The dead mage, now hale and unbloodied, stood beside the table, bent over an open book. He had the abstract look of a man deeply involved in research. He flipped to a different section, frowning. Abruptly he straightened and turned, a mixture of irritation and surprise on his face. He stepped forward, his mouth moving in silent question.
A dark blotch, man-high, appeared at the edge of the spell’s boundary. To Kiran’s surprise, the spot stayed blurred and dim, the edges wavering and flickering in a way that obscured all detail. The dark blur advanced. The mage catapulted backward, his back slamming against the table’s edge.
The mage’s mouth gaped in a scream. Blood sprayed as the great slashes appeared on his torso. Kiran forced himself to keep watching, to think analytically—what was causing the wounds? No blade touched the man, no glimmer of magic. The dark blur stood stationary a few feet from the mage’s contorting body. A blinding flash made Kiran squint and blink, shielding his eyes with a hand. When the flash subsided, the mage lay naked and dead, his eyes burned out. The dark blur remained.
The power pouring through the spell rose further. Colors within the image grew sharp, the light glaring in intensity. Energies writhed as Ruslan sought to force the dark figure into focus. Pain sparked along Kiran’s nerves. He winced and backed a step.
“You okay?” Dev’s voice was a distant mutter beneath the assault on Kiran’s senses.
Kiran nodded, not taking his eyes from the image. Colors bled and ran, flames arcing between the lines of blood beneath them. Ruslan was dangerously close to the limit of power the makeshift channels could contain. The dark spot remained a shadowed blur as it moved backward to disappear beyond the spell’s limit.
The air wavered, colors fraying, and the vision disappeared. Ruslan’s kneeling figure was once more visible on the pattern’s far side, his hands still planted on the floor. Ghostly flames guttered and subsided as Ruslan guided power safely back into stone.
Ruslan’s head bent. The channel lines crackled and vanished, leaving only faint dark stains behind. Blood crisped into ash on Mikail’s and Ruslan’s hands.
Mikail lowered his hands. Sweat streaked his face and darkened his sandy hair. Ruslan stood, his face impassive. He brushed ash off his fingers, the motions sharp.
“How very interesting.” Martennan strolled into Kiran’s field of view. “It would seem our mystery assassin is powerful indeed if he can block even the best effort of a blood mage.”
Kiran drew in a sharp breath. Ruslan would be in no good mood after the spell’s failure to reveal either the attacker’s identity or methods. The Alathian was a fool to bait him. He braced himself for a display of his master’s quick temper.
Ruslan ignored Martennan completely. He stood staring at the corpse, his eyes narrowed in thought.
“So…all that, and for nothing?” Dev watched Ruslan with a distinctly sardonic expression.
“Not entirely,” Kiran said slowly. He released his bracelets’ wards, his senses growing sharp again. “The spell confirmed that the killer’s magic is linked in some way to the confluence disturbances.”
Dev frowned. “It did? How?”
“The length of time for the energies to coalesce in the spell—it tells us the exact moment of death. That man died at the same time as a major upheaval in the confluence last night.” Kiran rubbed his hands over his wrists. A sudden sense-memory of magic crashing against his barriers as he sat startled in his bed washed over him. Disturbing, to realize at that very instant this man had died in agony.
“But then, what—” Dev stopped short as Ruslan broke from his stance and strode for the door. Kiran hurriedly backed from Dev, guilt flashing through him. Had he been too open with the nathahlen? Perhaps he should have refused to speak at all.
Ruslan swept past without a single glance, Mikail in his wake. Kiran hurried after them, across the circular receiving room and into a study lined with bookshelves. Inside, Edon stood watching the servant Torain, who sat in a chair clutching a charm in a white-knuckled grip and mumbling to himself.
“Move,” Ruslan snapped. Edon nearly fell over a chair in his haste to obey.
“What are you doing?” Martennan spoke from the doorway. Behind him, Kiran caught a glimpse of Dev, his eyes green slits and his mouth tight.
“Questioning him,” Ruslan said, and smiled, sharp as a blade. He laid a hand on the servant’s forehead.
Torain spasmed in the chair. A hoarse, ragged howl of pain erupted from him. The scream spiraled upward, agony building in it until Kiran desperately wanted to block his ears. Stop, he wanted to beg Ruslan; but he knew from experience such pleas would only anger Ruslan further. Mikail, screaming and convulsing, while Kiran shook with silent sobs, his tongue and body bound by magic sharp as thorns…His damaged memory yet retained plenty of childhood punishments.
Torain’s shrieks died away into a rattling gasp. Kiran risked a glance up and saw Torain slump forward, his skin gray and blood drooling from mouth and nose. Kiran hastily looked away, hoping his dismay didn’t show.
“As I suspected, useless,” Ruslan said. “He knows nothing of value.” He met Martennan’s eyes, still smiling. “However, I like to be thorough.”
Martennan’s face could have been carved from stone. “Will he survive?”
Anger lanced through Kiran. If Torain died, it was Martennan’s fault. Ruslan wouldn’t have been so vicious if Martennan hadn’t provoked him in the workroom.
Ruslan shrugged. “Doubtful. If he does, you’re welcome to question him yourself.”
Edon cleared his throat. “If I may suggest…if he does live, Sechaveh’s guardsmen should take him into custody. It would be, er, inadvisable for him to spread hysterical tales of demons among the lower districts of the city. The laborers can be so superstitious.”
“I suspect our assassin hoped to induce exactly that hysteria,” Ruslan said. “Whether he lives or dies, take the servant into custody. Inform the guardsmen that if any of them spread tales, they will answer to me.” He glanced at Martennan. “Stay if you wish; Edon will supervise. I see nothing more to be gained here without further research. Our meeting with Lord Sechaveh has been moved to tomorrow morning. Use the time until then in whatever way you see fit.”
With that, he stalked out, brushing past Martennan and Dev as if they didn’t exist.
As Kiran followed, Dev watched him pass. The guide’s eyes were hard, his expression dark. He wouldn’t be so friendly with Kiran any longer, not after he’d seen what an akheli like Ruslan could do. Regret welled up in Kiran. He struggled to stifle it. Why should the opinion of a nathahlen matter? Next time, Kiran would heed Ruslan’s warnings and keep his distance.
Chapter Eleven
(Dev)
The moment Ruslan left, Marten knelt by Torain’s slumped form. He gripped the man’s slack wrist and called for Jenoviann in a voice as brittle as frost-coated glass.
I dodged aside as Jenoviann rushed past. She stooped over Torain, her bony frame all sharp angles, and laid a hand on his bowed neck. I held my breath, remembering Halassian’s mention of Jenoviann’s years at the Sanitorium. I was proof of the Alathians’ skill with healing. Maybe Jenoviann could work a similar miracle with Torain.
My stomach sank when she shook her head. “Captain, the damage—I’ve never seen the like. Even if I can keep him breathing, I doubt I can repair his mind.”
“Try,” Marten ordered her. Jenoviann splayed her hands over Torain’s temples, her rings glowing silver. She began singing a soft, repetitive chant, her voice thin but surprisingly sweet.
Edon gave Marten a quizzical look. “You wish him to recover so you may question him? I searched his memories myself prior to Ruslan’s interrogation, and I made note of every visitor Torain admitted to the house in the last few months. Beyond that, I assure you that Ruslan was right: the man knew nothing of interest. Jadin Sovarias was not such a fool as to share his affairs with a mere servant.”
Marten rounded on Edon with a fire in his ey
es that near matched Ruslan’s. “Be that as it may, I trust you will not interfere with Lieutenant Jenoviann’s efforts. Lord Sechaveh gave me the freedom to investigate as I see fit.”
Almost, I cheered for Marten. Torain’s screams still echoed in my ears. He must’ve figured out pretty fucking quick he should’ve been more scared of the live blood mage in the room than some lurking demon. Yet foolish as he might’ve been, I prayed Jenoviann could save him.
Edon shrugged. “So long as the guards take him—or his body—into custody when we leave the house, do what you like with the man.”
Marten bowed, rigidly precise. “You say you made note of Jadin’s visitors. Perhaps you would share their names with my first lieutenant, along with any other knowledge you have of Jadin’s enemies and associates? I doubt the killer chose his victim at random.” He beckoned Lena inside the study.
“Of course,” Edon said. “While you, ah…?”
“The rest of my team and I will continue examining the workroom,” Marten said. “Our methods may yet succeed where Ruslan’s failed to uncover the killer’s identity.”
Edon bobbed his head and gave Lena a twitch of a smile. Yet as Marten left the room, Edon’s dark eyes followed him with a cool, measuring curiosity that made me all the more certain he wasn’t the incompetent he seemed.
Marten gestured for me to follow him, along with Talm and Stevan. Reluctantly, I trailed after them back into the gore-streaked workroom. The stench was less after Ruslan had used up so much blood in his spell, but the mangled corpse still made my stomach heave. I wished we could talk in the clean air of the courtyard, but Marten clearly meant to capitalize on Edon’s apparent squeamishness to hold a private conversation.
Once inside, Marten shut the door and faced me. “You spoke to Kiran. What did you learn?”
“Ruslan’s messed with his memories somehow. Kiran doesn’t remember us. Not me, not you…my guess is he doesn’t remember a damn thing from these last months.”
Marten closed his eyes briefly, the lines in his face deepening. “Only these last months? Or do you believe the gap extends longer?” The urgency of his tone surprised me. Made sense Marten would be upset over losing Kiran as a willing source of information, but I didn’t see why he’d care about the length of time Kiran had lost. I sure didn’t believe it was out of concern for Kiran.
“No way to know, not without talking to him further. Why?”
Marten only shook his head, his expression grim. “You must find out how much he’s missing.”
“Get me another chance to talk to him, and I will.” I already itched to speak with Kiran again. He’d talked to me readily enough of magic. If I could just think of the right questions to ask without raising suspicion, I might learn what I so desperately needed to know: the truth of his bond with Ruslan. If Ruslan broke his vow and burned to ash, would Kiran burn too?
“Don’t leap to conclusions, Marten,” Stevan said sharply. “Kiran seemed perfectly capable, not at all lost or confused. To destroy memories so selectively would require incredible finesse on Ruslan’s part. It’s far more likely his flight from Ruslan was entirely a sham. He pretended to reject blood magic to insinuate himself into Alathia and learn what he could of our defenses. Now he merely pretends a loss of memory to cover the truth of his deception.”
“Oh, for Khalmet’s sake!” I’d had enough of ignoring the boulder-sized chip on Stevan’s shoulder. “If Kiran’s the demon you think him, why should he pretend now, rather than gloat over how he fooled us all? I think it more likely that you’re a prejudiced idiot too blind to see the truth when it’s plain as day.”
Stevan’s face darkened. He drew breath to speak, but Marten put out a staying hand and said to me, “I’d like to hear what evidence you have of his memory loss.”
I recounted my conversation with Mikail, who’d as much as admitted Ruslan had altered Kiran’s mind. Then related how after his first wariness, Kiran had been friendly enough, but treated me as a stranger. Stevan listened with a sour, skeptical expression that made me want to kick him where it hurt, but Marten and Talm both listened with grave attention. When I told them of Kiran’s clear reluctance to explain why he’d been sent from the room, and the warding bracelets on his wrists, Marten nodded, looking thoughtful.
He said to Stevan, “Ruslan could not have removed memories without damage, leaving Kiran dangerously sensitive to magical energies. Besides, I think it far more plausible that Ruslan used the mark-bond to alter Kiran’s memories, than to believe one young apprentice could deceive all of us who searched his mind at his trial.”
Stevan crossed his arms. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you saw in his mind what you wanted to see. You know the cost of willful blindness, Marten. You saw with Reshannis that corruption of the soul cannot be reversed, no matter how badly you want to believe otherwise.”
“Twin gods, Stevan,” Talm interrupted, with exasperation that held a lurking edge. “After seven years, don’t you think it’s time you stopped taking your guilt out on Marten? He wasn’t the one who—”
“Talm. I prefer that we focus on more relevant matters.” Marten wore the air of cold, implacable authority that had cowed Talm so effectively in Sechaveh’s audience chamber. It worked just as well now. Talm promptly shut up, looking abashed.
Stevan had gone pale, his breathing rapid. Anger glittered in his eyes, but he, too, held his tongue. A shame. Any topic that riled Stevan so deeply and made Marten so eager to change the subject was one I wanted to know more about. I needed every weapon I could get.
Marten turned back to me. “When you spoke to Kiran, you didn’t try to hint at the truth?”
“Didn’t you see how wary he was, particularly of you?” I’d seen the nervous looks Kiran had given the Alathians, and his obvious relief when I exited the workroom alone. “Ruslan’s told him some kind of lie. He won’t believe an accusation, not without proof.” His skittishness had made me decide not to try showing him the spell diagram I’d found in his pack. Not yet, anyway. “He said one thing I think you’ll find interesting…”
Sure enough, even Stevan leaned forward with sudden, focused attention as I explained how Kiran had said the time of death lined up exactly with a confluence disturbance.
“Interesting, indeed.” Marten rubbed his chin. “That makes me wonder if the confluence disturbances are deliberate on the part of the killer, or merely a side effect of his or her method of spellcasting. Regardless, knowing the precise time of death will certainly aid in any spellwork we cast to trace the murderer.”
That ought to earn me my thousand kenets. For good measure, I said, “There’s something else you should know, if you don’t already. The way this guy died, the burned eyes and the clawmarks…it’s just like the tales of the Ghorshaba. That’s what had Torain so upset.”
“Ghorshaba…” Martennan’s head tilted. “I’ve heard the name—demons out of southern myths, aren’t they? I’m not entirely familiar with the legend.”
Yeah, I’d learned in the mines that most Alathians didn’t believe in either demons or the myriad southern gods worshipped in Ninavel. They held to some old religion from across the eastern sea that claimed only two gods existed: twins, neither male nor female, their true names unknowable by mere mortals, their purpose to hold the world in balance. A balance the Alathians believed the twins maintained only on a grand scale, through plagues, droughts, floods, and the like. No favors granted, no prayers for leniency answered, all joyless, impersonal austerity…much like the Alathian Council.
I told Marten, “The Varkevians say Shaikar created the Ghorshaba to guard his innermost hell, but a few got loose when Noshet broke in to rescue his guardians. They wander the world, and every now and then decide to descend on some poor bastard and recreate a little of their old fun. The stories differ on what draws their attention, but the result is…well, this.” I glanced at the corpse, then quickly away again, my stomach churning. “They’re thorough bastards, too. Insist on killing everyone who enter
s the house before the blood of their first victim is cleansed.”
“You actually believe this is the work of some demon from a story?” Stevan couldn’t have sounded more condescending if he’d tried. I indulged a brief fantasy of shoving him off the Aiyalen Spire.
“No.” Though damn, I had to wonder, after all this talk of intangible magic and the way Ruslan’s spell couldn’t show the killer. “Someone’s sure trying to make it look like a demon’s work, though. That means everyone who’s entered this house today could be a target. Maybe you mages aren’t worried, but by Khalmet, either give me some serious warding charms, or enough additional coin to get my own.” I made sure to emphasize the additional part. Warding charms hadn’t done the dead man any good, but coin or charms, either would serve as currency streetside, and I meant to squeeze as much of that from Marten as I could.
Marten said smoothly, “We’ll be happy to ensure you have protection, Dev. As for the imitation of demons…I think Ruslan is likely right. Our killer wants to incite fear in the city populace.”
Stevan was frowning. “These demon tales…do the demons drink blood?” He aimed the question somewhere above my head, like he couldn’t bring himself to look a streetside smuggler in the eye. Fine with me, since I didn’t much care to lock gazes with condescending, narrow-minded assholes.
“No,” I said. “Some stories say they eat their victims’ hearts, but no story I’ve heard says they do anything special with blood other than make a mess. Why?”
Stevan said to Marten, “Before you called Jenoviann in to heal the servant, she told me she didn’t think there was enough blood spilled given the man’s severe injuries.”
Not enough blood? Jenoviann had to be joking. Even after Ruslan’s casting, half the room was black with it. Talm grimaced like he was thinking the same thing, while Marten peered at Stevan like he wasn’t sure he’d heard him right.
“I know,” Stevan said, with a rueful glance at Marten that was the most human expression I’d yet seen from him. “I find it hard to imagine, myself, but Jenoviann said it’s suprising how much blood a human body contains. Given that Ruslan’s spell showed the slashes on Jadin’s body happened while he yet lived, Jenoviann thinks he should have bled in far greater quantity before his heart stopped beating. I find myself wondering if the attacker stored some portion of the blood and took it with him.”
The Tainted City Page 19
