Unusual Suspects: Stories of Mystery & Fantasy

by Dana Stabenow

  Other Veiled glances revealed nothing out of the ordinary—ordinary including a few benign glamours that thickened thinning hair, made bosoms appear larger or bellies smaller. From the glow half of them came from unguents smeared on the appropriate body part. Once again, I made a mental note to work out a pomade that would actually grow hair and thereby make my fortune.

  The crowd began to thin. Hastatean had vanished, and Nitidean sat with fawning courtiers. The hour-candle had burned down toward midnight. I thought about returning to my home for sleep, but none would come. So if I was not going to be sleeping, no reason the Duke should. His sons knew I was here, so the need for secrecy evaporated. I’d let him yell at me for being discovered, then I would have answers to my questions.

  Skorpanis’s second city, Dedecian, is large enough for most people, but I grew up in Aviantis, the city where worlds met. The whole of Dedecian could have fit into the slums, and in many points would have fared worse by comparison. The Aviantine Spice Market alone dwarfed the whole of Dedecian’s market.

  Thus it was with big-city arrogance that I traveled dark byways with little sense of danger. I hiked through alleys, and they must have anticipated me. One followed, cutting off my retreat, while two others, slightly winded, emerged from shadows in an apartment building’s courtyard. One tugged a dagger from the sheath at the small of his back. No magick, just razored steel.

  I slipped the coin-pouch from my belt and tossed it toward him, playing my part in the charade. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

  “Alas, we are paid to hurt you.”

  I reached past the Second Veil, summoning a fistful of power. While my hands are tiny, beyond the Veils they are like shovels. I cloaked myself in shadow and slid left, avoiding the man coming at my back. He raced past harmlessly, then with his compatriots, pulled his headband down over his eyes and spoke a word of power.

  I needed no magesight to reveal that enchantment. They could see me, perhaps as nothing more than a glowing blob, but I wasn’t hidden. They came on, filling both hands with daggers and the courtyard with their laughter.

  I reached back, pulling double handfuls of power. I clapped them together. They erupted in a gout of flame that took the leader square in the chest. He bounced back, a living torch, and slammed into a wall. His compatriots reeled away, then darkness stole back in.

  “You don’t want to hurt me.”

  The leader gasped, then sat up, which summoned a gasp from me. He slapped both hands to his chest, powdering what was left of his tunic. He came up to one knee, unconcerned that his trousers had similarly been reduced to ash. He recovered one of his daggers, then a white smile split his soot black face.

  He waved a confederate forward. “Your turn.”

  The man made a show of twirling his daggers and drew one back to throw. He smiled.

  Then the ax split his smile.

  The other two, blood-spattered, stared at the twitching corpse. Daggers clattered musically on cobblestones. Somehow they knew I couldn’t have thrown that ax. They’d been prepared for danger, well prepared, but they were expecting magick and that ax was anything but.

  Silent as a Wurmhound bounding after prey, Kellach burst into the courtyard. He closed the gap in a heartbeat. The short sword swung in a brief arc. More musical daggers accompanied the thump of a head. A cry for mercy gurgled into silence, then he stood there, sword dripping, watching, waiting, preternaturally aware.

  A cart hurriedly creaked past in the streets. Kellach started for it, pausing only to wrench his ax from the first assassin’s skull.

  I called for him to hold and wiped blood from my face. “Don’t bother. It’s just a carter. He’ll have three goats in cages. One of them will be roasted.”

  My friend glowered silently.

  I slipped from shadow and knelt beside the man I’d burned. A leather collar had slipped from his neck stump. It was unremarkable save that it had a single broken link hanging from it. A Veiled glance suggested nothing more than I expected it would.

  Kellach, squatting, grunted. “Scapegoat.”

  “Exactly.” The goats would have worn identical collars, cut from the same leather. The links would have once been paired. The magickal energy I’d unleashed had passed through the chains, roasting the goat instead of the man. While not unknown, scapegoat magick was not easy to do, which was why its use had surprised us at Aviantis.

  I stood, which did not remove me nearly far enough from the carnage. “This confirms three things. First, a magician is involved here. Second, my identity has revealed to this person that I’m a threat. Unfortunately, this is not terribly illuminative.”

  Kellach grunted.

  It always amused him when I used words bigger than myself. Much of my education had been in the Imperial High tongue, so I tended to think in it. Thinking was not doing me much good, however, since I’d not narrowed the field down to any suspects.

  I smiled. “The third thing is that you’re getting very good at concealing yourself in a city. I had no idea you were following me all evening.”

  “I wasn’t.” He tore the tunic from one of the other bodies and wiped his weapons off. “I was sent to fetch you.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “The Duke is dead.”

  If not for the black veins and his skin’s ashen hue, Duke Darikean might simply have been sleeping on the daybed. They’d laid him out in the villa’s central sunroom, with his feet toward dawn and his arms crossed over his breast. The rectangular slit in the roof would allow the sun to wash down over him, first touching his face, then caressing his body. For one last time it would warm him, then, that night, he would be burned.

  The veins, which spiderwebbed his body and contrasted with the white scars, gave the illusion he’d died of the black flux. The fluxes—the black flux being the worst of those occurring naturally—unbalanced humors, creating a vile venom. The poison affected nerves, occasionally agitating them but most often dulling them. With the black flux, the victim’s lungs become paralyzed. The victim suffocates.

  Whoever had created the Bloodlock had wanted the Iron Duke dead in the worst way. While I doubted the ring had actually caused the disease, I had no desire to get close to the corpse. His pet wizard could stand vigil there if he wanted to, but I would keep my distance.

  I’d seen enough disease close up in Aviantis, and my magicks had never been strong in the healing arts. I dabbled, but such diseases required more powerful magicks.

  Cloaked and hooded in mourning dress, Darikean’s wife and daughter sat in a corner weeping, holding each other. No distasteful keening, that would come later when professional mourners arrived. For now the simple and heart-wrenching sobs of true anguish serenaded the dead man, and I almost felt sorry for him.

  My hatred for him had been born in the destruction of Aviantis. Perhaps I knew, deep inside, that the siege would have succeeded eventually, but who can watch the city of his birth die without wanting another week or month or year for it? His choice to abandon Aviantis likely did have to be made, and might have been the correct one. I couldn’t accept it, however, as my hatred kept my grief at bay.

  Nitidean arrived, took one look at the corpse, and became even more pale. Still in black from his performance, he joined the women. He had the presence of mind to remove the pectoral before he embraced them. His sobs joined theirs, and his voice seemed somehow sweeter.

  Then, deeper in the villa, someone screamed. I ran from the room, once again following Kellach. I don’t know if the others heard, but none followed us immediately. We raced through a garden courtyard, chipped marble crunching like snow beneath our feet. A serving woman lay huddled on the ground crying outside a far door. Kellach ignored her and stopped in the doorway.

  I slipped past easily enough. Hastatean slumped in a chair with a short sword plunged hilt deep in his belly. I pierced the First Veil but saw no magick lingering on him or the blade. I caught a glow in the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look, there was nothing
odd on the desk where he sat.

  “Kellach, bring me that chair. Put it next to the desk, please.”

  The Cengar complied, then lifted me onto the seat. I studied the desktop carefully, but again saw nothing I’d not expect to find there. Hastatean had written out a suicide note. He’d sealed it at the bottom, but left it open for anyone to read.

  Consumed by hatred, I murdered my father. I have not been a man since he humiliated me. Consumed now by guilt, I must render judgment unto myself. I pray to be forgiven and beg to share the flames of the man I have so unjustly murdered.

  “He should be thrown to the dogs.” The Cengar growled.

  “A priest will appreciate his remorse and—with promises of the proper sacrifices—will grant his last wish. It will preserve the family’s dignity. Hastatean will have killed himself out of grief over his father’s death, but will have saved everyone the melodrama of throwing himself on the pyre.”

  “Paper lies and appearances are for fools. The gods know the truth.”

  Paper lies. Something sparked in the back of my mind. I set the suicide note aside, then pulled a fresh piece of paper from the folio and inked a pen. I handed both to Kellach.

  He stared at them as if I’d given him an old viper or a newborn babe.

  “Write down what you see on the note.”

  “I am not a scribe.”

  “Don’t write it. Draw. Make an exact copy—every line, every dot.”

  He gave me a hard look.

  “Kellach, this is no lark.” I moved a candle to better illuminate the note. “Your copy will tell us who killed both father and son. After that, we’ll have to stop them from killing again.”

  We emerged in minutes from Hastatean’s chamber with the evidence of Nitidean’s perfidy firmly in hand. Kellach reproduced the text faithfully, as he saw it. It came out in Cengar runes, while the original had been written in the Imperial High script. The Cengar insisted Hastatean had written in his language, and I felt equally as strong about High Imperial, and this exposed the whole matter.

  The glamours had been spectacular work. The spells were designed to avoid casual discovery, hence a simple Veiled glance revealed nothing. Moreover, the glamours led the viewer to see what he expected to see. It subtly confirmed innate prejudices. The suicide note read exactly the way I thought it should, which meant I’d have no impetus to question its validity.

  Once I realized what was happening, I took the glamour apart. The note’s text, while identical to what I’d read, had been written in a soft hand. And thanks to Nitidean’s gift, I had a sample for comparison.

  Nitidean, with his arms around both grieving women’s shoulders, stopped at the garden’s far edge. His dull expression evaporated. His hands slid up to their necks, then he shook them once, hard. Their necks popped, and their limp bodies fell away as the poet charged us.

  I could have used magick to strip the glamours from him, but Nitidean shed them in an eyeblink. The large-eyed poet burst through the illusion, doubling in height, tripling in mass. Crocodile flesh covered his body, all of it sand gold, save for black specks like pepper. His face had flattened, with his nose becoming slits and ears tiny holes. Fangs protruded from a scale-lipped mouth, and huge muscles rippled beneath the bony flesh. Hands and feet ended in blunt black talons that were never meant to tear, but would still do frightful damage to a man.

  And especially to one as tiny as I.

  I reached back beyond the Second Veil to summon power, but I had no idea what to do. It wasn’t that I didn’t have lethal magick available, but this was a tellek bicha, a sorcerous automaton of Sepheri manufacture. In creating them each was given a flaw that would make destroying it simple, if you knew what it was. Most were created for combat, so their flaw would be a chronologically limited life span, providing an easy way to retire your invincible army once you’d done all your conquering. This automaton had impersonated Nitidean for years, making it much more complex and powerful.

  It drove at me, spraying stones in its wake. A clawed hand rose. I decided on fire—always a good choice in combat—then remembered the Sepheri worshipped fire. I hesitated. I froze.

  I prepared to die.

  Then Kellach tackled the beast. It went down hard. Kellach rolled over its chest. His tunic caught on a fang and tore, spinning him around. He came to his feet in a heartbeat, then kicked Nitidean in the head.

  The tellek bicha hissed and came up, then swiped a paw at the Cengar. Kellach dodged back, then slashed with his short sword. Bones cracked, but no blood flew. The monster roared outrage that echoed threateningly throughout the villa. Undaunted, the Cengar darted forward and thrust the blade into the monster’s belly.

  The blade snapped.

  Nitidean swatted the Cengar down, then kicked him. My friend flew back, smashing into the villa’s wall. Plaster cracked and hunks of mural honoring the Duke rained down over his dead wife and daughter.

  The Cengar, crouching against the wall, wiped blood from his mouth. He slipped an iron dagger from a boot and sprang back into the battle. The tellek bicha raced at him, then plucked him from the air and hung on despite Kellach’s sliding the dagger beneath scales on its forearm.

  My mind sped through all I knew about Sepheri sorcery—a subject forbidden and hence much studied in every magick academy. In cases where imposture was planned, tightly linking the construct to the subject made the deception much easier to maintain. With Nitidean the switch had likely been made when he was a child, perhaps even an infant. And the best link would have been through flesh and blood, which meant the Sepheri had fed the child to the construct.

  Pulling power through the Veils, I sharpened my sight. Black-veined as his father’s had been, the infant’s body lurked within the scaled creature’s breast. His presence within that cyst would have rendered identification as the Duke’s son magickally unimpeachable. Since he was born while Darikean was in my city, such verification certainly would have taken place.

  The monster lifted Kellach high and squeezed. The dagger must have severed a nerve, for the thumb failed to punch through his breastbone. Kellach took the other thumb in both hands and pushed back. His muscles strained, and his face purpled. Veins stood out, but slowly the thumb inched toward his heart.

  But it would never get there.

  In discovering the creature’s origin, I’d also located its weakness. Though my skills at healing are not strong, I do know some spells. Gathering power in double handfuls, I funneled it into a spell that normally required only a tiny spark.

  The magick, which I saw as a tiny, sizzling needle, drilled through the monster’s armpit. Meant to lance simple boils, it burst the cyst around the infant corpse. The flux’s ebon bile poured into the tellek bicha’s body.

  Veins pulsed black throughout the creature’s flesh. The tellek bicha shuddered and faltered. The right leg collapsed. Nitidean slammed to the ground, scattering stone. Kellach bounced from nerveless fingers.

  The creature scrabbled weakly, clawing furrows through white marble. Its hisses grew shorter and weaker as blood dripped from its nostrils. A white membrane nictitated slowly over its black eyes.

  Kellach climbed to his feet, and leaped over a weak grab. He approached its head, grasping the jaw and skull.

  “Don’t bother. It will be dead in another minute.”

  Kellach’s muscles bunched. He wrenched. The neck snapped. “Why waste time?”

  “I agree. Nitidean was a construct. He substituted the ring, but he didn’t create it.”

  The Cengar nodded. “The sorceress?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” I stretched out on the ground. “I’m going for her. Wish me luck.”

  If he did, I don’t know. I closed my eyes and pulled myself through the Third Veil before his words ever had a chance to reach me.

  The realm beyond the Third Veil is a place of no set geography or climate. Some say it is the place where the gods dream. Others think it is the womb from which the gods sprang. I find neither idea c
omforting and consider both the musings of men who have too much spare time on their hands, none of which they’ve spent there.

  I emerged into a black landscape lit with lurid crimson lightning. Steaming rivers flowed past. Bodies bobbed in blood, and half-hidden creatures dragged them to the depths. Barren black bushes festooned with thorns dotted the landscape.

  I smiled, and a flower blossomed a brilliant yellow. Such was the world past the Third Veil. Reality was mutable and decided upon by mutual consent. I’d painted lots of it black since Aviantis fell.

  My flower wilted.

  Someone was really angry.

  I moved quickly, leaping the river with ease. As twisted and small as I am in the physical world, I stride through this realm like Kellach amid children. Such is the paradox of magick among men that, with a few exceptions, what you lack in the physical you gain in the magickal, leaving most people average in both realms and unable to pierce even a single Veil.

  I found her Lair with ease, and called it a Lair not because she was Sepheri. Those of sufficient skill can fashion their own worlds within the realm, and hers hung as a bright, shiny apple on a cinder-armed tree. Her magickal essence waited within.

  I reached up and let the apple rest in the palm of my hand. She stirred therein, a worm trapped in the fruit. She cultivated a sense of vulnerability to lure me in. To accept her invitation would be foolishness because whoever created the Lair governed the Lair. To fight her fairly I’d have to entice her to emerge.

  Then I remembered her glamours. The apple was bait, something I’d been expected to see, and that meant I was already in the trap. I tried to pull back, but the apple stuck to my hand, then the thorny branches wrapped round me, piercing me, and drew me into the tree’s heart.

  She made no attempt to conceal her form. From the waist up she was fully human and female if I chose to ignore her scaled flesh. Below, where legs should have been, her body coiled like a snake’s. She wore the sand gold she’d given Nitidean, though the speckles ran thicker on her neck, shoulders, and arms.