Shadow's Son

by Jon Sprunk

  It didn't take him long to learn about the messy underside of city life. For a young boy with no family and no prospects, the city was a frightening place. He slept in alleyways and inside piles of garbage. A stack of discarded shipping crates provided shelter for almost a month until the street cleaners took them away. He moved from place to place, always hungry, always searching for his next meal. If he thought he was safe from harm amid the bustle of the city, he learned better the first time he encountered a street gang. He'd been rooting through a barrel of half-rotten apples when cutting laughter erupted behind him. A dozen older boys surrounded him. As a lesson for trespassing on their territory, they beat him bloody. After that, he learned to avoid them. He snuck like a rat through the slums with Kit, his only companion.

  But if the street toughs were dangerous, the tinmen were worse. The bully boys only wanted your food and whatever you had hidden in your pocket, and maybe to rough you up a bit. Yet when he was dragged into a backstreet by two looming guardsmen after stealing a pomegranate from a vendor's stall, he knew with sinking certainty they wanted more than to thrash him. While Kit swatted ineffectually at their heads, one held him fast while the other ripped open the laces of his breeches. He struggled, but they cuffed him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. A white-hot ember of rage burned in the pit of Caim's chest as he remembered that day, but also a thread of euphoria, for no sooner had the guards begun pawing at him with their big, clumsy hands than something erupted inside him. At first, he thought he was going to be sick as the feeling bubbled in his belly. Then, the colors of the waning day faded before his eyes. As he was turned onto his stomach, a new spectrum of shades emerged from the bleak drabness of the alley, blacks and grays of marvelous, vivid tones. While his tears mingled with the dust beneath his face, something extraordinary happened.

  A shadow moved.

  He had seen shadows move before, when a cloud passed in front of the sun or the object casting the shadow shifted, but this shadow stretched out from under a heap of broken boards like a black tentacle of tar. Strangely, he wasn't afraid as it oozed toward him, and the guardsmen were too distracted to notice. One held him down by the shoulders while the other tugged down his pants. Caim didn't recoil; he wanted to know what it was, this crawling, amorphous darkness. When it touched his hand, he yelped as a sensation of burning cold slid over his skin, like dipping his hand into a bucket of ice water. More shadows crawled into the light, swarming over the alleyway until Caim couldn't see the ground under his nose. The guardsman holding him down shouted and let up enough for Caim to wriggle. He kicked and scratched. When a hand seized his face, he bit down hard until warm, salty blood filled his mouth. A strangled scream pierced the gloom, and then he was free.

  He didn't hesitate, but hitched his breeches around his waist and ran. Fear thundered in his ears with every stride.

  Caim let the memory fade away as he turned his footsteps toward High Town. Two things were clear to him. First, he couldn't risk using his powers until he figured out what had happened at the Vine. He couldn't risk losing control. And second, he would avoid contact with the Azure Hawks for the time being. Those decisions made him feel a little better. Then he remembered that he'd left his cloak back in the taproom.

  Caim hunched his shoulders against the night's chill and hurried through the umbrageous byways of the city. Yet the haunting images of his past followed him down every street.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caim awoke to the faint glow of dawn. Long shadows crept across the floor of his bedroom. Two plum pits and a crust of rye bread lay on the nightstand.

  Remnants of a dream lingered in his head. The same old dream. The burning house. The corpse-strewn yard. The same questions without answers.

  Caim blew out a long sigh and got up. After his ablutions, he went to the cabinet and pulled out his work clothes.

  Kit appeared behind him as he climbed into his breeches. “I like the view. Ready yet?”

  “Almost.”

  Caim tucked a black hood and a pair of soot-blackened gloves into his belt. He didn't anticipate any difficulties tonight. He had studied the workup supplied by Mathias. An old man with no guards; a simple enter-and-kill and he'd be gone before the clock on Septon Chapel struck midnight. He strapped on his knives and settled a medium-length cloak, the color of old dishwater, over his shoulders. He'd let his whiskers grow; the stubble would make his face more difficult to distinguish in the dark.

  He turned around to see Kit, levitating above his bed. She wore a short emerald dress. Sparkles danced across her chest.

  “I confess,” she said. “I still don't understand why you're going along with this. Even after throwing most of your money away, you've got enough to last for weeks, maybe months the way you live.” Her eyebrows rose in wry disapproval as she looked around the apartment.

  He didn't feel like a debate. His mind was already working the job, combing through the details for anything he might have missed, checking every angle for flaws.

  “Mathias was in a bad spot. I took the job as a favor. What else is there to say?”

  “And when has that overstuffed bladder ever done you any favors? He treats you like a half-trained wolfhound. He snaps his fingers and you jump to do his bidding.”

  Caim grabbed the rest of his gear and headed for the door. “You know better than that.”

  Kit flipped her hair as she followed after him. “All right, I don't want you to go out tonight. There's a strange vibe in the city.”

  Caim paused at the door. He had felt something when he first woke up—a raw, indeterminate feeling of dread. He hadn't dwelt on it, chalking it up to anxiety about tonight's work, but now it returned, stoked by Kit's words.

  “What kind of vibe?”

  “I don't know. It's just a bad feeling, okay? It doesn't matter. Let's just go. I'm tired of watching you fidget.”

  “I wasn't—” He took a deep breath. “Fine, I'm ready.”

  “Good. See you outside.” She sank through the floor.

  Sometimes I wish she was real. Caim undid the locks securing his door. So I could wring her pretty little neck.

  He peered out. The hallway was empty. He pulled the hood of the cloak over his head as he slipped down the corridor.

  Kit joined him on the city's mist-shrouded streets. She whistled an eerie tune while she skipped beside him. It sounded like a funeral march. He considered asking her to shut up, but knew it would only encourage her to whistle louder. At least it was a good night for working. A blanket of clouds occluded the stars. The moon peeked out every few minutes, only to be hidden again behind the shroud of dark.

  He took a roundabout way to the target as a matter of habit. There were few pedestrians about. As winter approached and the days grew shorter, people tended to make their way home earlier, but Caim enjoyed the brisk weather. People closed their minds to the outdoors when the temperature dropped; sentries spent more time seeking warmth than manning their posts.

  He paused at the Processional. The broad avenue continued downtown to the Forum. The minarets of prayer towers jutted above the stately roofs of government buildings, all silent at this hour. Beyond them and taller still rose the unfinished towers of the new cathedral. Fires burned at the zenith of every overlook, proclaiming the supremacy of the True Church for all to see.

  Caim crouched behind the weathered statue of a dead civic hero festooned with pigeon droppings as a patrol of night watchmen marched along the thoroughfare. Their spear butts struck the ancient cobbles like the hooves of a forty-legged beast. When they passed from sight, he darted across, just another gray shadow in the twilight. A six-foot wall ran along the other side of the street, intended to keep out the riffraff, but it was broken by so many gates and posterns, most of them unguarded, as to make for no barrier at all. Once on the other side, he was inside High Town.

  Caim kept to the smaller avenues and avoided the wider boulevards that crisscrossed the burg like the warp and weft of a weaver's l
oom. Glass lamps lit the tree-lined streets. Mansions of stone and timber stood silent behind tall gates. Caim passed a party of nobles attended by linkmen and bodyguards at an intersection, but they paid him no mind. With his stooped shoulders and quick steps, he was just another servant attending to his master's business.

  “Where are we going, anyways?” Kit stopped to tickle the whiskers of a stray tomcat. The animal followed her, which meant it trailed behind Caim like a lost child. He resisted the urge to boot it over a fence.

  “Esquiline Hill.” He indulged her, hoping some conversation might make her forget about the stupid cat.

  Instead, she blew in its tufted ears, which made the animal yowl like a wounded groundhog.

  “You're coming up in the world, Caim. I hope you were smart enough to demand a bushel of money. Hey! Maybe we could stay in the house for a couple days after the job. It would be nice to hang out someplace livable instead of that shack you call a home.”

  “I'm not sticking around afterward,” he replied.

  “Spoken like a true man, gone as soon as the deed is done. Why not stay? I doubt the owner will protest after you cut his throat. If you're squeamish, we could just avoid the room with the body. We'd have plenty of space—”

  “You're a nut. You know that?”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  As they started up the long incline of Esquiline Hill, the homes became larger, each more opulent than the one before. Their walls glistened in ivory and salmon marble, unstained by the city's ordure. Smooth pavestones replaced the street's cruddy brick.

  Caim went over the job in his head. Two days wasn't much time, but he had put it to good use. He had located the target's home, a three-story Graccian-style manse at the apex of Founders Circle, and spent most of the first night casing the site. The house had a gloomy look. Tall windows gaped in the dark stone façade like empty eye sockets. A high wall encircled the property. The gate was a gaudy monstrosity of wrought iron.

  “This is nice.” Kit floated up to peek over the wall. “A lot nicer than that old barn you live in.”

  “Just get inside and take a look around, will you?”

  With a smirk in his direction, she walked through the stone. Caim ducked into a spacious alley between the wall and the next property, a similarly impressive mansion. Around back he found a servants’ entrance, a simple wooden gate secured from the inside. In less than a heartbeat, Caim was over it and crouched on the other side. He listened for signs of alarm, but the yard was silent. True to the report, there were no sentries and no dogs, for which he was grateful. Even though his information explicitly stated the target owned no animals, Caim had brought a pouch of pepper-laced meat just in case. No lights showed in any of the windows.

  Caim darted across the yard. The outer face of the house was stone brick. His information suggested forcing the rear door and stealing up the inside of the house. Detailed plans of the building were included in the packet, with the stairs and entry points clearly marked. The target's chambers were situated in the northeast corner of the top floor. The only servant, a middle-aged butler, bunked on the second floor. While it was a sound plan, Caim had discarded it at once. Forcing doors was a noisy affair, which meant an added chance of attracting attention. Plus, he didn't like anyone telling him his business.

  As he crouched in the lee of the house, he reached into his satchel for a bundle of thin rope. He portioned out a loop and tied a slider knot. A grappling hook wouldn't bite on the slate shingles and would make an awful clatter, but like most large homes the roof of this manse sported several chimneys. Caim hurled the lariat up and over the lip of the roof. On the third throw it caught on something. Caim tugged several times and the line held. He had a solid anchor. After one last glance about the yard, he went up the line hand over hand.

  He found Kit at the top, lounging on the canted tiles.

  “Are you going to take all night?” she asked.

  Caim gathered up the rope behind him. He left it coiled around the chimney stack it had snagged on. “I thought you wanted to stay a bit.”

  She sat up. “Can we? It's really beautiful inside! You have to see this crys—”

  “Any guards?”

  Kit huffed and laid back on the rooftop. Her hair spread out beneath her head like a silver pool. “No.”

  “Is the servant asleep?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You didn't check?”

  “Of course I did. All the lights are out and no one is moving.”

  “Good.”

  Caim ignored Kit's glare and crossed the tiles. At the northeast corner, he lowered himself onto his belly and leaned over the edge. The window he wanted was directly below his perch. He swung his legs over the side, lined it up as best he could, and let go.

  He landed on the pitched gable protecting the window with barely a sound. From there it was an easy shimmy down to the casement. Caim stepped out onto the narrow stone shelf projecting from the windowsill with care. With some old houses, the masonry was weak and prone to collapse. But it held.

  The shutters were closed and secured from the inside. Caim took a thin steel bar from his belt and slid the hooked end between the wooden doors. After a moment of searching, he snagged the latch and lifted it out of the catch. The hinges swung open without protest. The window was closed, but not locked. Caim pushed the misted panes open far enough to slip inside.

  He paused as his soles touched down on the floor of a hallway, one hand under his cloak to grip the hilt of a knife. This was the most precarious moment. Had his entrance been heard? He listened for sounds of movement, for the sharp intake before a cry was given. Even an old man could raise a hue, and in this neighborhood the tinmen would come running. Fortune favored him tonight. All was quiet.

  The hallway ran the width of the top floor and joined with a staircase winding down to the levels below. The target's room was the third door on the right. Caim crept across the hardwood floor and paused at the first door to listen. According to the packet, the target's daughter was a child of five. She should be sound asleep at this hour, but children could be unpredictable. The crack under the door was dark and no sounds issued through the wooden panels, but Caim stood at the door for several moments. He didn't like the idea of harming innocents, especially children. Yet by his actions tonight he would be making an orphan of this girl.

  I'm serving the greater good. The target was a vicious man who had earned death a hundred times over. The daughter would be better off without him. Sure. That worked out well for Duke Reinard's son, right? Caim put the thoughts out of his head as he continued to the third door, the master suite.

  He drew his right-hand knife, turned the knob, and eased the door open. By the orange glow that emanated from the stone hearth, he could make out the details of the long room, which was larger than his entire apartment. A four-poster bed against the far wall dominated the floor space, but there was room enough for a large desk and chair, a sideboard, and rosewood cabinets. The bed was empty, its blankets flat against the tall mattress.

  Caim turned his head very slowly until he located his target, slouched in a chair beside an antique desk. Wisps of white hair rose above the seat back.

  Caim glided across the bedchamber floor and yanked the head upright by the hairs with his free hand. The suete knife came up. Its point hovered as Caim stared down at his victim.

  He could not believe his eyes.

  “Can we go now? Please?”

  Kit sat on the desk and regarded the old man's body. She'd appeared moments after Caim's discovery. Upon hearing that it hadn't been him who put the victim's lights out for good, she had lost her zest for sticking around, but he wasn't ready to go, not until he made sense of this.

  Was another contractor working the same job? This was a good score and there were plenty of knives looking for work. Throat-slitting had been a time-honored tradition in Othir since the days of the emperors, long before Caim had set foot within the city limits. The vicio
usness of Nimean politics was legendary throughout the world, and it hadn't lost any of its ferocity with the rise of the Church. But Mathias usually made sure he had exclusive rights before farming out an assignment. In fact, he was obsessive about such things. It was just good business.

  Caim leaned against the victim's desk. Curled sheets of parchment were stacked on the cherry surface, held down by brass equestrian paperweights. The inside of a glass tumbler was smeared with a glazy film. He smelled it. Ground fennel root, a tonic for headaches. A ceramic frame rested on the shelf above the desktop with the portrait of a young girl with striking green eyes. She sat in an elegant pose, black tresses curled around her heart-shaped face, gloved hands folded upon her lap.

  Caim looked back at the old man. He didn't look much like a fabled general. He more resembled a scholar with his long, somber features and aquiline nose. The loose folds of his nightgown showed where his chest had been hacked open. Hacked was the operative word. The cuts looked like they had been made with a meat cleaver.

  He bent down closer. Some blood was pooled in the old man's lap, but not nearly enough for such a traumatic injury. And the carpet beneath the seat was dry except for a few coin-sized dots of blood. The victim's eyes were open wide, the muscles in his face tensed. Both hands hung straight down at his sides. No signs of rope burns, but rings glittered on both hands, one gold band set with a large beryl. Caim frowned. A Gutter-bred thug wouldn't have missed those pieces, which would bring a good price at any fence in the city. There were no other signs of distress, so either the old man had been taken unawares, or he had let his killer do the bloody work without a struggle.