cengar smiled. “Hastatean hates his father.
“Still?”
“Forever.”
Hastatean Darikean had been the Skorpantine garrison commander at Aviantis but had been stripped of command and sent home. His father had overseen his disgrace and replaced him. There had been rumors of the son’s wanting to challenge his father to an honor-duel over the matter, but entreaties by his mother and sister dissuaded him.
With a well-placed slap on the buttocks, Kellach convinced a vendor of sour wine to move his cart so we could squeeze past. “Olivina is betrothed to some princeling in Akkanis. Pretty but not evil enough to survive at court. Cinteana loves her husband more than required by law.”
“Left here.” The Duke had been a widower for most of the time he first commanded the garrison in Aviantis. Cinteana had been his brother’s wife, and they took care of his eldest son, Nitidean, while the Duke was away. When his brother died, he took Cinteana to wife as prescribed by Skorpantine law. He had two more children by her, Olivina and Hastatean. That she had come to love him I found hard to believe. The Duke’s bronze statue at city center would have been more capable of returning any sentiment than his bodily incarnation. But, working with magick, I had seen far stranger things, and seldom were they as strong as the bonds of even one-sided love.
The alley closed in on both sides. The wine cart could have passed down it, but the merchant would have been fast stuck. The buildings tugged at Kellach’s shoulders. I got to dance from right to left, skipping over the trickle of sewage running down the center of the cobblestone street.
“What of the other son?”
“A weakling. A poet, not even a bard. Black flux killed his mother. He survived. He’s not right.” The giant shook his head. “So worthless that Death ignores him.”
“But he will inherit over his brother, despite the family’s military tradition?”
“The stupidity of law.”
“Stop, Kellach, here.”
He turned at the sound of my voice and frowned. “It is a wall.”
I held a hand up and he stooped to take it. “That’s what you see, but it’s not what’s here.” Because I had the First Veil parted, the door stood out easily, only partially hidden by an illusion as thick as fog. I led him through the doorway and let the sigil-decorated door swing shut behind us.
His tension, as communicated through his hand, eased only slightly. The low ceiling and smoke-dimmed lights made the place seem terribly familiar. Sorcerers and wizards sat at tables. Attendants moved among them, serving refreshment or guiding folk to the tiers of pallets lining the back wall. There dozens lay as if eaters of Lotus. While their physical forms rested, they pierced the Third Veil, or farther. They remained physically vulnerable while off working great magicks, hence came to an establishment like this to be cared for while they were away.
“I have no liking for this place.”
Judged by the expressions of those present, the place had no liking for us. Being a stranger, a dwarf, and having brought a Blind companion along, endeared me to no one. We got a lot of interest, not all of it healthy.
Still, no one cared to hold my stare for long.
Then she emerged from beyond a curtain. Tall and slender, with long hair the perfect contrast to Kellach’s and dark eyes rimmed with kohl, she drifted forward to meet us. Kellach stared, for to him she did drift. I could see past much of the glamour hiding her movement, but I didn’t try too hard. I thoroughly enjoyed just watching her move.
In many, such profligate use of illusion would have masked insecurity. She did not shy from my gaze and seemed to find Kellach little more threatening than a kitten.
“Do you bind yourself, friend, with the peace of sanctuary?”
“Save where another has violated it.” Formalities concluded, I bowed as I was able. “I am Primin Aviantin, but am called Min.”
“And I am Veneceana.” She gestured. Suddenly there was a table between us, and I’d been lifted onto a stool almost tall enough to make us equals. “How may we serve?”
“I have come seeking news of Sepheri ruins lately manifested.”
She laughed easily. “Another seeker of power? I should have thought you graced with quite enough.”
“Can one ever have too much?”
“Better to quest for knowledge.” She curled a white lock around a finger. “Dedecian is built near what was a Sepheri provincial capital, but it is still scattered.”
I nodded. The Sepheri, who still existed in the west in a much-degraded state, had once been the masters of a magickal empire encompassing the known world. The empire collapsed, but not into dust as do the dreams of men. The Sepheri people and holdings were scattered through time. When they did appear, they usually took umbrage at the spread and independence of men, since we had long been their slaves.
The Sepheri used Bloodlocks as slave restraints. Others had adapted them to more nefarious purposes. They required an oath sworn to a god, and if none of the human god
s would release the Duke, I thought it possible a Sepheri god might have obliged in the Bloodlock’s creation.
“Had you heard something to suggest the opposite, my friend, Min?” She cocked her head. “This would be valuable news.”
“Rumor only, born of bored speculation. I have a friend, an outlander, who scarce believes the Sepheri ever existed.” I spoke, of course, of Kellach, but could not refer to him by name. In places of magick, the Blind did not exist. “I thought I would show him evidence of his ignorance.”
“Most of the ruins were drowned in the sea.” She wrinkled her nose in a most distracting way. “Fisherfolk always bring up strange things, especially after the sea rages.”
“I had heard the Duke’s first wife died of the blood flux, and that often betokens Sepheri meddling.”
Veneceana smiled. “But it was not the blood flux, friend Min. It was the black flux. The mother brought her child to me, desperate that he survive. I did what I could, and he grew well. It had all taken a toll on his mother, however, and she succumbed. The uncle took charge of the boy and raised him as his own.”
I studied her more closely, but either her magick could not be penetrated, or the years had been very kind to her.
“I am sorry, Min, that you shall disappoint your friend. A caution, however. It is seldom wise to seek what the past has buried. The Sepheri are gone, and the sooner they are forgotten, the better.”
I was ready to be well away from there, but Kellach stopped in the street and loosened his trousers. Without ceremony, and with a certain apparent satisfaction, he urinated on the sanctuary door. The stream disappeared into the illusion, then flowed steaming into the trickle at the alley’s heart.
“I meant you no disrespect, Kellach. There are protocols.”
He tied his trousers up again. “I know there are Sepheri. I have killed Sepheri. I told you the mother died of the black flux, not blood flux.”
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see.”
“I had it from the Duke.”
My eyes narrowed. “He did not see, either. He was in Aviantis. I recall the year of mourning.”
My companion’s face darkened. “The boy blames the father for his mother’s death?”
“Or fears a reconciliation between Hastatean and the Iron Duke. He must know he is a disappointment.”
“Possible.”
“Many things are possible.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Where do I find Nitidean?”
“Scarlet Crow or Cloven Snake.” He pointed back toward the market and hills beyond. “Come.”
“I’ll find it.”
He frowned at me.
“I want to study him covertly, my friend. You will attract notice.”
He laughed. “And you shall not?”
“You should remember, my friend, that I can be very good at not being seen.”
It didn’t require a Wurmhound to sniff out the Scarlet Crow. The largest public house at the base of the nobles’ hill district, it allowed the blooded and the moneyed to mix. Intrigue ran thicker than pipe smoke and darker than candle soot. Wine came in bottles instead of pitchers. Food arrived on individual plates, not heaped on platters to be fought over like carrion. The doorpost’s chalked notice advertised “an entertainment” by Nitidean for that evening, so I found myself a quiet corner and settled in to wait.
I’d met the Duke’s younger son in Aviantis, though I did not know him socially. I had seen him in action and thought well of him. He’d led troops bravely and only suffered disgrace when the priests of several Orders conspired against him. Even though that conspiracy had become common knowledge, the Duke, acting at the behest of the King, had no choice but to recall his son and replace him.
Hastatean had made no effort to hide his hatred for his father, but I had a hard time believing he’d use a Bloodlock to kill him. Most soldiers despised Bloodlocks since they have been used to keep conscripts in line. He might have opted for it to humiliate his father, but Hastatean had always seemed interested in honor and fighting, not resting on his laurels as so many other leaders were. While his demotion could have unhinged him, he’d always seemed too strong for that.
Assassins and women favor poison, but Bloodlocks take too long to work. The whole point of one is to get someone to realize they’re in danger and that they need to do something to rectify the situation. But there was no behavior to rectify, so the only use of the Bloodlock could have been to cause the Duke to dread his impending death.
The daughter, whose future lay coupled with that of a prince in Akkanis, would benefit little from her father’s death. In fact, his death would hurt her, as he would not be able to support her at court. And his wife seemed little likely to want him dead. For most women—if they act when passions are running high—can kill but usually do so quickly.
An angry wife will feed you spoiled mussels laced with arsenic and offer hemlock to wash it all down.
Though he arrived quietly, Nitidean stood out from the crowd. The elder son lived down to Kellach’s description, to which I added a pasty complexion and lifelessly straight black hair. Had one stuck his feet in the ground, watered him and weeded, in ten years he might have grown into Kellach, but a decade of sunshine could not have erased his mournful expression.
Clad head to toe in black, save for a lapis pectoral that matched his eyes, Nitidean took his place behind a podium. He unlaced a thick folio and sorted through yellowed leaves. His audience grew quiet, save for those who gossiped concerning other attendees or shared hopes that an old favorite might be repeated.
Kellach had decried him as a poet, not a bard; and the source of his disdain made itself readily apparent from the first. Nitidean’s voice grated, equal parts of a trapped mouse’s squeals and the yowls of a gutted cat. The sounds did resolve themselves into words, but they seemed almost randomly chosen. He paid no heed to rhyme or meter. Likewise I found no story or moral in his work.
I do recall one piece:
Sun’s shadow fades,
Night’s black glows fastly hot.
A leaf curls to no purpose.
I have heard entertainers opine that one should leave the audience wanting more, but I doubt this is what they meant. The audience seemed willing to supply “the more,” in whispered speculation, confident interpretation, and lusty applause.
It made no sense to me, which prompted the mistake of looking about for any sign of comprehension among my companions. In short, I abandoned the attempt to remain unseen. This brought a servant in my direction but also attracted other unwanted notice.
A strongly built man crossed the room and took the chair beside me. “And why would you be here, Min? I had heard you’d been dropped in Akkanis.”
“You honor me by remembering me, Lord Hastatean.”
“And you dodge my question.”
“I am here as you, my lord, to hear the poet’s work.” I smiled, piercing the First Veil. Nothing out of the ordinary. The serpentine scar on his cheek had healed nicely. I rather liked that he’d not paid some wizard to fashion an illusion to hide it.
“Come to see my brother, have you? The monster?”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Look at him. Weak as you, yet has none of your skills.”
With my eyes Veiled, I did see a glamour cast on his pectoral. It made Nitidean appear more noble, which he certainly needed. His shoulders slumped a bit without it and one eye drooped, but I really expected nothing more.
“It would appear, my lord, that he has those who appreciate his gifts with the arts.”
“They will find his gibberish cold comfort the day he ascends to my father’s position.”
“A day far in the future, surely.”
“By all the gods, yes, a long way in the future.” He stood and waved his half brother over. The poet stared blankly for a moment, then came like a dog. He clutched a single page that trembled mightily. “Nitidean, this is Min, late of Aviantis.”
“Most pleased, Master Min.” The
man bowed, then shoved the page toward me.
“I couldn’t.”
“It would please me greatly.”
I took it. His hands were as soft and gentle as the script in which the poem had been written. I glanced at it, reading but not comprehending, then rolled it up tightly. “You are most generous, my lord.”
“I please people as I can.” He smiled, then glanced at his brother. “I shall read more?”
“Yes, please.” The flash of pain on Hastatean’s face mocked the lighter tone of voice.
Despite his brother having withdrawn to the front of the room, I whispered. “Why are you here?”
“There are those who would do him harm. Those here see him as a genius. Others regard him as an imbecile who will rule over them someday. They would eliminate him. I will not have that.”
“Even though he is your competition?”
“I may hate my father, but I respect the law. By birth he is my superior. If he comes to harm, Skorpanis comes to harm. I will not have it.” He gave me a nod and withdrew.
I resumed my anonymity.
The vehemence of Hastatean’s words meant one of two things. Either he had no part in his father’s murder, or the man had practiced long and hard at acting. The Veiled glance detected no glamours that affected his voice or made his expression more sincere, enchantments not uncommon among actors, which is why, as a class, they are held in such low esteem. After all, their only chore is to add emotion and sincerity to the words of others, and if they cannot do that without sorcery, then they are nothing.
But Nitidean’s career as a poet did not really position him much higher in Skorpantine society. Though many sons and daughters of the lesser nobility found their way into “the arts”—not including magick—that was not usually permitted for those in line to inherit. Nitidean’s appearance there, though pleasing to some, was the black flux to any political career.
Why the Duke indulged his first son in such a pursuit I could not imagine. Another father might have done it out of love since the son seemed so devoted to his art. Guilt, perhaps, that he’d not been present as the boy grew up. I couldn’t be certain. I had to ask the Duke. His answer might be what provided a solution to the puzzle.
Unusual Suspects: Stories of Mystery & Fantasy Page 6
