Wicked Ways: An Iron Kingdoms Chronicles Anthology

by Douglas Seacat

  Abigail frowned and stared at him, then said softly, “I understand why you did what you did. None of us have walked in your shoes.”

  Midwinter let loose a breath and his shoulders slumped. “I do feel better, having come clean. This position I hold now, it is very different from the life I led before. You would not recognize the man I was just two years ago. I would understand if you feel compelled to tell Princess Kaetlyn or King Julius. I will arrange for an audience, if you require. I will face the consequences.”

  After another tense pause, Abigail shook her head. “No, I do not see the need. As I told the princess, we are good at keeping secrets. You are our client. That means something in the Strangelight Workshop. I do hope, should you require our services again, that you will be more forthcoming.”

  He nodded and took her hand, clasping it in his. “Yes. You have my word. Thank you. And you can be assured I will call on you again, if there is need. I will also arrange for a substantial bonus to be delivered, given the cost this task has incurred. Speak to any of the guards if you have need of me or anything else before you leave.” With that he, too, took his leave, closing the door behind him.

  Abigail expelled a breath and looked around at them, shaking her head. “Well, that was something. You all did well. Very well.” She looked at Grimes. “I’m sorry if I discounted your concerns earlier. You were right to worry.”

  He smiled wryly back at her. “You were right to stick to the job. Tomas Mongrav would have liked you, I think.”

  “I’m sure I would have liked him as well.” She smiled.

  “Excuse me, Abigail,” Mel interjected, “but I was thinking…maybe we don’t need to rush back to Blackwell right away? I mean, we have a lot of spectragraphs to develop and analyze, reports to write. Maybe we could stay a few days? I think we’ve earned a vacation. After the funeral, of course.”

  The investigator gave a wry smile. “I don’t suppose anyone at Blackwell would be any the wiser if we were a couple days late. Let’s seize the opportunity while we can.”

  Only Elliot looked dubious about the prospect. Grimes couldn’t help chuckling at his expression. He clapped the caller on the shoulder. “Relax. The job is over, and we’ve earned some time off. Think of it this way—it’ll be a chance for you to see the Sancteum. The Archcourt Cathedral, Sancteum Seminary, all that. More holiness than you can shake a stick at.”

  Elliot was well aware Grimes was teasing him, but from the gleam in his eyes it was clear the idea held some appeal for him. “I’ve always wanted to see the Sancteum. Why not?”

  Grimes nodded, thinking all the while that there were a few special lost friends he’d like to say a few prayers for while they were on that holy ground. He felt certain their souls were doomed and would never know true rest, but a little prayer might help. Couldn’t hurt, anyhow. Just the same, the image of the soul stalker caressing and devouring the orb of light that had been Morley’s soul would haunt him for the rest of his days, he suspected. He forced that thought aside and smiled with the others. It was good to have a team, to have friends. He’d remember this moment and try to honor all of them, both the living and the dead, for as long as he could.

  — CASE 4 —

  THE REAPING

  By Matt Goetz

  Near Glynam in western Llael, late autumn

  MELANIE COLLINS SAT IN THE BACK of the rocking wagon next to a case of extremely dangerous, experimental, and, most of all, fragile Strangelight technology, wincing slightly with every bump in the irregular cobbles of the back country road.

  To avoid imagining the spectacular explosion that might consume her should one of the delicate instruments suffer catastrophic failure, Mel went back to her mental inventory of the contents of her large equipment case. Counting down the numerous spectragraph plates, Strangelight projectors, spare alchemical capacitors, and yard upon yard of spectrally shielded conduits calmed her nerves—slightly. Most of the items Cronan Bailey, the curmudgeonly quartermaster of Blackwell Hall, sent with them were delicate, but others were volatile if harshly jostled. Accordingly, Mel had packed everything into a rugged metal case, but despite her best efforts, or how carefully she repacked its contents at each stop during their journey, a few things kept getting rattled loose.

  Abigail and Elliot sat on the wagon’s bench. The investigator had her glasses on her forehead and was poring over numerous letters from a Workshop affiliate in Elsinberg who had requested aid from the Ceryl branch. The younger Elliot seemed to be enjoying his turn at the reins and had propped his boots up on the buckboard, trying to cut the very picture of a carefree wagoner.

  Elliot drove them over another series of dips and bumps, causing the contents of the case to rattle. Mel threw open the lid and snatched the single-use ectoplasmic disruptor mine out of it. This device concerned her above everything else. She inspected it for a moment and then sighed with relief. Bailey had warned her about the perils this little gadget presented should its containment housing be cracked, using colorful words like searing wounds and agony. Thankfully, it wasn’t damaged. After he had explained its use, she had begun to think of the thing as a “ghostbomb,” though Bailey would have taken umbrage with this term. Deciding not to risk putting it back in the case, she clipped the disruptor mine to one of the gear straps that crossed her chest.

  “Try to miss a couple, would you?” she said as she punched Elliot in the shoulder. He offered a sheepish grin in return and hauled back on the reins, slowing the horses.

  “Sorry.”

  To her right, John Kincaid rode up next to the wagon on horseback—or at least he tried to. In the brief time they’d had a horse for Kincaid, a dark brown dray purchased from a farmer outside Corvis, the animal had made it clear to the entire team that it considered itself firmly in charge of their particular relationship. It had dumped the bouncer twice in as many days and had bitten him when he offered it a fistful of grass as a peace offering. Kincaid renamed it “Bastard” to better match its disposition. Bastard tossed its head to shake free of the reins, making horse and rider weave a bit on the road.

  “If you’re sick of sitting in comfort,” Kincaid muttered, “I’d be happy to trade.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Mel lied by way of encouragement. She didn’t want to run the risk of the bouncer, his own mechanikal skill notwithstanding, messing with the gear and causing an apparitional energy cascade or some other improbable disaster.

  “The hell I am. I’m a Ceryl boy.” Kincaid frowned as his horse decided to veer off the road a bit more, threatening to drag him through the low branches of a willow. “If I wanted to get someplace, I’d take the Omnibus, not a damned horse.”

  Grimes rode up on the other side of the wagon with an ease that magnified Kincaid’s inexperience. The jammer had been with the Strangelight Workshop longer than even Mel herself, and she was glad for his presence. The minimal reports they’d received from Elsinberg were troubling, and she was apprehensive about traveling through an unstable region contested by multiple armies.

  “No street cars out here, Johnny.” Grimes offered a wry grin as he spurred ahead to check in with Elliot.

  Mel caught Kincaid’s eye and shrugged. “What can I say? He’s not wrong.”

  • • •

  THE ROAD AHEAD VANISHED in the ruined outskirts of what was once a sizeable town. The corners of walls and ruined spires of old buildings emerged from rolling hills of rubble. There were no intact buildings in sight—everywhere Mel looked, what few surfaces remained upright were pocked with countless bullet holes.

  “What happened here?” Abigail asked, eyes wide behind her glasses.

  “War,” Grimes muttered, nudging his horse to thread its way forward through the blast craters of artillery and the mounds of debris.

  Abigail sat back, miffed. “That’s obvious. But I received correspondence from our contact here when we stopped at Bainsmarket. That was less than ten days ago.”

  “War moves fast when it wants to.” Grimes s
canned the ruins around them. On the other side of the road, Kincaid approached a wooden sign riddled with holes as it swung from a chain looped through one corner.

  “Glynarth? Glynard? The end’s been shot off.”

  “Glynam. It’s where we were supposed to meet up with our local contact.” Abigail twisted around to face Mel. “Do you think Professor Orlyk made it out?”

  Mel shrugged, trying to keep doubt off her face. “Maybe? If he’s smart, he would have gone west. Maybe he’s in Merywyn?”

  Abigail’s face fell, her careful plans seeming to unravel. She had talked at length about the plan to skirt the city of Merywyn due to the former Llaelese capital’s intense Khadoran presence. Taking this back route north to Elsinberg seemed like the best choice at the time. Since the occupation of Llael’s western provinces five years ago, the Khadorans had maintained significant garrisons in larger cities, numbers which had only grown in recent months as Cygnaran forces pressed deeper into the nation, aiming to liberate their Llaelese allies. Mel had watched Abigail furiously scribbling letters to her professor friend before they set out on the journey, and now she felt bad that such careful planning had come to naught. None of their checking had suggested fighting in this area.

  “What have we gotten into this time?” Elliot asked as he looked at the destruction.

  Trying to be helpful, Mel said, “It could be worse. If the town’s gone, so’s the town watch. Who’s gonna stop us from slipping through and all the way to Elsinberg?”

  “Them, I think.” Kincaid raised his chin to indicate a group of figures emerging from the ruins of two crumbling buildings that flanked the street up ahead. Even from a distance, the figures’ long military coats and rifles were obvious—they were Khadoran Winter Guard. Most of a platoon, by the look of it. A few of the soldiers unslung their rifles as they advanced on the wagon. Each of them was covered with a layer of ash, dust, and mud that washed out their already drab blue-grey uniform coats and made the deep crimson of their armor a drab rust.

  “Bloody reds,” Grimes muttered. He’d made his feelings about the Khadorans clear to Mel on more than one occasion, usually after having a pint or two more to drink than was wise. He and Kincaid slowed their horses as Elliot coaxed the wagon to a stop. Abigail cautioned everyone to keep their hands where the soldiers could see them, and she stepped off the wagon, fixing a wide smile on her face. Mel had heard the investigator’s Khadoran before and knew it was better than anyone else’s. Mel could follow a conversation, ask for directions, and curse like a Port Vladovar sailor, but that was it.

  One of the Khadorans marched forward—he was a tall man in a tattered officer’s jacket. He barked an order to his companions, and they brought their weapons to their shoulders. Abigail froze and spoke rapid Khadoran, which the man cut off with flat Cygnaran.

  “You are southerners.” It wasn’t a question.

  “We are. We’re from Ceryl, invited by a Professor Orlyk of the Kolegii of Skrovenberg to join him in Glynam…”

  The man—a kapitan; Mel could see his rank insignia now—made a sweeping gesture at the ruins around them. “There is no Glynam. Your countrymen saw to it, four days ago.”

  Abigail kept her tone measured. “I’m very sorry, Kapitan—?”

  The officer let the question hang for a moment before answering. “Andreiko.”

  “Kapitan Andreiko. We can only guess at what happened here, but my associates and I are not affiliated with the Cygnaran military. We were to travel with Professor Orlyk to Elsinberg. Grimes, our papers, please?”

  The jammer urged his horse forward several steps as he slowly reached into one of his saddlebags. Despite his exaggerated caution, several of the Khadorans snapped their rifles around to aim at him. He raised one hand in a pacifying gesture and extracted between two fingers the leather folio containing the group’s travel papers. The kapitan walked up and snatched it away to examine its contents.

  As he read them, he shot questions at Abigail. “Who do you serve? What is your organization?”

  “It is a privately owned business.”

  “What is it? Answer my question.”

  “It’s called the Strangelight Workshop.” She winced.

  The kapitan’s eyes narrowed at the name, and he motioned for two of his soldiers to flank the wagon. “What is a Strangelight Workshop?”

  “We are independent scholars. Experts on esoteric mechanika, mystical ritual, burial rites, and so forth. As I said, we have no connection to the military. That folder also contains our correspondence with Professor Orlyk here in Glynam, a travel itinerary to Elsinberg, as well as a letter from one of our affiliates there. Our itinerary was approved by this township’s provisional mayor.”

  Mel was impressed with the young woman’s ability to remain calm and professional.

  “And I could check that approval, were the mayor not dead.” Despite the retort, the kapitan’s expression softened a bit as he flipped through the papers, absentmindedly chewing on his thumbnail as he looked them over. After several minutes of flipping back and forth, he seemed satisfied and jammed the contents back into the folio before tossing it at Grimes.

  “You may pass but not with those.” He pointed to the pistol on Abigail’s hip. “Your papers do not indicate you are contracted mercenaries. So, no weapons. You must remain on the road through Glynam. Do not step from it. Do not interfere with our fallen or attempt to recover your own.” He waved the group of soldiers forward, snapping off a command in his native tongue. The group fanned out, some keeping their rifles fixed on the team while the others moved to disarm them. Elliot and Mel were ordered off the wagon as the search began.

  Abigail was relieved of her pistol and Kincaid his truncheon—though Mel noticed that the tired soldier searching the bouncer missed the holdout pistol Kincaid kept in his sleeve. The pair who flanked the wagon pushed Mel and Elliot out of the way and climbed into the back, making her wince bit as they knocked their knapsacks and other personal effects aside. Inside their wire cages, Artis and the other cats growled in warning.

  Mel leaned in closer to the soldiers. “Careful. Some of that stuff is fragile. If you’re after weapons, there’s a scattergun in the pack on the left by the wheel.”

  She wanted to discourage them from digging around in the cases. Some of their gear could easily be mistaken as weapons by inexpert eyes; she’d much rather lose the scattergun than anything else they carried.

  One of the two Winter Guard, a thin woman with dark circles under her eyes, dumped the contents of the rucksack noisily to the wagon’s floor and procured the scattergun. She cocked an eyebrow at Mel.

  “In case of wolves,” Mel offered, which provoked a disinterested grunt from the other woman. After checking to ensure the weapon was unloaded, the woman tossed it down to a waiting soldier.

  Meanwhile, the other soldier toed open a gear case and began poking at its contents with his rifle. He revealed one of the Strangelight projectors and called down to the kapitan, “Mekhanizm. Tools. She’s mechanic.”

  All eyes turned to Mel as the officer pushed Abigail aside and shouldered through his men until he was in Mel’s face, glowering at her. On reflex, she raised her hands in defense as the officer spoke. “Your friend says you are scholars, yet my privat tells me you are a mechanik. Which is true?”

  “Who says I can’t be both?” Under other circumstances, Mel would have been more sympathetic to the man. She knew he had seen combat here and probably lost several of his subordinates in the process, but she couldn’t abide a bully. He was clearly trying to scare her into revealing something to him.

  Abigail forced her way closer before the officer could respond. “She’s our expedition mechanik. I told you, we use esoteric mechanika. We have a number of devices we use to measure and record data important to our work.”

  The kapitan cocked his head, listening to the investigator without taking his eyes from Mel’s. He nodded then grabbed the ectoplasmic disruptor mine clipped to Mel’s chest ha
rness and ripped it off, snapping the retaining strap and spilling some of her other tools to the dirt. She winced, half-expecting the device to explode. Thankfully, it did not.

  “Then I hope you do not need to measure anything with this,” Andreiko said. “It looks like a grenade. Perhaps a weapon you meant to keep from me?”

  Mel didn’t take the bait. It was clear Andreiko was needling her in the hopes she would react. To the man’s credit, the disruptor mine was technically an explosive, though not one intentionally designed to hurt the living. Like taking their weapons, though, its seizure was clearly intended to remind her that Andreiko and the Khadorans were in charge here.

  The officer looked around. “My men will finish searching, and then you will leave. If I see you off the road or lingering over the dead, I will assume you are spies looking for information to bring back to your mongrel king.”

  He didn’t need to say what would happen next. Mel already had a pretty good idea.

  • • •

  “BLOODY REDS,” MEL MUTTERED as she repacked the contents of her equipment case, echoing Grimes’ earlier complaint. Some of the packing material had been lost in the clumsy search. She’d lost one of her favorite projectors to a cracked lens and another to a bent housing that kept the array of lenses from spinning. Most of the rest was salvageable, though the more delicate components would need examination when the team arrived in Elsinberg.

  “That one with the broken nose tore the strap on my satchel when he grabbed it. What’s their problem with us, anyway?” Elliot asked.